She choked back another scream, pressed her fingers against her eyes, and ordered herself not to be sick. She answered the call without turning the lights on, and blocked video.
"Dallas."
"Dispatch. Voice print verified. Probable homicide, female. Report Five thirty-two Central Park South, rear of building. Code yellow."
"Acknowledged." Eve ended the transmission and, still trembling from the aftershocks of the dream, crawled out of bed.
It took her twenty minutes. She'd needed the comfort of a hot shower, even if it had only been for thirty seconds.
It was a trendy neighborhood, peopled by residents who patronized fashionable shops and private clubs, and who aspired to move just another notch up the social and economic ladder.
The streets were quiet here, though it wasn't quite out of the realm of public taxis and into private transpo-cars. Upper middle class all the way, she mused as she made her way around to the back of a sleek steel building with its pleasant view of the park.
Then again, murder happened everywhere.
It had certainly happened here.
The rear of the building couldn't boast a view of the park, but the developers had made up for it with a nice plot of green. Beyond the trim trees was a security wall that separated one building from the next.
On the narrow stone path through a border of gold petunias, the body sprawled, facedown.
Female, Eve noted, flashing her badge at the waiting uniforms. Dark hair, dark skin, well dressed. She studied the stylish red-and-white-striped heel that lay point up on the path.
Death had knocked her out of her shoes.
"Pictures?"
"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. ME on the way."
"Who reported it?"
"Neighbor. Came out to let his dog use the facilities. We've got him inside."
"Do we have a name on her?"
"Yvonne Metcalf, Lieutenant. She lives in eleven twenty-six."
"Actress," Eve murmured as the name struck a cord. "Up and coming."
"Yes, sir." One of the uniforms looked down at the body. "She won an Emmy last year. Been doing the talk show rounds. She's pretty famous."
"Now she's pretty dead. Keep the camera running. I need to turn her over."
Even before she used the protective spray to seal her hands, before she crouched down to turn the body, Eve knew. Blood was everywhere. Someone hissed sharply as the body rolled faceup, but it wasn't Eve. She'd been braced for it.
The throat was cut, and the cut was deep. Yvonne's lovely green eyes stared up at Eve: two blank questions.
"What the hell did you have to do with Cicely Towers?" she murmured. "Same MO: one wound to the throat, severed jugular. No robbery, no signs of sexual assault or struggle." Gently, Eve lifted one of Yvonne's limp hands, shone her light at the nails, under them. They were painted a sparkling scarlet with tiny white stripes. And they were perfect. No chips, no snags, no scrapes of flesh or stains of blood under them.
"All dressed up and no place to go," Eve commented, studying the victim's flashy red-and-white-striped bodysuit. "Let's find out where she'd been or where she was going," Eve began. Her head came around as she heard the sound of approaching feet.
But it wasn't the medical examiner and his team, nor was it the sweepers. It was, she saw with disgust, C. J. Morse and a crew from Channel 75.
"Get that camera out of here." Temper vibrating, she sprang to her feet, instinctively shielding the body. "This is a crime scene."
"You haven't posted it," Morse said, smiling sweetly. "Until you do, it's public access. Sherry, get a shot of that shoe."
"Post the goddamn scene," Eve ordered a uniform. "Confiscate that camera, the recorders."
"You can't confiscate media equipment until the scene's posted," C. J. reminded her, as he tried to rubberneck around her to get a good look. "Sherry, get me a nice pan, then focus on the lieutenant's pretty face. "
"I'm going to kick your ass, Morse."
"Oh, I wish you'd try, Dallas." Some of his bubbling resentment simmered into his eyes. "I'd love to bring you up on charges, and broadcast it, after that stunt you pulled on me."
"If you're still on this scene when it's posted, you'll be the one facing charges."
He only smiled again, backing off. He calculated he had another fifteen seconds of video time before he ran into trouble. "Channel 75 has a fine team of lawyers."
"Detain him and his crew." Eve flashed a snarl at a uniform. "Off scene, until I'm through."
"Interfering with media – "
"I bet yours is tasty." He continued to grin as he was escorted away.
When Eve came around the building, he was doing a sober stand-up report on the recent homicide. Without missing a beat, he angled himself toward her. "Lieutenant Dallas, will you confirm that Yvonne Metcalf, the star of Tune In has been murdered?"
"The department has no comment to make at this time."
"Isn't it true that Ms. Metcalf was a resident of this building, and that her body was discovered this morning on the rear patio? Hadn't her throat been cut?"
"No comment."
"Our viewing audience is waiting, Lieutenant. Two prominent women have been violently murdered by the same method, and in all likelihood by the same person, barely a week apart. And you have no comment?"
"Unlike certain irresponsible reporters, the police are more careful, and more concerned with facts than speculation."
"Or is it that the police are simply unable to solve these crimes?" Quick on his feet, he sidestepped, came up in her face again. "Aren't you concerned about your reputation, Lieutenant, and the connection between the two victims and your close friend Roarke?"
"My reputation isn't at issue here. The investigation is."
Morse turned back to the camera. "At this hour, the investigation, headed by Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is at an apparent deadlock. Another murder has taken place less than a hundred yards from where I stand. A young woman, talented, beautiful, and full of promise has had her life sliced off by a violent sweep of a knife. Just as only one week ago, the respected and dedicated defender of justice, Cicely Towers had her life brought to an end. Perhaps the question is not when will the killer be caught, but what prominent woman will be next? This is C. J. Morse for Channel 75, reporting live from Central Park South."
He nodded to the camera operator before turning to beam at Eve. "See, if you'd cooperate, Dallas, I might be able to help you out with public opinion."
"Fuck you, Morse."
"Oh, well, maybe if you asked nice." His grin never wavered when she grabbed him by the shirtfront. "Now, now, don't touch unless you mean it."
She was a full head taller than he, and gave serious thought to pounding him into the sidewalk. "Here's what I want to know, Morse. I want to know how a third-rate reporter ends up on a crime scene, with a crew, ten minutes after the primary."
He smoothed down the front of his shirt. "Sources, Lieutenant, which, as you know I'm under no obligation to share with you." His smile dimmed into a sneer. "And at this stage, I'd say we're talking third-rate primary. You'd have been better off hooking up with me instead of Nadine. That was a nasty turn you served, helping her bump me off the Towers story."
"Was it? Well, I'm glad to hear that, C. J., because I just plain hate your guts. It didn't bother you at all, did it, to go back there, camera running, and broadcast pictures of that woman? You didn't think about her right to a little dignity or the fact that someone who cared about her might not have been notified. Her family, for instance."
"Hey, you do your job, I do mine. You didn't look too bothered poking at her."
"What time did you get the tip?" Eve asked briefly.
He hesitated, stringing it out. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you that. It came in on my private line at twelve thirty."
"From?"
"Nope. I protect my sources. I called the station, drummed up a crew. Right, Sherry?"
"Right." The camera operator moved a shoulder. "The night desk sent us out to meet C. J. here. That's show biz."