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myself, not for you.” The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. “Not for memories. You need to be prepared.”
    “It’s not me who’ll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done.”
    “And so will Eve,” Roarke said mildly. “Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?”
    “I’ve forgotten nothing.”
    Roarke studied Summerset’s stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. “That’s what I was counting on. Let’s get to work then.”
    The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn’t matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.
    He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.
    His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.
    He bent, kissed the white marble feet.
    For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.
    But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.
    He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait, to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.
    He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.
    He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.
    Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man’s visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.
    He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.
    He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their ‘links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.
    Peabody’s cube was a dimly lighted two-foot square in the far corner. Despite its size and location, it was as ruthlessly organized and tidy as Peabody herself.
    “Somebody forget where the toilets are?” Eve asked casually, and Peabody turned from her dented, police issue metal desk.
    “Bailey had a sidewalk sleeper in for questioning on a knifing. The sleeper didn’t like being held as a witness and expressed his displeasure by emptying his bladder on Bailey’s shoes. From all reports, said bladder was unusually full.”
    “Just another day in paradise. Is the sweeper report in on Brennen yet?”
    “I just gave them a nudge. It should be coming through shortly.”
    “Then let’s start with the security discs from the Luxury Towers and Brennen’s apartment.”
    “There’s a problem there, Lieutenant.”
    Eve cocked her head. “You didn’t get