Not bad, thought McNab. Not bad at all.

When he lifted his gaze and encountered Eve's stony stare, he cleared his throat. He knew Eve Dallas's reputation. She didn't tolerate bullshit. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?''

"I've got a homicide, Detective, and I may have another by this time tomorrow. I need a trace on communication. I need a location. I need to find out how the hell this prick is jamming our lines."

"Then I'm your man. Calls coming in on this unit?" At Eve's nod, he moved closer. "Mind if I take your chair, see what I can do?"

"Go ahead." She rose, moved aside for him. "Peabody, I've got to get over to the morgue this afternoon. Try to head off Mrs. Brennen, get a statement. We're going to split the restaurant list between us. We're looking for someone who works and lives on the premises, someone who emigrated into New York, and someone with a possible connection to Thomas Brennen. I've got a list of Brennen's nearest friends and associates. Narrow it down, and narrow it fast." She handed Peabody a hard copy.

"Yes, sir."

"And check close on anyone named Riley – or Dicey."

McNab stopped the under-the-breath humming that seemed to be the theme song of every electronics man Eve knew. "Dicey Riley?" he said and laughed.

"I miss the joke, McNab?"

"I don't know. 'Dicey Riley' is an Irish pub song."

"Pub?" Eve's eyes narrowed. "You Irish, McNab?"

She caught the slight flare of insult flicker over his pretty face. "I'm a Scotsman, Lieutenant. My grandfather was a Highlander."

"Good for him. What's the song mean – what's it about?"

"It's about a woman who drinks too much."

"Drinks? Not eats?"

"Drinks," he confirmed. "The Irish Virus."

"Shit. Well, half these are pubs anyway," Eve said as she looked down at her own list. "We'll run another check on Irish bars in the city."