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at the lab?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s going to be Dickhead,” Lowenbaum said.
    â€œCome on, does it have to be?” They called the chief lab tech Dickhead for a reason.
    â€œIt does. You give him the push, I’ll work with him when I can.”
    â€œI won’t turn that down. Thanks.”
    â€œNo thanks needed, because unless I’m way off, Dallas, you’ve got yourself an LDSK.”
    â€œAn LDSK?”
    Eve turned to Roarke. “Long-distance serial killer.”
    â€œCops,” he murmured. “Who else would have the acronym at hand?”
    â€œWouldn’t need one if people weren’t so fucked-up. Who do you know who could make those three strikes?”
    Lowenbaum puffed out a breath. “I could. I’ve got a couple guys on my team who could. And yeah, I get you need to run them, but there’s no way. I know a few other guys, and I’ll make you a damn list. I’m going to say I know a few who could make the strikes. I don’t know anybody who would.”
    â€œNames would help anyway.”
    â€œAnd it could be a pro, Dallas. You can pull up a list there as easy as I can.”
    â€œI will. But who’d hire a pro to kill a part-time student/part-time barista—female vic. An OB/GYN—vic two. A high school history teacher?”
    â€œPeople are fucked-up,” Lowenbaum reminded her.
    â€œYeah, they are.”
    â€œYou’re the murder cop. You do what you do there, and I’ll do what I can on the tactical end. Three strikes like that?” The way he shook his head transmitted both admiration and concern. “The shooter’s feeling pretty fine right now.”
    â€œAnd feeling pretty fine, he’ll want to feel pretty fine again.”
    â€”
    A fter Lowenbaum left, Eve set up her murder board, then sat to put together her notes and observations.
    â€œYou’ll eat,” Roarke said—firmly.
    â€œYeah, whatever.”
    â€œIt’s the stew you like.” He solved the issue by pulling her out of her desk chair. “You can eat and think, and tell me what you know or what you think.”
    It helped when she did—and the stew thing smelled really good.
    â€œYou know, before I caught this, I was in my office thinking, Hey, quiet evening at home. A little wine, a little dinner, maybe a vid, a little sex.”
    Because he knew how much coffee she’d drink in the next few hours, he pushed her water glass toward her. “We’ll fit some of that in, won’t we?”
    â€œThe girl, Ellissa Wyman. I already had the gut feeling, but as soon as I reviewed the security feed, I knew. The way she flew. Had to be high impact, and nobody on the rink or around saw anything. You don’t get off three streams without somebody seeing something. You sure as hell don’t get them off when a cop reviews the tape, byte by byte, and sees nothing. The odds of me finding where those strikes initiated? I wouldn’t bet on me.”
    He reached over, covered her hand with his. “I would.”
    â€œYeah, but you’re rich, and soft on me. I’m hoping Lowenbaum can help narrow down the area, but even then . . .”
    She shook her head, ate. The stew tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “The girl? Nineteen, lived at home. Solid middle class. No current boyfriend. Ex is in college in Florida. No animosity between them. In fact, they tried the long-distance thing for almost a year before they drifted apart. Still friendly. She dates a little, but nothing serious. Skates for the joy of it, hoping to join a troupe—started when she was about eight, and fell in love. She’s a regular at the rink, so I have to consider her as a specific target.”
    â€œShe stood out,” Roarke said. “Her grace, the look of her.”
    â€œYeah, she did. Can’t say the same about the first male: Brent Michaelson. Ordinary-looking guy, nothing flashy. But