"Doorman Strobie, escorting Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD and aide."

"Mr. Brennen is not in residence at this time," came the response in a soothing voice musical in its Irish lilt.

Eve merely elbowed Strobie aside. "This is a police emergency." She lifted her badge to the electronic eye for verification. "Entrance is imperative."

"One moment, Lieutenant." There was a quiet hum as her face and ID were scanned, then a discreet click of locks. "Entrance permitted, please be aware that this residence is protected by SCAN-EYE."

"Recorder on, Peabody. Back off, Strobie." Eve put one hand on the door, the other on her weapon, and shouldered it open.

The smell struck her first, and made her swear. She'd smelled violent death too many times to mistake it.

Blood painted the blue silk walls of the living area, a grisly, incomprehensible graffiti. She saw the first piece of Thomas X. Brennen on the cloud-soft carpet. His hand lay palm up, fingers curled toward her as if to beckon or to plead. It had been severed at the wrist.

She heard Strobie gag behind her, heard him stumble back into the lobby and the fresh floral air. She stepped into the stench. She drew her weapon now, sweeping with it as she covered the room. Her instincts told her what had been done there was over, and whoever had done it was safely away, but she stuck close to procedure, making her way slowly over the carpet, avoiding the gore when she could.

"If Strobie's finished vomiting, ask him the way to the master bedroom."

"Down the hall to the left," Peabody said a moment later. "But he's still heaving out there."

"Find him a bucket, then secure the elevator and this door."

Eve started down the hall. The smell grew riper, thicker. She began to breathe through her teeth. The door to the bedroom wasn't secure. Through the crack came a slash of bright artificial light and the majestic sounds of Mozart.