“Home jobs—that’s what I heard before, too,” Eve remembered. “The next killer she’ll become is male. Dark brown curly hair—past the jawline. I was figuring wig, but she’s on a budget. Which is cheaper, home-job curls or wig?”
“Home job,” Peabody and Callendar said together.
“Especially temp curls. You can wash them out, too,” Peabody added. “You can get them with a hair tool and some product. If you want longer lasting, you need to do a home perm.”
“What does ‘perm’—whatever that is—have to do with curly hair?”
“I don’t know,” Peabody realized. “It’s just called that. I’m betting the tool and product. You can use the tool for years, and the product’s not that expensive. Wash or brush out your hair, you shed the character—and the disguise.”
“Yeah, that’s my bet. Those areas the seamstress gave us—neither of them are close to DeLano. She wasn’t out stalking DeLano. She lives or works around there. I say both. Working private now, working in her own place. As little contact with people as Smith as she can manage. She needs to keep Smith fluid and ready to absorb characters. Her priority is to live the scene, writing it her way. Her needs and priorities couldn’t be met if she spent all day sewing in a basement.”
She played with angles, calculated probabilities on the drive back to Central. When traffic slowed on the bridge, she took a year or two off Peabody’s life by going vertical for ten car lengths. In the back, Callendar didn’t even blink.
When she pulled into her slot, Eve shoved out of the car. “Callendar, keep at it, but send me what you’ve got so far.”
“Can do. Will do.”
“Peabody, contact the team, tell them to shift over to these new areas, coordinate with the locals. And add a male with dark brown curly hair to the list.”
She got on the elevator, thinking, thinking, thinking. Hopped off when it insisted on stopping on every level for others to pile on. “Callendar, let Feeney know I’m back in the house, and need whatever he can give me.”
“Can and will. Cha.”
Eve jumped on a glide, kept moving up while Peabody hustled to match her pace.
“Slippery, she’s slippery, lives in her own head most of the time, lived in the shadows all her life. Choice or circumstance, but she lived there. Writing’s going to be her way into the light, then she gets shut down. DeLano won’t read her work. That’s the first crack. Decides DeLano’s stolen from her, stolen her work, her chance. That’s the next crack, and what’s been simmering in there starts leaking out. She has to pay for stealing that light. And Smith has to shove everything else aside and focus. Quits her job. She can manage on the side work and whatever she’s squirreled away. She can get a smaller, cheaper place. But then, she’s putting her work out there, showing it off, and people—jealous fuckers—criticize it.”
“Some would be downright mean on top of it,” Peabody predicted. “It’s easy to be mean online.”
“And that’s the final break. The cracks just explode. She’s better than all of them. She’s sure as hell better than that bitch thief DeLano. Screw the light. It’s the dark that has the power. The dark that can kill and get away with it. I see her,” Eve stated. “I see her. I’ll know her when I look in her eyes.”
She headed straight to her office, pulled up short when she found Roarke working on her comp, working at her desk.
He glanced up. “And there you are. If you want this, you’ll need to give me another minute. I started here, as it’s handy and in a quiet spot.”
“Keep going. I need a minute, too.”
She tossed aside her coat, contacted Yancy.
“Where are you?” she asked as the screen showed movement.
“Just heading out. End of shift.”
“I need a favor.”
“What’s the favor?”
“The sketch. Can you use it to do another? She’ll be going male, curly dark brown hair, about jaw length. Well groomed. Rich guy. No facial hair. Age about thirty-five.” She cast her mind back into the book for more details. “Heavier eyebrows and blue eyes. Dark blue, almost navy.”
“I can do that. It won’t take long.”
“I’ll owe you. Send it to me when you’ve got it.”
She programmed coffee, paced, tried working on her PPC, as Roarke hogged the comp.
“Would you like to know what I’ve got?”
She all but pounced. “Yes.”
“Ann E. Smith left Delaware with sixty-three thousand and change in savings. She had no income for half a year, and listed ‘novelist’ on her tax returns, with documentation for writing supplies.”
“If she lived off her savings for six months, that sixty-three didn’t go far in New York.”
“Rent and utilities ate more than half in that tax year. She sought and found employment at Dobb’s, lived frugally. She paid her rent, taxes, all bills promptly and in full. I’d say she used cash for most expenses, as there is no credit or debit card in her name. Approximately nine months ago, she withdrew all funds from the local bank she used, stopped paying rent, stopped reporting income. Essentially, she’s been living off the grid since that time.”
“You’re confirming what I have, but giving me nothing new.”
He swiveled in his chair. “Essentially, the nothing is the new. She has no bank or brokerage accounts. None. She deals in cash. This means whatever income she may receive is also cash based. It’s possible to get checks cashed at some outlets, for a fee, but why would she? Cash leaves no paper trail. When she withdrew her funds, they amounted to thirty-three thousand and change. So in addition to her pay from Dobb’s she likely did some side business in cash, banked it, or a portion of it. To survive on side business and those dwindling savings, her expenses have to be cut to the bone. I’d look for her in an SRO. Being off the grid, she can’t apply for assistance, and would be unlikely to pass the vetting in most established rentals.”
“We had a sighting, two months ago. I need to bring up a map.”
He got up, offered her the chair. “Have at it.”
“Brooklyn. Flatbush … this area. What the hell is there?”
“Let’s see.” Leaning over, he manually shifted a few things. “Working-class area—family restaurants, shops, residential, some studios. She couldn’t afford to live there with what she has. If she took other employment—”
“She hasn’t.”
“Well then.” He shifted things again. “Only a few blocks south. A little rougher, certainly cheaper. More your tat parlors, dives, haunts for the street people, and your projects and SROs.”
She contacted Santiago, relayed the area. “Push there, pass that to the other team and the locals. SROs most likely, but she could’ve slithered into the projects. Check private homes that take in borders. Some of them do that off the books.”
“Very good,” Roarke said when she clicked off. “I hadn’t thought of that last one. Which is why you’re the cop. And one, I’ll wager, who hasn’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He went to the AutoChef, programmed her a slice of the pizza she’d forgotten he’d somehow stocked in there.
“Fine. Thanks.” She bit in. “Jesus, that’s good. She’s likely gone off the Internet, too. Feeney found her, but she went dark the same time she quit and ditched the apartment. That’s her break, that’s when she got serious about killing. But not DeLano—who’s responsible in her head. She has to prove something first. She’s better—and the villain’s superior to the hero. That’s her mission. That’s her new passion.”
“She’s lived a lonely life.”
“Her choice, that’s first. And a lot of people do who don’t decide to kill strangers to prove a fucking point.”
He heard the frustration under the cool, rubbed a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t argue it.”
“I don’t know when she’s going to move on the next, but she won’t wait long. She can’t. She feels the squeeze, so she needs to finish. She’s got three out of eight, not even halfway there—and don’t forget DeLano for the final chapter. She has to move soon.”
She grabbed the incoming when it signaled, studied Yancy’s sketch. “This is good. It’s her, but just enough like the character. This is how she’ll look when she goes for the next kill. Maybe how she looks now as she gears up for it.”
She sent the sketch to Santiago and the rest of the team.
She pounced again at another incoming.
“And that?” Roarke asked.
“Head seamstress at Dobb’s. Customers she thinks Smith did side work for. Good, this is good. Only fourteen names.”
Roarke lifted his eyebrows when her comp signaled again. “Aren’t you Lieutenant Busy Bee today?”
“Callendar. She’s pushing through on what we started in the search for the potential target. Gonna cross-check and maybe. Son of a bitch, son of a big, beautiful bitch, we got one. Natalia Durban Berkle.”
“Ah, I know Natalia a little. She’s very philanthropic if a cause appeals. A widow now, since her husband fell off a mountain.”
That jerked Eve back. “Fell off a mountain?”
“Attempting to climb one. Off, or it might have been into—as in crevice. Either way? Oops.”
“Huh. Does she like you?”
He smiled. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Right. You’re with me.” She grabbed her coat, calling for Peabody as she went.
22
With Roarke behind the wheel, Eve used the drive time to the Upper East Side to dig into the data on Berkle.
“She fits. Wealthy widow, late sixties, one son, one daughter. Big charitable foundation—family run—lots of committees and causes, and plenty of fancy-dress functions. She lives in a three-level penthouse rather than a freestanding mansion like the book vic, but three levels equals stairs. She fits.”