People tended to shop and frequent restaurants in their comfort-zone. The soap and shampoo—downtown store was very likely the source unless he web-shopped or brought it into New York with him. Starlight was in Chelsea, the bakery downtown, the first dumping spot in this round on the Lower East. Gia Rossi worked midtown.
Maybe he wasn’t traveling far from home this time around.
Maybe.
She plugged her knowns and unknowns into her PPC, intending to transfer the information to her desk unit and run probabilities.
“I want whatever Summerset’s worked up on disc and on my unit,” she began as they drove through the gates. “We can get his take on the timing as far as shopping/cooking, but I want to check out what markets and stores Greenfeld most usually frequented. And other specialty places below Fiftieth. The way her neighbor talked, she’d have gotten a charge out of wandering some new food place. We’ll interview the others she went out with Saturday night. Maybe she let something slip about her Sunday plans.”
They got out on opposite sides of the car, but Roarke put a hand on her arm when they reached the base of the steps of home. “You never thought there was a chance for Rossi.”
“I never said that, and there’s always a chance.”
“Slim to none. It didn’t stop you pushing—hard and in every way you could push, but you knew her chances were all but nil, and on some level accepted it.”
“Listen—”
“No, don’t misunderstand me. That’s not a criticism. It’s a small, personal revelation that came to me on the way home. Watching you work, listening to you even when you weren’t speaking. Your mind says volumes. You don’t feel the same way about Ariel Greenfeld.”
He slid his hand down her arm until he found hers, linked fingers. “You believe there’s a real chance now. Not only in finding him, stopping him. That you have to believe every minute or you’d never be able to do what you do. But you believe you’ll find him, stop him before it’s too late for this woman, and because of it Gia Rossi’s chances have gone up from slim to none to slim. It has to energize you, and at the same time, it must weigh all the heavier. They have a chance. You’re their chance.”
“We,” Eve corrected. “Everyone working the case is their chance. And we’d better not let her down.”
She expected Summerset to materialize in the foyer and intended to have Roarke take point with him. But the minute they stepped in, she heard laughter in the parlor, and the bubbling sound of it was unmistakable.
“Mavis is here.”
“There’s your hour of downtime.” Roarke slipped Eve’s coat from her shoulders. “Difficult to find a more entertaining or distracting way to rest the brain cells than a portion of Mavis Freestone.”
It was tough to argue the point. But when Eve stepped to the parlor doorway, she saw Mavis had brought Trina along. If that wasn’t scary enough, they’d hauled the baby out for the evening.
Most terrifying, at the moment, the infant Belle was being held by Summerset, and having her chin chucked by his skeletal fingers.
“I’m traumatized,” Eve stated. “He’s not supposed to smile like that. It’s against the laws of man and nature.”
“Don’t be such a hard-ass.” Roarke gave her a little poke in the ribs. “Ladies,” he said in normal tones, and had the group looking over.
“Hey!” Mavis’s already glowing face brightened. “You’re back! We were about to head out, but Bella wanted another Summerset smoochie.”
Which, to Eve’s mind, confirmed the innate oddity of babies and kids.
Mavis bounced over, sending the short, flirty skirt she wore swirling over polka-dot tights. The skirt was candy pink, the tights pink on brilliant blue. She’d gone for the blue in her hair, too, Eve noted, in a few wild streaks against silvery blond.
She grabbed one of Roarke’s hands, one of Eve’s, and pulled them into the room. “Leonardo had to shoot out to New L.A. for a client, so Trina and Belle and I had a total girl day. Ended it with some Summerset time. Look who’s here, Belle. Look who came to see you.”
With little choice Eve looked down at the baby still tucked in Summerset’s arms. Most, Eve supposed, would say the kid looked like a doll. But to Eve’s way of thinking, dolls were just creepy.
The fact was, the baby was a knockout—if you discounted the drool—pink, pretty, and plump. A lacy white ribbon was tied around her hair, as if she’d been wrapped like a gift. The dark blue eyes were lively, maybe a little too lively. They made Eve wonder just what went on inside the brain of a human the size of a teacup poodle.
She wore some sort of outfit with feet and a kind of sweater deal over it that may have been trimmed in actual fur. Over it all there was a bib—due, Eve supposed, to drool—that proclaimed:
MY DADDY IS ICED!
“Cute,” Eve said and would have stepped back, but Roarke blocked her as he studied the baby over Eve’s shoulder.
“I think gorgeous is more accurate. What nice work you do, Mavis.”