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could make those strikes from outside the park.”
    â€œThat’s easy enough. Give me something a bit more challenging.”
    â€œOkay. Buildings, east of the park, let’s say between Fifty-Seventh and Sixty-First. All the way back to the river. We’ll eliminate any with solid screening. It’s going to be a long enough list. And Lowenbaum said above, so buildings over four floors. We can jog that up or down if they can pinpoint angles more closely.”
    She ate more stew, cocked her head. “How many of them do you figure you own?”
    He picked up his wine, smiled. “Won’t it be interesting to find out?”
    â€”
    W ith Roarke in his adjoining office, Eve settled down to the routine that was never really routine. Running backgrounds on the victims and witnesses, on staff, running probabilities. She wrote up a comprehensive report, read it over, added more.
    Then she sat back, fresh coffee in her mug, boots on her desk, and studied her board.
    Why only three? That stuck in her gut. The speed and accuracy said this shooter could have taken a dozen, or more, within minutes. If the motive, as the general rule applied to LDSKs, was panic and fear: Why only three?
    And why these three?
    The girl in red made a bright target. The color, her youth, her skill, her speed and grace. Maybe a specific target, but all those attributes leaned Eve toward of the moment.
    The third victim, part of a couple—and not regulars. Their plans to be on the ice on that day, at that time, not widely known outside a tight circle.
    Of the moment again.
    But the second victim. The obstetrician, the regular. That rink, that time, that day of the week habitual.
    If there had been a specific target, her personal probability index rated Brent Michaelson high.
    But it was a big
if
.
    All random?
    She rose with her coffee and circled her board, studied the positions of the bodies.
    Then why only three?
    â€œComputer, run crime scene security video, back one minute from cue-up.”
    Acknowledged . . .
    Leaning back on the desk, she watched the skaters, studied the three victims as they moved on the ice. Then the first hit, the second, the last.
    Some continued to skate for several more seconds, providing more targets. Others started to panic, rush, and stumble toward the exit, even over the wall. More targets. The two Good Samaritan medicals moved in, providing more targets, easier ones, she considered, than the three victims had been.
    But only three, only those specific three.
    The shit would hit, of course. The media would ring that gong and the killings would be top of the reports and stories for at least a few days. But take a dozen—kill or injure—that’s top story for weeks.
    That goes global.
    Three dead meant a good chunk of people would avoid the rink, so possibly a motive against the rink itself. If she’d been holding that laser rifle and had a hard-on against the rink, she might have taken the girl in red, another target, but then she’d have taken out one of the security staff and at least one of the medicals.
    â€œThree taken out,” she murmured, still watching the screen. “Organized, skilled, had to plan this out in advance. So three was the goal. No more, no less.”
    She stopped the screen, went back to her desk to read the background on the victims yet again.
    When Roarke sent her the list of collectors—in New York, all boroughs, and in New Jersey—with registered weapons that could have been used, she started backgrounds on all twenty-eight of them, searched for connections to the three victims, or the rink itself.
    With more coffee, she got halfway through the list before Roarke came out.
    â€œA collector’s license for a laser rifle—any make, model, or year—is twenty-five large.”
    â€œI’m aware.”
    â€œMost of the licenses I’ve been through are to rich dudes. A couple so far grandfathered from a