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sneak under that slick polish and hit a nerve, she thought. Which was why she enjoyed it so much. "I'm going to talk to Mansfield's dresser, see if she confirms the story. Then I'm done here for tonight. I can start some background runs on the way home."
    He retrieved his coat and hers, and his equilibrium. "I believe you're going to be too busy to do background runs on the way home."
    "Doing what?"
    He held her coat up before she could take it and shrug into it herself. Rolling her eyes, she turned, stuck her arms in the sleeves. Then let out a choked sound when he whispered a particularly imaginative suggestion in her ear.
    "You can't do that in the back of a limo."
    "Want to bet?"
    "Twenty."
    He took her hand to lead her out. "Done."
    She lost, but it was money well spent.
    "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."
    Well, it is done, done well and done quickly. And I dare quote from the Scottish play as I sit alone. A murderer. Or, as Christine Vole was in our clever play, am I but an executioner?
    It's foolish of me to record my thoughts. But those thoughts are so loud, so huge, so brilliantly colored I wonder the world can't see them bursting out of my head. I think this speaking aloud where no one can hear might quiet them. Those thoughts must be silenced, must be buried. This is a precarious time. I must steel my nerve.
    The risks were weighed before the deed was done, but how was I to know, how could I have imagined what it would be like to see him dead and bleeding center stage? So still. He lay so still in the white wash of lights.
    It's best not to think of it.
    It's time now to think of myself. To be cautious, to be clever. To be calm. There were no mistakes made. There must be none now. I will keep my thoughts quiet, tucked deep inside my heart.
    Though they want to scream out in jubilation.
    Richard Draco is dead.

CHAPTER THREE
    Given the state of the equipment at her disposal at Cop Central, Eve saved herself considerable frustration and ran her initial background checks at home. Roarke loved his toys, and the computer and communications systems in her home office made the junk at Central look like something out of the second millennium.
    Which it very nearly was.
    Pacing her office with her second cup of coffee, she listened while her computer listed the official details of Areena Mansfield's life.
    Areena Mansfield, born Jane Stoops, eight November, 2018, Wichita, Kansas. Parents, Adalaide Munch and Joseph Stoops, cohabitation union dissolved 2027. One sibling, male, Donald Stoops, bom twelve August, 2022.
    She let it run through education data for form -- all standard stuff as far as Eve could tell right through her enrollment in New York's Institute of Dramatic Arts at the age of fifteen.
    Got the hell out of Kansas first chance, Eve mused, and couldn't blame her. What did people do out there with all that wheat and corn, anyway?
    Areena's professional credits started young. Teen model, a scatter of plays, a brief stint in Hollywood before a return to live theater.
    "Yeah, yeah, blah blah." Eve wandered back to her machine. "Computer, search and list any criminal record, all arrests."
    Working...
    The computer hummed with quiet efficiency. Comparing it to the useless pile of chips she was cursed with at Central made her sneer.
    "Gotta marry a billionaire to get a decent tool these days."
    Search complete...
    Possession of illegals, New Los Angeles, 2040.
    "Now we're talking." Intrigued, Eve sat behind the desk. "Keep going."
    Plea bargain resulted in probation with standard obligatory rehabilitation. Obligation satisfied at Keith Richards Memorial Rehabilitation Center, New Los Angeles.
    Consumption of illegals with secondary charges of indecent exposure, New York City, 2044. Second rehabilitation ordered and satisfied, New Life Clinic, New York City.
    No further criminal activities noted in subject file.
    "That's good enough. What was her drug of choice?"
    Working... File