"The man said I should wait for you. He gave me a two-dollar credit to wait."
Her heart picked up rhythm as she crouched down. The aroma there told her the kid hadn't seen bathwater in a number of days. "What man?"
"The guy who told me to wait. He said how you'd give me another two if I did, and I told you the thing."
"What thing?"
His eyes scanned her face slyly. "He said how you'd give me another two."
"Sure, okay." Eve dug in her pocket, made certain to keep her tone light, her smile easy. "So, what's the thing?" she asked as the boy took the credit and fisted it in his grubby hand.
"He said…" the boy closed his eyes and recited, " 'It's the third but not the last. You're quick but not too fast. No matter how much flash, no matter how much cash, no bastard son of Eire can ever escape his past. Amen.' " He opened his eyes and grinned. "I got it right, told him I would."
"Good for you. You stay right here and I'll give you another two. Peabody." She waited until they'd reached the landing. "Take care of the kid. Call Child Protection Services, then see if you can get any kind of description out of him. Roarke, you're with me. Third victim, third floor," she said to herself. "Third door."
She turned to the left, weapon raised, and knocked hard. "There's music." She cocked her head to try to catch the tune.
"It's a jig. A dance tune. Jennie liked to dance. She's in there."
Before he could move forward, Eve threw up an arm to block him. "Stand clear. Do it." She opened the locks and went in low.
The barmaid who had liked to dance was hanging from a cord from the stained ceiling. Her toes just brushed the surface of a wobbling stool. The cord had cut deep into her throat so that blood trickled down her breasts. It was still fresh enough to carry that copper penny smell, still fresh enough to gleam wet against white skin.
Her right eye was gone, and her fingers, bruised and bloodied from dragging at the cord, hung limp at her sides.
The music played, bright and cheerful, from a small recorder disc under the stool. The statue of the Virgin stood on the floor, her marble face turned toward violent death.
"Fucking, filthy bastard. Bloody motherfucking son of a whore." Roarke's vision went black with rage. He bulled forward, shoving Eve aside, nearly knocking her to her knees when she fought to muscle him back. "Get out of my way." His eyes were sharp and cold as a drawn sword. "Get the hell out of my way."
"No." She did the only thing she could think of, and, countering his weight, knocked him back against the wall and rammed his elbow to his throat. "You can't touch her. Do you understand me? You can't touch her. She's gone. There's nothing you can do. This is for me. Look at me, Roarke. Look at me."
Her voice barely punched through the thick buzzing in his head, but he dragged his eyes away from the woman hanging in the center of the room and stared into the eyes of his wife.
"You have to let me try to help her now." She gentled her tone but kept it firm, as she would with any victim. She wanted to hold him, to lay her cheek against his, and instead kept her elbow pressed lightly to his windpipe. "I can't let you contaminate the scene. I want you to go outside now."
He got his breath back, though it burned his lungs. Cleared his vision, though the edges of it remained dark and dull. "He left the stool there. He stood her on the stool so that she could strain just enough to reach it with her toes. She could stay alive as long as she had the strength to reach the stool. She'd have been choking, her heart overworked, the pain burning, but she could stay alive as long as she fought for balance. She'd have fought hard."
Eve lowered her elbow, laid her hands on his shoulders. "This isn't your fault. This isn't your doing."
He looked away from her, forced himself to look at an old friend. "We loved each other once," he said quietly. "In our way. We had a careless way, but one gave the other what was needed, for a time. I won't touch her. I'll stay out of your way."
When Eve stepped back, he moved to the door. He spoke now without looking at her. "I won't let him live. Whether you find him or I do, I won't let him live."
"Roarke."
He only shook his head. His eyes met hers, once, and what she read in them chilled her blood. "He's already dead."
She let him go, promising herself she would talk him down as soon as she could. With her eyes tightly shut, she trembled once, hard. Then she pulled out her communicator, called it in, and signaled for Peabody to bring up her field kit.
*** CHAPTER NINE ***
When Roarke stepped outside the building, he saw Peabody had the field kit gripped in one hand and the kid's arm gripped in the other. Roarke thought she was wise to keep him in tow. From the look on his face he'd be unlikely to hang around now that he had four in credits in his pocket. At least he'd be unlikely to hang with a uniformed cop.
He forced himself to block the scene he'd just left from his mind and concentrate on this one. "Got your hands full there, Peabody."
"Yeah." She blew out a harassed breath that fluttered her razor-straight bangs. "The CPS isn't known for being quick on its feet." She glanced up at the building, longingly. If Eve had called for the field kit, that meant there was a scene to preserve and investigate. And she was stuck baby-sitting. "I assume it's inadvisable to take the minor back in, so if you wouldn't mind taking the lieutenant her kit…"
"I'll mind the boy, Peabody."