“No problem. I’m looking for a man with a hammer. Big guy, easy six four, two-fifty. Did somebody like that come in and buy a hammer this morning?”
“What kinda hammer?”
“The kind that bangs.”
“You got your claw hammer, your ball-peen hammer, your sledgehammer, your—”
“Claw,” Peabody said before he continued his litany.
“Curved claw, ripped claw or framing?”
“Mister,” Eve said, “did an individual matching that description come in this morning and buy any damn kind and size of hammer?”
“Yeah, okay, I’m just trying to get the details. Yeah, I sold a thirteen-inch, high-carbon steel, smooth face, curved claw to a guy like that a couple hours ago.”
Bingo.
Peabody stepped over, lifted down a hammer from a congregation of others. “One of these?”
“Yeah, that one. You know your hammers, girlie.”
“I’ve got a brother who’s a carpenter, and my father does some.”
“I can give discounts to people in the trade,” he began.
“We don’t want to buy anything, and we don’t need a discount,” Eve interrupted. “We need to see your security disc.”
The man glanced up to the camera. “Ain’t nothing to see. We can’t afford a real camera. That’s just what you call a deterrent. Not that anybody bothers us. They gonna rob somebody, there’s the liquor store down the block. People buy more booze than screws.”
“How’d he pay?”
“Cash.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Nothing wrong with my eyes. He was standing right there where you’re standing.”
“I need you to come down to Central, work with a sketch artist.”
“I can’t close this place down to go work with no artist. I gotta make a living here.”
“I’ll send someone to you, Mister . . .”
“Burnbaum. Ernie. What the guy do, hit somebody over the head with the hammer?”
“Something like that. Peabody, I want Yancy.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Now, Ernie, why don’t you describe the hammer guy for me, and tell me what the two of you talked about.”
“Like you said, he’s a big guy. Big white guy.”
“Hair? Short, long, dark, light.”
“Short, buzzed, kinda medium.”
“Eyes? The color of his eyes?”