Eve spent hours doing probabilities, running scans on names that linked to sheep and cowboy.

While the computer worked, she read over the Pettibone file, hoping she'd missed something, anything that indicated a more direct link between the killer and her victim.

All she found was a nice, middle-aged man, well-loved by his family, well-liked by his friends, who'd run a successful business in a straightforward, honest manner.

Nor could she link anyone else. There was no evidence that either of the victim's wives or his children or the spouses of his children knew or had known Julianna Dunne, and no motive she could find that leaned toward any of them arranging a murder.

The two wives might have been totally different types, but they had one patch of common ground. An obvious affection for Walter C.

Pettibone.

As far as the data, the evidence, and the probability scans indicated, Julianna had picked Pettibone out of a hat. And that canny capriciousness meant the next target could be one of millions.

She left the computer sorting names when she went to bed, and was up at six a.m. going over it all again. "You'll wear yourself out again, Lieutenant."

She looked over to where Roarke stood, already dressed, already perfect. She'd yet to so much as brush her teeth.

"No, I'm fine. I got a solid five. I'm working with sheep." She gestured toward the wall screen. "You got any clue how many names have something to do with stupid sheep?"

"Other than the variations that include the syllable sheep itself?

Lamb, Shepherd, Ram, Mutton, Ewes-" "Shut up."

He grinned and came into her office, offered her one of the mugs of coffee he held. "And, of course, countless variations on those and others." "And it doesn't have to be a name. Could be a job, the way he looks. Christ, I got this angle from a jonesing funky junkie named Loopy." "Still there's a logic to it. The bone man, the sheep man. I'd say you're on the right track."

"Big fricking track. Even cutting it to multiple married males from fifty to seventy-five, her usual target area, I've got tens of thousands just in the metropolitan area. I can cut that back again by financial worth, but it's still too many to cover."

"What's your plan?"

"Cutting it down again by following the theory that Pettibone was considered eight to ten years back. If her next mark was in the running back then, I look at men who were successfully established in the city ten years ago. Then I hope to hell Julianna's not in a hurry."

She ordered the computer to start a new listing using that criteria, then took a casual sip of coffee. "What've you got going today?" He took a disc out of his pocket. "My schedule for the next five days.

You'll be updated on any changes to it."

"Thanks." She took it, then looked up at him. "Thanks," she repeated.

"Roarke, I shouldn't have taken it all out on you last night. But you're so damn handy."

"It's all right. The next time you get drunk and surly, I'll just slap you around."

"I guess that's fair." She eased back when he leaned in. "I haven't cleaned up yet. I was going to catch a quick workout while the lists are compiling."

"A workout sounds perfect."

"You're already dressed," she said when he took her hand and started for the elevator.

"The brilliant thing about clothes is you can put them on and take them off as often as you like." He turned, tugged up her sweatshirt when they were in the elevator. "See?"

"We've got house guests wandering all over the place," she reminded him.

"So, we'll lock the door." His clever hands trailed up and closed over her breasts. "And have a quick, private workout." "Good thinking." ... While Eve was finishing off a very satisfying exercise program with a swim, Henry Mouton strode across the polished marble floors of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch, attorneys at law.

He was sixty-two, film-star handsome athletically trim, and one of the premier corporate attorneys on the East Coast.

He walked with purpose. Lived with purpose. In the thirty-odd years he'd been a lawyer, he had arrived at his office at precisely seven o'clock, five days a week. That routine hadn't altered when he'd established his own firm twenty-three years ago.

Self-made men, Henry liked to say, were works in progress. And work was the key word. He loved his, loved climbing the slippery, tangled vine of the law.

He approached his life the same way he approached his work. With dedication and routine. He maintained his health, his body, and his mind with habitual exercise, a good diet, and exposure to culture.

He vacationed twice yearly, for precisely two weeks in each locale.

In February, he selected a warm weather clime, and in August earmarked an interesting location where museums, galleries, and theater would be offered in abundance.

The third weekend of every month, he stayed at his shore home in the Hamptons.

Some said he was rigid, including his two ex-wives, but Henry thought of himself as organized. As his current wife was nearly as detail- and routine- oriented as he was himself, Henry's world was in perfect order.

The main floor of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch was as grand as a cathedral, and at seven a.m. quiet as a grave.

He walked straight to his corner office, with its eagle-perch view of uptown Manhattan. His desk was a perfect rectangular island topped only by his data and communication center, his sterling pen set, a fresh blotter bordered in burgundy leather, and a silver-framed photo of his wife, the third image to grace that same frame in the past twenty-four years.

He set his briefcase on the blotter, opened it, and removed his memo book and the disc files he'd taken home with him the night before.

While commuter trams streamed the sky at his back, Henry closed the briefcase, set it on the shelf beside his desk for easy access.

A faint sound had him glancing up, and frowning in puzzlement at the neatly dressed brunette in his doorway. "And who might you be?" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mouton. I'm Janet Drake, the new temp. I heard you come in. I didn't realize anyone would be in this early."

Julianna folded her hands at her waist and offered a shy smile. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're in early yourself, Miss Drake."

"Yes, sir. It's my first day. I wanted to familiarize myself with the office and organize my cube. I hope that's all right."

"Initiative is appreciated around here." Attractive, Henry thought, well-spoken, eager. "Would you be hoping for a permanent slot here, Miss Drake?"

She worked up a faint flush. "I'd be thrilled to be offered a permanent position with your firm, sir. If my work warrants it." He nodded.

"Carry on, then."

"Yes, sir." She stepped back, stopped. "Could I bring you a cup of coffee? I just programmed fresh." He let out a grunt as he slid a file disc into his desk unit. "Light, no sugar. Thank you."

In her practical pumps, Julianna clipped back to the staff break room. There was plenty of time. Her careful research told her that the head of the firm arrived in the offices at least thirty minutes, often a full hour before anyone else. But there was always a chance some eager-beaver law clerk or drone, some maintenance droid could come in and interrupt things.

She preferred getting the job done and moving on while the day was young. She was sure Henry himself would applaud the efficiency.

The idea tickled her so much she chuckled as she poisoned his coffee.

"Could've worked out this way nine years ago, Henry," she murmured as she stirred in the cyanide. "But you didn't draw the short straw."

She patted her short, dark hair. "Sort of a pity, really. I think you'd have enjoyed being married to me. For the short-term."

She carried the thick, practical mug back into his office. His computer was already blathering about some legal precedent.

Outside the glass wall a traffic copter whisked by as the morning commute heated up. Julianna set the coffee by his elbow, stepped back.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mouton?"

Obviously lost in thought, he picked up the coffee, sipped absently while he stared out at the traffic, listened to his notes. "No, I've everything I need, Miss..." "Drake," she said pleasantly, her gaze ice-cold as she watched him sip again. "Janet Drake."

"Yes, well, good luck on your first day, Miss Drake. Just leave the door open when you go out." "Yes, sir."

She stepped outside the office, and waited. She heard him begin to choke, that shocked, desperate attempt to draw air. Her face held a terrible beauty when she stepped back in to watch him die.

She liked to watch, when the opportunity presented itself.

His face was beet red, his eyes bulging. He'd knocked what was left of the coffee on the floor as he thrashed, and the brown seeped in to stain the stone gray carpet.

He stared at her, the pain and fear alive in the room as he died.

"Go down the wrong pipe?" she said cheerfully, and strolled over as he fell to the floor. "There's been a little change in routine today, Henry." She angled her head, her expression fascinated as his body convulsed. "You get to die."