"For what?"

"For a lying tongue. You have twenty-four hours to save a life, if God wills it. Your riddle: He's fair of face and once lived by his wits. Now those wits are dulled as like poor old Dicey Riley, he's taken to the sup. He lives where he works and works where he lives, and all the night serves others what he craves most. He traveled across the foam but closes himself in a place that reminds him of home. Unless you find him first, his luck runs out tomorrow morn. Better hurry."

Eve stared at the screen long after it went blank.

"Sorry, Dallas, no good on the trace. Maybe the e-detective can do something with it when he gets here."

"Who the hell is Dicey Riley?" Eve muttered. "What does he mean 'sup'? Like supper? Food maybe. Restaurants. Irish restaurants."

"I think that's an oxymoron."

"Huh?"

"Bad joke," Peabody offered with a sick smile. "To lighten the mood."

"Right." Eve dropped in her chair. "Computer, list name and locations for all Irish restaurants in the city. Hard copy." She swiveled in her chair. "Contact Tweeser – she was head sweeper on Brennen. Tell her I need something, anything. And have a uniform go over to the Towers and get those security discs. Let's move."

"Moving," Peabody agreed and headed out.

An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper's report. There was little to nothing to study. "Bastard didn't leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up." She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.

She needed to clear her vision.

The Biblical quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.

Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen's associates, friends.