Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(10)

“Need to close off the avenue,” Peabody agreed, “but I can’t see either of the exes they gave us. I think we’re looking for older.”

So did she, but Eve glanced over at her partner. “Why?”

“It’s that control and precision. It’s not that somebody in their twenties or early thirties can’t have it, and we’ve dealt with younger organized killers, but you add the control and precision with needing, almost for sure, a private space, a vehicle. And the killer could be female. Daughters have mom issues, too. She’d have to be strong enough to load a struggling or unconscious woman into a vehicle. Unless we have a team. And it could be. Siblings even.”

“Siblings.” Eve considered it. “Both obsessed, severely pissed or sexually attracted to their mother? Not impossible. Interesting even. Easier for two to do the snatch and grab, the transporting. But the kill was one stroke from the look of it. Then again, the second could have done the sewing up. You’d think that and the ribbon covering the wound could be signs of remorse, then the sign contradicts that. The sign was like a kid’s printing, and with the thing.”

“Crayon.”

“Right. A kid thing. Made her pretty—or his/her/their version of pretty. Dressed her up, put her near a playground—another kid thing. Who’s Mommy? His/her/their mommy. Is she still alive, already dead?”

“Mommy didn’t have much fashion sense,” Peabody commented. “I mean her clothes were just tacky.”

“Cheap. Maybe she couldn’t afford better ones. The jeans were ripped.”

“I’ve seen pictures of my granny in jeans with holes in the legs. When she was younger.”

“A Free-Ager thing? Don’t all you guys sew? Wouldn’t she sew up the holes or whatever?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was a thing. I’ll check into it. But the top—really short—and all spangles, the shoes—really dressy, and tacky, out of style—shoes with the weird jeans? Comes off kind of slutty, especially with the overdone makeup.”

Fashion might not have been Eve’s area of expertise—by a long shot—but she followed Peabody’s line.

“Mommy could’ve been kind of slutty—which may be part of the issue. Or he/she/they see her that way. Or he/she/they want Mommy to be slutty. I really need to talk this out with Mira. We’ve got to find the logic in the shithouse crazy, so we need a shrink.”



* * *



With the manager’s cooperation, they spent an hour at Arnold’s interviewing coworkers. More tears, no new information, and more confirmation of Eve’s sense that the victim had a solid, happy life, enjoyed her job, her circle.

The bar struck her as solid as well, if a little pretentious. It wasn’t the casual neighborhood place you’d belly up for a brew, but where you’d take a date to impress, or a client to ply with a fancy drink served in a fancy glass on a table with low lights flickering in a little potted plant.

It served tidbits like organic squash blossoms and goat cheese truffles. She couldn’t see ever being hungry enough to put either in her mouth.

When she said so, outside the bar, Peabody shook her head.

“They’re pretty terrific, and the pancetta crisps are totally mag. You could make a meal.”

“You make a meal. Later. Go into Central, check out the exes, update Detective Norman, and get me a time slot with Mira. I’m going to walk the vic’s route and back before I hit the morgue.”

They split off, and Eve walked in the not-quite-warm late-spring sunshine. She saw some tourists, who never seemed to know how to actually walk on a sidewalk, several kids and babies in various pushcart things, a man walking a pair of tiny, hairless dogs who could’ve passed for large rats.

They yip-yip-yipped, darting at her boots as she passed, and the man scolded them in sugary tones.

“Now, now, Sugar and Spice, be good doggies.”

She saw well-maintained homes, tidy buildings, busy shops, restaurants with patrons sitting outside in the spring air sipping drinks or having lunch.

A few homes had front yards separated from the pedestrians by fences more ornamental than functional. Flowers bloomed or spilled out of pots on doorsteps. A team of three efficiently washed the windows on a duplex. A woman carrying a pair of market bags hurried up to the door of another.

Traffic streamed by, almost pleasantly.

It was hard to beat New York in the spring. Nothing could beat it for her at any time, but spring added some shine.

She stopped in front of the victim’s apartment again. Roy still had the privacy screens engaged. In the apartment below his, a woman sat on the windowsill, busily washing the window.

It seemed to be the day for it.

As she started back, she decided a decent vehicle parked along the route wouldn’t cause attention. A beater, now, would, but a decent ride, a clean one, who’d notice?

And the vic’s block—especially the vic’s block—would be quiet at night. Almost entirely residential, and the restaurants would be shuttered, the bakery and deli closed.

A five-minute walk at night, a couple minutes more if she’d taken it at a stroll. Less if she’d jogged it.

Home base, familiar. No worries.

And in seconds—it would only have taken seconds—everything changed.