4

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

Goren pulled back the starchy white sheet, caked with blood, to reveal the face of a lovely woman with a knife in her throat. His round little nose wrinkled in distaste.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Eames talking to the restaurant's maitre d'.

"It was crazy," he said. "Her business meeting just broke up. She was the last to leave—good tipper. She was walking out, fine, then just fell. Made this funny little gag noise."

"Just like that? You didn't see anybody?"

He shook his head. "The knife or whatever just appeared out of nowhere."

"Thanks," she said, frowning and handing him a card. "If you think of anything else, let us know." She strode toward the edge of the sidewalk where the body lay and lowered herself to examine what Goren found so interesting. "You hear that?"

He nodded, handing her a pair of rubber gloves. They bunched up around her joints, too big in the same places Goren's were too small. Once size fits all—not. "Look at this," he said, indicating the thin, straight cut above the knife's entry. "The blade was spinning when it pierced her throat. Like it was tossed."

Eames shuddered. "It would take luck or perfect aim to hit that target."

"You can get that accurate after a lot of practice with the right training."

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're looking for a psycho ninja."

He grinned and got to his feet, looking around the busy street. "She was facing this way," he said, positioning his body in the same direction as the victim. "She's what, about five-five? That means the blade was at this level." He indicated a spot on his chest and moved his hand straight out. "Now the angle is almost ninety degrees, so the knife was thrown at about the same height as its impact."

"That puts the attacker less than twenty feet away," said Eames, pulling out the victim's ID card. "Monica North, thirty-four years old, five-foot-five, one hundred thirty pounds, blonde hair, green eyes. Nothing to make her stand out in a crowd."

Goren lowered his eyes to North's face. Eames sent him a look. He always had a thing for the Nordic types. She hoped he wasn't going to take this too personally again. "See anything over there the perp could hide behind?"

He gauged the distance between himself and other solid objects capable of hiding a person, but found nothing close enough. "No. They were out in the open, took off, found a hiding place." He cocked his head, sharp eyes peering into the shadows between the street lights. "Probably one of the alleys… led them to a safe street."

Eames's eyes inevitably landed on a huge diamond engagement ring on the victim's left hand. "Well, let's have a chat with the boyfriend and see what he has to say."

Mick Rodriguez opened the door for the detectives with swollen eyes and a tissue in hand. "Come in," he said before they showed him their badges. "I'll tell you everything I can."

Goren and Eames traded glances. After so many years with the shield, the word cop was ingrained in their features. Now that's depressing.

"We're sorry for your loss, Mister Rodriguez," said Eames as Goren took his customary look around the room. "Can you think of anyone who would want your girlfriend dead?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. Goren and Eames froze, looking at him expectantly. No one could ever think of someone wanting their loved-ones dead. This was new. "Rose Buhler. Monica's ex-partner."

Goren cocked his head. "What did Monica do for a living?"

"She was a CEO for Penguin Publishing Company, but Rose wasn't that kind of partner." He sent them a look that made his meaning clear.

"Lover-partner?" offered Eames, nodding. "All right then. Why would she want Monica dead?"

"Because of the custody battle over their daughter, Cynthia."

Eames's head was spinning. "Their daughter?"

"It's a long story," said Rodriguez with a sigh.

Goren and Eames exchanged glances. "Well, we'd love to hear it."

He took a deep breath and motioned for them to sit down, rubbing his forehead as though wondering where to begin. "About seven years ago, Rose started working for Monica at the company. They fell in love, left their husbands and started living together. A little while later, they decided they wanted to raise a family, so they instilled the—the services of a mutual friend. Some beefcake, I don't remember his name. Anyway, he had sex with both of them until Monica became pregnant with Cynthia. Since she had the steadier job, they decided that Monica would have the baby, then go straight back to work. Rose would stay home and raise her.

"Well, when Cynthia was about four Monica realized she wasn't being the mother she always wanted to be, and maybe the home they'd set up wasn't the best for raising a child. Rose drank a little bit and Monica was never there, so they split up and Monica took Cynthia."

"And Rose had a problem with that," Eames guessed.

Rodriguez nodded. "She took Monica to court, but since she's not the birth mother she's got about as much claim to Cynthia as a nanny. Maybe even less. The state of New York doesn't recognize gay marriages, so even with her new partner there's pretty much no hope of her taking Cynthia home."

Eames rubbed her temples to try and alleviate some of the pain shooting through her noggin. "How long have you and Monica been together?"

"Nine months."

"And now that she's dead, who will Cynthia go to?"

Rodriguez pondered for a moment, but his answer was definite. "Me. I'll go to court to make sure she gets to be raised in a stable, happy home."

Goren leaned forward, his fingers woven together. "Have you asked her if that's what she wants?"

Rodriguez looked at him like he was crazy. "She's five years old. She doesn't know what she wants."

Goren shook his head. "You'd be surprised." He stared at his hands for a moment before continuing. "Where is Cynthia now?"

Rodriguez looked at the clock over the television. "Preschool. You don't need to talk to her, do you?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Where does she attend school?"

"Memorial Elementary."

Goren nodded and jotted down a few notes in between the sketches and doodles of the day. "We need Rose Buhler's address and telephone number. If you had them, it would make our lives easier."

"I'll go check Monica's address book," he said, rising.

When he was out of ear-shot, Eames and Goren stood and held a conference by the sofa. "Well, he's not our guy," said Goren.

"Don't be so sure. I'm not taking him off the wall just yet. Let's check to see who inherited Monica's money."

Goren shrugged. "If it'll make you happy."

Rodriguez returned a moment later with a slip of paper containing the information they needed.

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