“Start searching the memberships in the other target cities. Maybe, just maybe, this was one of his trolling tools.”
She started to go to her own station. She’d dig into Florida again, she decided, see if she could find any connection between the fitness center and any of the victims there. A member, one of the staff, cleaning crew.
“Eve.” Mira stood up, and the look in her eyes had Eve’s stomach sinking. “I’ve been trying to contact an Ariel Greenfeld. She’s a baker at a place called Your Affair downtown. She doesn’t answer the ’link numbers listed on her information. I’ve just spoken with her emergency contact, a neighbor. Greenfeld hasn’t been back to her apartment since she left for work this morning.”
“Get me the address.” She started to tell Peabody to get moving, then stopped. She’d made a mistake with Feeney, there was no point in giving out another personal slap. “Roarke and I will check it out. Unless notified, all team members are to go the hell home by twenty-three hundred or hit the crib. Report back at oh-eight-hundred for first briefing. Anything, absolutely anything pops meanwhile, I’m the first to know.”
As they headed toward Ariel’s apartment, Eve glanced at Roarke. His face was unreadable, but she understood it. Guilt, worry, questions.
“What’s Your Affair?”
“An event shop. Ah…upscale, everything you might need under one roof. A variety of specialty boutiques—attire, floral and planting, bakery, catering, decor, event planners. It was something I thought of when we were dealing with our wedding. Why go to all these places, all these people, if you can go to one location and find effectively everything you’d need. And if you want something else, there are consultants who’ll find that something else for you.”
Eve thought she might actually shop in a place like that. If she fell out of a three-story window, cracked her head on the sidewalk, and suffered severe brain damage. But she said, “Handy.”
“So I thought, yes. It’s doing quite well. She’s worked there eight months. Ariel Greenfeld.”
“And right now, she could be boinking some guy she picked up in a bar.”
He turned his head to look at her. “You don’t think that. I should contact her supervisor, find out what time she left work.”
“Let’s wait on that. Let’s check out her place, talk to her neighbor. Look, do you know why I’m keeping the team on another two hours? She might not be the one. We pull off, push everything into this, maybe somebody else gets taken. First, we get a clearer view of the situation.”
“Yes, a clearer view. How’s the headache?”
“Sulking behind the blocker. I know it’s there, but it’s pretty easy to ignore.”
When they’d parked, he laid a hand over hers. “Where are your gloves?”
“Somewhere. Else.”
He kept her hand in his, opened the glove box. And took out the spare pair he’d bought her on a recent shopping trip. “Wear these. It’s cold.”
She pulled them on, and was grateful for them as they hiked a block to the apartment building. “You never got that sandwich,” she pointed out.
“Neither did you.”
“At least I didn’t shell out hundreds of dollars and not even end up with a pickle chip or a splat of veggie hash.”
“I’ve never understood the appeal of anything referred to as ‘hash.’” Appreciating her, he draped an arm over her shoulders as they walked.
Rather than wait to be buzzed in, she used her master on the front entrance door.
Decent building, she noted. What she thought of as solid working class. Tenants with steady employment and middle-class income. Tidy entranceway, standard security cams, single elevator.
“Third floor,” she requested. “She could walk to work from here, if she didn’t mind a good hike. Catch the subway and save five blocks in crappy weather or if she’s running late. Bakers, they start early, right? What time does the store open?”
“Seven-thirty for the bakery, the café. Ten to six for most of the retail, with extended hours to eight on Saturdays. But yes, I’d think the bakery section would start work before opening hours.”
“Couple hours maybe. So if she had to be there by six…” She trailed off as they reached the third floor. “Neighbor’s 305.”
She walked to it, had just lifted a fist to knock when the door opened. The man who answered was late-twenties, sporting spikey hair of streaked black and bronze. He wore a baggy sweater and old jeans, and an expression of barely controlled worry.
“Hey, heard the elevator. You the cops?”
“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve held up her badge. “Erik Pastor?”
“Yeah, come on in. Ari’s not home yet. I’ve been calling people, to see if anybody’s seen her.”