At her desk Monday morning, Phoebe attacked paperwork, returned calls, then squeezed out time to go over her plans for the upcoming training session.

It might have been kicking Arnie Meeks when he was down-and absent-but she wanted to lay out the protocol, procedure and psychology of the first responder's actions.

Sets the tone, she thought. Arnie had sure as hell set the tone for the Gradey incident. What happened, why it happened, would be strong points made in training, and would illustrate, she hoped, why there were guidelines.

She added a copy of her own report to the day's packet, added it along with logs and tapes and transcripts from other incidents. She got to her feet when Dave came into her office. "Captain."

"Need a minute."

"Sure, I've got a few before a training session. Want coffee?"

"No, thanks." When he shut the door behind him, the muscles between her shoulder blades tightened.

"Problem?"

"Could be. I got a call from Sergeant Meeks, Arnold Meeks's father. He's making noises about filing a complaint against you."

"For?"

"The unwarranted suspension of his son. Also there was some mention of a legal suit for slander, defamation. He wants a sit-down with you, me and his son's rep."

"I'm available for that, at any time. I instructed Arnie he was free to contact his delegate at the time of his suspension. And," she added, "that's on the record."

"You're going to stand by the thirty-day rip?"

"I am. He violated every guideline. He goaded Gradey, a hostagetaker, into suicide, and he's lucky Gradey didn't kill the hostages, too. You read the report, Captain, including the witness statementscivilian and law enforcement."

"Yeah, I did." Wearily, Dave rubbed the back of his neck. "He couldn't have screwed it up more if he'd set out to."

"I'm not sure he didn't. That's not colored by personal dislike," she continued when Dave frowned. "He's a power-tripper, and he's bigoted, sexist and rash. He shouldn't be a cop."

"Phoebe, that kind of stand, the bias in it, isn't going to help hold up your end of this."

"It's not bias, it's fact. And, I believe, the psych eval will bear me out. Dave, he put that mutilated doll outside my house."

Dave shoved his hands into his pockets, and inside the pockets they curled into fists. "I'm not going to contradict you on that, but you're going to want to be careful about making that accusation to anyone but me. You're going to need more to-"

"He called me a bitch to my face, that's not counting the number of times he's called me one behind my back. He stood just about where you're standing now and threatened me. He has no respect for my authority, and, in fact, only contempt for me."

"Do you think I don't want him out?" Dave tossed back, and for the first time he let some of the anger, some of the frustration show. "Out of this squad, out of the department? I've got no cause to put him off the job, not at this point. And, Phoebe, sitting behind that desk means you have to demand respect for your authority."

"And so I have," she said evenly. "Thirty days may give him time to consider that. Captain, he stood in this office and accused me of being behind this desk because I've performed sexual acts with you."

Dave stared at her a moment. "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch." He sucked in a breath. "Were there any witnesses to those accusations?"

"No, and I'd turned off the recorder before he made them. But he made them. Very specifically. Which indicates he has as much contempt for you as for me. Moreover, I believe he was about to make a move on me-physically. Detective Sykes interrupted. I don't like playing it this way. I don't like spreading this kind of crap around, but the fact is, I think Arnold Meeks is dangerous. So ask Sykes about it."

"I'll do that. I'm going to schedule that sit-down for this afternoon. Make sure you're clear for it."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want to file sexual harassment charges?"

"Not at this time. I'll stand with the insubordination."

He nodded, turned toward the door. "You may want to contact your own rep." He glanced back. "The Meekses have some muscle in the department, connections, history. Keep your ass covered, Phoebe, because even if we're able to take this asshole down, he could do some damage."

"I will. Dave? I'm sorry I had to pull you into it this way, this personal way."

"You didn't," Dave said shortly. "He did."

Trouble, she thought when she was alone again. Trouble was coming. Well, she'd dealt with trouble before. When the morning session was finished, she'd make some time to review Meeks's jacket, the statements from the Gradey incident and her own personal report of her altercation with Meeks in her office.

Through the glass wall of her office, she saw Dave was already gesturing Sykes toward the break room. A private talk. Her captain's protective instincts were up, and she was sorry, damn sorry, she'd had to incite them.

But she was damned if Meeks was going to endanger lives, threaten her, upset her family, then pull out his departmental pedigree as a shield.

She didn't care who his father was.

And right now, she reminded herself, she needed to put this aside and get downstairs. She swung by the PAA on the way through the squad room. "I'm in the conference room for the next ninety minutes."

"Oh, okay. Lieutenant?" Annie Utz, the squad's public administrative assistant, sent Phoebe a quick, nervous smile. "I, ah, may have to take a day off later in the week for some, um, personal business."

"All right. If you can let me know ahead of time, that'd be good. We'll see the desk is covered."

"Um... um... Lieutenant?" The smile wavered around the edges.

"I know I'm still new and all. But I like working here. I hope I'm doing a good job."

"You're doing fine." Wouldn't hurt to tone down the makeup and buy the next size up in your shirt, Phoebe thought, but the work itself wasn't a problem.

"Um... I brought in pralines today. Homemade." She held up a covered paper plate. "Maybe you'd like one."

"After the session."

"You're taking the stairs, right? The way you run up and down those stairs instead of taking the elevator, sugar sure won't hurt you."

"My fondness for sugar is why I run up and down the stairs."

She hurried out before Annie could make her any later. With the opening of her lecture winding through her mind, she pushed through the door, started the jog down the stairway.

Her car had to be ready today, she remembered. Had to. She'd call the mechanic during the break and

She barely saw the flash of movement, had no time to react much less reach her weapon as the attack slammed her against the stairwell wall. Pain burst along with an explosion of fear when her head rammed hard against the concrete. And her vision hazed with red.

Seconds, it took only the few seconds when her instincts were screamingfight and the stun from the blow buckled her knees for tape to slap over her mouth, for her arms to be wrenched back.

Struggling, dizzy from the blow, she tried to bring her heel down, missed the mark. Then she was blind from the hood yanked over her head. Her scream muffled to nothing against the tape as she pitched forward from a violent shove. Shock and pain radiated as her body hit the landing, rolled. She tasted blood, and through the thunder of her own gasps, heard her attacker laugh. Praying for a miracle, she kicked out. And when hands closed around her throat, she thrashed.

Not this way, she couldn't die this way. Unable to look into the eyes of who killed her. Who took her away from her baby.

Her body bucked, her legs pushed and kicked while her lungs wept for air. When the pressure released, she gasped and gulped it in only to fight to scream it out again when she felt a knife, the point of a knife, cutting through her clothes, and the quick, horrible sting of that point slicking carelessly into her flesh. Hands-gloved hands, part of her mind registered-squeezed her breasts.

It couldn't be happening. Attack and rape a cop in her own precinct? It was madness. But her kicks and struggles didn't stop his hands from tearing, from touching, from pushing roughly between her legs. And she hated herself from the sobs and pleas that babbled behind the tape. Hated that they made him laugh, that they gave him power.

"Don't worry." He whispered it, the first words he'd spoken. "I don't fuck your kind."

Fresh pain erupted from the blow to her face. She teetered toward unconsciousness, almost welcomed it. Dimly she heard, thought she heard, footsteps.

Someone coming. Please, God. But no, no, leaving. He was leaving. Leaving her alive. She moaned. Everything wept, everything wept with pain. But survival, that primal need to survive, was stronger. She was afraid to roll, to try to get to her knees, to her feet. How close was she to the stairs, how close to a nasty, perhaps fatal, fall?

The cuffs he'd snapped on her bit brutally into her flesh, weighed down by her own body. The need to see-escape, survive-was greater than the need for relief. She hunched her shoulders, turned her head right and left, inching tortuously forward as she tested the ground with her feet. Slowly, keeping a vicious grip on panic, she worked the hood up her face until her chin was clear, her mouth, her nose. Then blessedly her eyes.

And those eyes wheeled around. She could see spots and smears of her own blood on the wall of the stairwell where her head had hit, just as she could taste it in her throat.

But she could see the door below. She had to reach that door, get down the short flight of steps to that door. To survival.

Now she rolled, and her gasp went to a keening as she pushed to her knees. Tattered strips of her shirt and skirt hung on her. The rags of the rest were scattered on the stairs.

He'd left her naked, humiliated, bound. But he'd left her alive.

She used the wall to brace herself, used her trembling legs to push, push, until she could stand, leaning back on the wall. Giddiness and nausea rolled through her, and she prayed she could hold off both until she reached help.

Even as the voice inside her head screamed to hurry, hurry, he could come back, she made herself step carefully down, back to the wall for safety. At the bottom, with her body quivering with fear and exhaustion, she had to find the strength to turn, to grip the door handle with her clammy hands and pull.

She fell through the doorway, into the corridor. Shuddering, she began to crawl.

Someone shouted. She heard it like some dim bell through a fog. And, spent, she collapsed.

She wasn't out long, the pain wouldn't allow it, but when she groped back, she was on her side and the rawness around her mouth told her someone had ripped the tape away.

"Get a blanket. Give me your damn jacket, and somebody get a key that'll open these cuffs. You're all right, Lieutenant. It's Liz Alberta. Do you hear me? You're going to be all right."

Liz? Phoebe stared into grim brown eyes. Detective Elizabeth Alberta. Yes, yes, she knew that name, she knew those eyes. "The stairwell." Her voice was a raw wheeze. "He got me in the stairwell."

"A couple of guys are already in there, checking it out. Don't worry. Paramedics are coming. Lieutenant." Liz leaned closer. "Were you raped?" ioo I

"No. No, he just..." Phoebe closed her eyes. "No. How bad am I hurt?"

"I don't know yet."

"My weapon." Phoebe's eyes flew open. "God, my weapon. I couldn't get to it in time. Did he get my piece?"

"I don't know yet."

"Hold on, Lieutenant. I'm going to get these cuffs off." Phoebe didn't know who spoke from behind her, kept her eyes trained on Liz. "I need you to take my statement. I want you to take it." "That's what I'm going to do."

Phoebe couldn't stop the sharp indrawn breath as the cuffs slipped off, or bite back the whimper when she moved her arms. "I don't think they're broken. I don't think anything's broken." She clutched the jacket to her breasts even as someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "Can you help me sit up?"

"Maybe you should stay down until-"

There was a rush of footsteps, and a shout. Then Dave was kneeling beside her. "What happened? Who did this?"

"I didn't see him. He caught me in the stairwell. He put something over my head." Tears slid down her cheeks to sting the abraded skin. "I think he got my weapon."

"I'm going to get her statement, Captain, if that's clear with you. I'll go with the lieutenant to the hospital and get her statement."

"Yes." But he gripped Phoebe's hand as if he couldn't bear to let go. "Don't call my family. Captain, please don't call them."

He gave her hand a squeeze, pushed to his feet. "I want this building searched, floor by floor. This is red status. Nobody comes in or out without a search. I want the whereabouts of every cop and civilian in this building accounted for."

"It wasn't a civilian, Captain." Phoebe spoke quietly as his furious face turned toward her. "It was one of us."

It all blurred, but Phoebe counted that as a blessing. The paramedics, the ambulance, the ER. There were a lot of voices, a lot of movement, more pain. Then less, blessedly less. She let herself drift while people poked and prodded, lifted. While cuts and scrapes were treated, she kept her eyes closed. When pieces of her were X-rayed, she shut down her mind.

There would be tears, she knew. There would probably be floods of them, but they could wait.

Liz stepped into the exam room. "They said you wanted to talk to me now."

"Yeah." Phoebe sat on the exam table. Her ribs ached, that rottedtooth throb she already knew would give her trouble for days if not weeks. But the sling around her arm eased the pain in her shoulder. "Mild concussion, bruised ribs, sprained shoulder."

Liz stepped closer. "Nasty cut on your forehead and a shiner coming on. Split lip. Your jaw's swollen. Son of a bitch did some work on you."

"He didn't kill me, there's that."

"Always a plus. Your captain was in. He left after the docs gave him your status. I'm to tell you he'll come back to take you home when you're ready."

"It's better if he stays at the house, finds... I don't know what there'll be to find. I was coming down from my office to the conference room for my training session. That's habitual. I use the stairs habitually." "Claustrophobia? "

"No, vanity. I don't always have time to work out, so I go for the stairs instead of the elevator. He was waiting for me."

"You said you didn't see him."

"No." Cautiously, Phoebe touched her fingers to her face, just under her eye. She'd never had a black eye before, never appreciated how much it hurt. "I was going down pretty fast, and I caught just a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye-on the right. Thanks."

She took the ice bag Liz offered, laid it gently on the side of her face. "He had me before I could even turn my head, before I could reach for my weapon. He knew what he was doing. Disabled me immediately with the blow to the head. Rapped me face-first into the wall, stunned me. Taped my mouth and cuffed me quick. He's used cuffs before. Anticipated my defensive moves, such as they were, and had the hood on me, or whatever it was."

"Laundry bag. It's in evidence. You're thinking you should have been quicker, fought harder. Don't."

"I didn't get a single lick in. I realize, intellectually, that I was stunned, physically outmatched, and still... My weapon?"

"It hasn't been recovered."

The look between them held for a long moment. It was a hard blow when a cop was disarmed. It was a harder one when the cop was female. "No one's going to blame you for that, Lieutenant. Not under these circumstances."

"Some will. You know it, I know it. He knows it. That's why he took it."

"Some are idiots. Did you get an idea of height? Build?"

"Not of height. He shoved me and I went down. But he was strong. He choked me at first..." Her fingers traced over the bruises on her throat, and she remembered the feel of those hands cutting off her air. "Choked me when I was down, put his hands around my throat and choked me. He had big hands. Big, strong hands. He wore gloves. I f e l't... I felt gloves-thin, probably latex-when he groped me. And a knife, maybe scissors, but I think a knife to cut through my clothes."

"He touched you."

"He..." Facts, Phoebe ordered herself. Think of them as facts. "He squeezed my breasts. He pulled my nipples, hard. He laughed. Just kind of a wheezing laugh, like he was real tickled and trying to hold it back. He pushed his hand- Shit. Oh shit."

Anticipating, Liz grabbed a bedpan, shoved it under Phoebe's face. Held it steady while Phoebe was sick.

Sheet white under the bruises, Phoebe leaned back. "God. God. Sorry."

"Just take a breath, take your time. Here." Picking up the plastic cup and straw on the table, Liz offered it. "Drink some water."

"Okay. Thanks. I'm okay. He put his fingers inside me. Rammed them in. It wasn't sexual. He just wanted to hurt me, humiliate me. Then, I think he leaned down because his voice was close to my ear. He whispered. 'Don't worry. I don't fuck your kind.' Then he hit me in the face. And he left me there."

"Do you have a gauge how long the attack went on?"

"It seemed like forever, but probably two, maybe three minutes. No more than that. He had his plan in place, and he executed it efficiently. It probably took me longer to get the hood off and get down to the door. Altogether, it was probably six or seven minutes."

"Okay. Did he say anything else? Anything at all?"

"No, he only spoke that one time."

"Did you notice anything else about him. A scent?"

"No. Wait." Phoebe closed her eyes again. "Baby powder. I smelled baby powder."

"How about his voice? Would you recognize it again?"

"I don't know. We're trained to pay attention to details, but I was so scared, and the blood was pounding in my head, and the hood. He was local," she said suddenly. "There was enough of an accent that he sounded like a local."

"Have you had trouble with anyone? Anyone you think would want to hurt you?"

"You know I have. We may not work the same division, but we work in the same house. You know I have."

"Do you think it was him? You think it was Arnie Meeks who attacked you?"

"Yes, I do. I can't prove it, but yes, I think it was. I reported an incident on Saturday morning."

"What incident?"

She told Liz about the doll.

"I'll touch base with Detective Sykes on that. And I'll make some discreet inquiries as to Meeks's whereabouts this morning."

"I appreciate it."

"You weren't raped, Lieutenant, but you were violated sexually. If you want to talk to a rape counselor, I know a good one."

"No, but thanks. You're good at what you do, Detective. I appreciate you being the one to take my statement, to be here."

"I'll be following up. I promise you."

"For now, can you steal me some scrubs so I can get out of here?"

"Why don't I call someone for you. If you don't want the captain, someone else. Have them bring you some clothes, take you home?"

Phoebe shook her head. "I don't want to go home until after I've had my breakdown, which is going to come along pretty soon now."

"Anyone else I can call for you?"

"Actually... " Phoebe touched her fingertips to the trio of butterfly bandages that closed the wound on her forehead. "There's a friend, if he's around."

The old building had potential. Of course its current owner was giving the deal what Duncan thought of as the pitch-and-wish. He let that play in one side of his brain while the other side played with the possibilities. The warehouse was currently a dump, and no question about it. But it could be transformed into very decent apartments-close enough to the plants and the docks to fill up with blue-collar families. Reasonable space for a reasonable rent. Well off the tourist track, of course, well apart from the green elegance of the historic district. But toss maybe a bakery or a coffee shop on the first floor, a deli or a small family restaurant, and you'd get a return on your investment. Eventually.

Good thing he wasn't in a hurry for it.

The rank and file of the city needed good, safe housing as well as the rest. He should know. He'd been one of them most of his life.

Phin stood with the owner, shaking his head as Duncan wandered. That was Phin's fine skill, in Duncan's opinion. Just putting on that dour, disapproving look could lasso the pitch-and-wish and yank it back toward reality.

The guy wanted the moon for the dilapidation, figuring he had a bright gold fish on the line. Duncan didn't mind being thought of as a fish, especially since he'd already set his maximum offer at a couple of asteroids.

When his cell phone rang, he was studying a trio of broken windows. He kept studying them while he pulled it out. "Yeah, this is

Duncan. What? When? How?"

He turned when Phin, obviously hearing the alarm in his tone, crossed the pocked concrete floor to him. "Where? Okay, all right," he said a moment later. "I'm on my way. I have to go." Already heading for the doors, Duncan shoved the phone into his pocket.

"Mr. Swift," the owner began.

"Personal emergency. Do what you do," he said to Phin and rushed outside to his car.

A dozen horrific images flashed and burned into his mind as he set the car racing toward the hospital. The woman who'd identified herself as Detective

Alberta said Phoebe was being released, he reminded himself. She couldn't be that badly hurt if they were releasing her from the hospital. Then again, the detective had been very brief. Coplike, Duncan thought in annoyance as he was forced to brake for a red light.

She hadn't said how; she hadn't said how bad. And when was this fucking light going to turn green?

Maybe she'd been shot. Jesus, Jesus.

He peeled out when the light changed. He threaded his way through traffic, then chewed his way through more. Years of hacking had taught him how to get from point to point fast-or how to get there round about and pad the fare.

He swung into the parking lot, cursing bitterly as he searched for a space. By the time he found one and was running for the ER doors, he'd worked himself up into a frantic mix of nerves and temper.

He'd have run right by her if not for the hair. The beacon of red caught his eye, had him stopping, spinning back around.

She sat with the other wounded and the sick in the waiting area. She wore pale blue scrubs. Her arm was in a sling, and her face-her fascinating face-was bruised and battered.

"Oh, Jesus, Phoebe." He crouched down in front of her, took her hand in both of his. "How bad are you hurt?"

"Ambulatory." She nearly managed to smile. "Not so bad. You just popped into my head as someone to call. I shouldn't have."

"Don't be stupid. What happened?"

"Duncan... Since I did call, and you did come, I need to go somewhere for a couple hours, so I can fall apart and put myself back together again before I go home. Can you just take me somewhere quiet for a couple of hours? Big favor, I know, but-"

"Sure I can. Are you sure you can walk?"

"Yeah." When she started to rise, he slid an arm around her waist, drew her up with the care of a man lifting a fragile work of art. "Lean on me."

"I already did, calling you out here." And God, it was a relief to put a little weight on someone else. "I didn't even think you might be busy with something."

"Me? Idle rich." He dug out his sunglasses as she winced and turned her face away from the glare. "Put these on. That's a hell of a shiner you got coming up. What's the other guy look like?"

This time she couldn't manage the smile. "I wish I knew."

It could wait, he told himself. The questions could wait until he got her inside, got her settled. Got her tea or something. He helped her into the car, hooked her seat belt himself. "Lets put you back a little." He eased the seat back. "How's that?"

"It's good. It's fine."

"Did they give you anything for the pain?" he asked when he got behind the wheel, and she tapped the purse Liz had brought to the hospital with her.

"Good drugs. Got some in me right now. I'm just going to close my eyes if you don't mind."

"Go ahead. Try to relax, rest."

She didn't sleep. He could see her hand fist. It might relax for a moment or two, but then it would fist again as if she was determined to hold something tight inside it.

Bandages bound her wrists, and baffled him. If she'd been in an accident, why hadn't she contacted her family? And what sort of accident injured both wrists, bruised up the face and caused enough injury otherwise to have a woman walk as though her bones were brittle glass?

So it hadn't been an accident.

As other options began to circle in his mind, he shut them down. No point in speculating, not when speculation-where were her clothes?sent him into a minefield of possibilities.

He gave her silence. He'd hauled enough passengers in his time to know what people wanted. Chat, debate, information, quiet. Phoebe wanted silence.

She barely moved but for that restless hand-into-fist over that span of bridge from mainland to island, as he passed the marshes and creeks and drove through the green tunnels of arching trees.

Only when he slowed for the last turn, eased to a stop, did she stir and open her eyes.

He'd gone for grand with the house, leaning on traditional elegance and adding bits of quirk with the widow's walk that topped it like a crown. Oaks draped with moss fanned around it, strong accents for the soft blue with its delicate white trim. Gardens-azaleas just ready to pop and burst-flowed out and about in a casual way that turned the grand into charming.

Pots and baskets of mixed flowers decked veranda and terrace along with gliders and generous chairs that invited visitors to sit awhile, relax, have a cool drink.

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah, it's growing on me." He got out, came around to her. "Let me give you a hand."

"Thanks." She leaned into him. "Really. Thank you, Duncan."

"No problem." He led her to the steps, up to the veranda to the door with its Celtic knot in stained glass.

"How long have you lived here?"

"I guess about five years now. Mostly. I figured I'd sell it, b u't... long story." He gave her a quick smile as he unlocked and opened the door.

Golden light basked over rich colors, a wealth of space sweetened by curves from the elegant staircase, the wide archways. She moved beside him, stiffly, across the foyer into the parlor. There the atrium doors opened to a terrace, and beyond that more gardens danced, centered by an arbor where wisteria climbed and twined in a riot of beauty.

A piano angled to face the front windows, while chairs and divans in soft grays to offset the strong burgundy of the walls sat in groups. There was art on the walls, and she had an impression of marsh and river, Georgia dreamscapes along with a mix of antiques and the odd touch of a fat ceramic pig.

When he would have led her to a seat, she stepped away, crossed to the glass doors.

"I like your gardens."

"Me, too. I got into that kind of thing when I moved out here."

"I imagine so. It seems a lot of house for one man."

"Yeah. That's why I figured to sell it. But I actually use most of the place."

"Did you..." She rested her forehead against the glass, closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. We're coming to the falling-apart portion of the program."

"It's all right." He laid a hand on her back and, feeling her shake, knew they'd hit the eye of the storm. "You go right ahead."

He gathered her in when she turned to him, gathered her up when she began to sob. He carried her to the divan, then sat with her cradled in his arms. And he held her there while the storm raged through.

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