"Had the office drone who worked over her buffaloed," he added. "I can guarantee she did plenty of authorized transmissions from the units in that complex. Free fricking rein."

"We get an impound warrant, can you track?"

"I already put in for one. Might be spitting in the wind, but we'll go through every one of them, see if she left a mark. Talked to her shrink-'scuze me- her emotional well-being counselor." His lips pursed on the term as if he were sucking a lemon ball. "Got an earful of early childhood trauma, acting out-nice pretty term for murder- flash points, ebbing, contrition, and Christ knows. All adds up to the head broad being convinced Dunne was successfully rehabilitated and ready to take her place as a productive member of society."

"Odds are we'll get the same song from her PO. We'll swing by and see him, check in with the locals, and get the hell out of Chicago."

She blew out a breath. "Is something wrong with me, Feeney, that I look at this place and see a huge pile of bullshit being dumped on the taxpayers?"

"Must be the same thing that's wrong with me."

"But people can change, they can turn themselves around. Or be turned around. Prisons aren't just warehouses. Shouldn't be." "They shouldn't be frigging resort hotels either. Let's get the hell out of here. Place gives me the creeps."

Parole Officer Otto Shultz was overweight, bucktoothed, and solved his male pattern baldness with a combover that started with a part at the tip of his left ear.

Eve imagined his civil servant salary was far from stellar, but wondered why he didn't earmark a portion of it for basic body maintenance.

He wasn't happy to see them, claimed to be very busy, murderously overworked, and tried to brush them off with promises of copies of all reports and evaluations on Julianna Dunne.

Eve would've been fine with that, if it hadn't been for the nerves she could all but smell pumping out of his pores. "You helped pass her back out of the system, and the first thing she does is kill. I guess that's got you somewhat jittery, Otto."

"Look." He pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his pudgy face. "I followed the book. She passed all evals, followed the rules. I'm a PO, not a fortune- teller."

"I always figured most PO's have a really good bullshit barometer.

How about you, Feeney?"

"Working with cons every day, hearing all the stories, the excuses, the crapola." Lips pursed, he nodded. "Yep, I gotta figure a PO with any experience is going smell out the bs."

"She aced all the tests," Otto began.

"Wouldn't be the first to know how to maneuver the techs and questions and machines. Where'd she bang you, Otto?" Eve asked pleasantly. "Here in the office, or did she get you to take her home with you?"

"You can't sit there and accuse me of having a sexual relationship with a client."

"Client, Christ. These politically correct terms are starting to piss me off. I'm not accusing you, Otto." Eve leaned forward. "I know you fucked her. I don't really give a damn, and I'm not interested in reporting that fact to your superiors. She's a piece of work and you'd have been child's play for her. You can be grateful she just wanted you to help push her through, and didn't want you dead."

"She passed the tests," he said and his voice shook. "She didn't make waves. Her slate was clean. I believed her. I'm not the only one who believed her, so don't dump this on me. We've got scum oozing through here every day, and the law says if they don't blow their parole obligations, we funnel them back into society. Julianna wasn't scum. She was... different."

"Yeah." Disgusted, Eve got to her feet. "She's different."

The first breath of fresh air of the day came in a crowded, dingy diner that smelled of badly fried food. The place was jammed with cops, and across the little table, Lieutenant Frank Boyle and Captain Robert Spindler chowed down on turkey sandwiches the size of Hawaii.

"Julianna." Spindler dabbed a condiment masquerading as mayo off his bottom lip. "Face of an angel, soul of a shark. Coldest, meanest bitch I ever met."

"You're forgetting my first wife," Boyle reminded him. "Hard to believe we're back here, the four of us, damn near ten years later."

Boyle had a cheerful Irish face, until you looked in his eyes. They were hard and flat, and just a little scary.

Eve could see the signs of too much drinking, too much brooding in the red puffiness in his jowls, the souring droop of his mouth.

"We put out feelers," Spindler continued. "Fed the media, bumped up her old contacts. We've got nothing new on her." He'd kept his looks, militarily clean-cut, trim, authoritative. "We've got nothing on her, nothing to indicate she's blown our way. I went to her parole hearing," he continued. "Made a personal pitch that she be denied.

Brought case files, documentation. Got nowhere. She sat there, like a perfect lady, eyes downcast, hands folded, the faintest glimmer of tears. If I didn't know her like I know her, I might've bought the act myself."

"You know anything about a funky junkie inside? Lois Loop?"

"Doesn't ring," Spindler said.

"She was Julianna's gofer, sounding board, slave. Whatever. She was starting to jones when I interviewed her. I got some info, but she may have more. Maybe you can work her again. She told me Julianna was going to New York to see the bone man. Pettibone. And there was a sheep man. Can you think of anyone who fits her standard target who has sheep in his name?"

Both Boyle and Spindler shook their heads. "But we'll run it through,"

Spindler promised. "See what pops." "Also a cowboy and the Dallas dude."

"Sounds like she's thinking of heading down to Texas and paying a call on her stepfather." Boyle took another enormous bite of his sandwich. "Unless you're the Dallas, and she's looking at your dude."

Eve ignored the clutching in her stomach. "Yeah, that's occurred.

We'll notify Dallas PSD. I can take care of my own dude. New L.A.

and Denver were other cities this Loopy remembered. I'm betting if her mind was clearer, she'd remember more."

"I'll take a pass at her." Boyle glanced at Spindler. "If that suits you...

Captain."

"Likes to remind me I got the bars. Not much more we can do for you. Frankly, I'd like to see you take her down in New York. I'd miss the party, but fuck if I want her dropped back in Dockport."

She was back in New York by five, and opted to head home instead of swinging into Central. She'd work there and reassure herself of Roarke's safety. He didn't fit target profile, she reminded herself. He was too young, had no ex-wife. But he also had a wife who'd played a large part in bringing Julianna down.

She was nearly home when she made an impulsive detour and headed to Dr. Mira's.

She parked in a loading zone a half block down, flipped on her on duty light, then jogged to the dignified old brownstone. There were soft pink and white flowers in pale blue pots cheering up the entrance. A woman one door up led out an enormous dog with long golden hair decorated with red bows. It sent Eve a friendly woof, then pranced away with its owner as if they were off to a parade.

On the other side, a trio of boys burst outside, whooping like maniacs. Each carried a fluorescent airboard and zipped away down the sidewalk like rockets off a launch pad.

A man in a business suit with a palm-link stuck to his ear had to dodge clear, but rather than shouting or shaking a fist after them, he only chuckled, kept talking as he turned toward the door of another townhouse.

One more side of New York, Eve thought. The friendly, upper class neighborhood. In all probability people actually knew each other's name on this block. Got together now and then for cocktails, herded kids or grandchildren down to the park in groups, and stopped to chat on doorsteps.

It was exactly the sort of milieu that suited Dr. Charlotte Mira.

Eve turned to the door, rang the bell. Then immediately changed her mind. She had no business busting in on Mira's home time.

She'd actually stepped back, thinking retreat, when the door opened.

She recognized Mira's husband though they'd rarely had personal contact. He was tall and gangly, a kind of comfortable scarecrow in a baggy cardigan and wrinkled slacks. His hair was pewter, a wild, interesting mop tangled around a long face that was somehow both scholarly and innocent.

He carried a pipe, and his sweater was misbuttoned.

He smiled, his eyes, the color of winter grass, puzzled. "Hello. How are you?" "Ah. Fine. I'm sorry, Mr. Mira, I shouldn't be disturbing you at home. I was just-"

"You're Eve." His face cleared, warmed. "It takes me a minute.

Recognized your voice. Come in, come in." "Actually, I should-"

But he reached out, gripped her hand, and pulled her in the door.

"Didn't realize you were coming by. Can't keep track. Charlie!" He shouted toward the steps. "Your Eve's here."

The protest died in Eve's throat at the idea of the elegant Mira being called Charlie. "Come sit down. I think I was fixing drinks. Mind wanders. Drives Charlie crazy. Ha-ha." "I'm interrupting. I'll just see Dr. Mira tomorrow."

"Yes, there's the wine. I was sure I brought it in. I'm sorry, help me out. Are we having dinner?"

He was still holding her hand, and she could find no polite way to tug free. And he was smiling at her with such amiable confusion and humor, she fell just a little bit in love.