"About six weeks ago," she mumbled. "I went out with a couple of guys -- "
"What guys?" Jacko demanded.
"A couple of guys," she repeated, ignoring him. "Then Jacko came back around. He brought me flowers. Pansies. I caved. But I'm rethinking that decision."
"That decision might have saved your life," said Eve.
"What do you mean?" Instinctively Cissy cringed into Jacko. His arm came back around her.
"The incident last night matches the pattern of a series of homicides. In the other cases, the victims lived alone." Eve glanced at Jacko. "Lucky for you, you don't."
"Oh God, but. . .Jacko."
"Don't worry, baby, don't worry. I'm here." He all but folded her into his lap as he stared at Eve. "I knew that guy was off. What's going on?"
"I'll tell you what I can. Then I need both of you to come down to Cop Central, review the disc, make another report, and tell me everything you can remember, Cissy, about your experience at Personally Yours."
* * *
"The witnesses are giving the investigation their full cooperation." Eve stood in Commander Whitney's office. Too wired to sit, she barely resisted pacing as she gave him her report.
"The woman's shaken, can't give us much to go on. The man's holding it together. Nothing about the perpetrator is familiar to either. I've interviewed both of the matches Cissy Peterman dated. Both are alibied for at least one of the murders. I think they're clear on this."
Lips pursed, Whitney nodded and began to scan the hard copy of Eve's report. "Jacko Gonzales?The Jacko Gonzales? Number twenty-six with the Brawlers?"
"He plays professional arena ball, yes, sir."
"Well, hell." Whitney's faced creased in one of his rare smiles. "I'll say he plays. He's a killer out there. Scored three goals his last game and took out two defensive blocks."
He cleared his throat as Eve only watched him. "My grandson's a big fan."
"Yes, sir."
"Too bad Gonzalez didn't get his hands on this guy. He wouldn't be walking, I promise you."
"I got that impression, Commander."
"Ms. Peterman's a fortunate woman."
"Yes, sir. The next one might not be. This threw him off schedule. He's bound to hit again. Tonight. I ran this by Dr. Mira. Her opinion is he'll be angry, emotionally distraught. To me that means he might be sloppy as well. McNab and Peabody have three meets each set up for tonight. Everything's in place there. I have their lists and reports."
She hesitated, then decided to speak her mind. "Commander, what we're doing tonight is a necessary step. But he's going to be out there while we're on this surveillance. He's going to move."
"Unless you've got a crystal ball, Dallas, you've got to take the steps."
"I've got a probability list of victims down to just over two hundred. I think I've found another connection, the theater, that can carve that number down. I'm hoping with the new data Feeney can get us a short list of probables. The potential victims need to be protected."
"How?" Whitney spread his hands. "You know as well as I do the department can't spare that many officers."
"But if he fines it down -- "
"If he quarters it, I can't spare them."
"One of those people is going to die tonight." She stepped forward. "They need to be warned. If we go to the media, put out an alert, whoever he's targeted might not open the damn door."
"If we go to the media," Whitney said coolly, "we start a panic. How many street-corner Santas ringing their bells for charity get assaulted as a result? Or killed. You can't play trade the victim here, Dallas. And," he added before she could speak, "if we go to the media, we risk scaring him off. He goes under, we might never find him. Three people are dead, and they deserve better."
He was right, but knowing it didn't ease her gut. "If Feeney fines down the list to a workable number, we can contact each name. I'll put together a team to make the calls."