She headed down, worked her way back out of the maze. When they were clearly out of anyone’s earshot, Peabody spoke up.
“They look good together.”
Lost in thought, Eve frowned. “What? Who?”
“Morris and DeWinter?”
“What?” Eve repeated. “Get out.”
“No, they do. I don’t see that hum between them like he had with Detective Coltraine, I just meant on a kind of visual level. Both of them kind of exotic and artsy. I always wonder if McNab and I come close to looking good together,” she went on, speaking of her main man and one of the Electronic Detectives Division’s aces.
“I mean, I’m kinda short and—it’s Be Kind to Myself Day, so I’ll say zaftig.”
“Zaftig?” Eve muscled her way out the door, strode toward her car. “What language is that?”
“It’s fancy language for full-bodied. And McNab’s all bony and beanpoley.”
“You look right together, which is better than good.”
Completely stunned, Peabody stopped in her tracks. “That’s the totally, absolutely nicest thing you’ve ever said about me and McNab.”
Eve just shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to you. Mostly. Get in the damn car.”
With her cheeks flushed with pleasure, Peabody obeyed. “Do you really think we look right together?”
“You’re stuck together at the erogenous zones every chance you get, so why wouldn’t you? Now, just for the hell of it, maybe we can focus on solving twelve murders.”
“The facial reconstructing is really going to help. Elsie is totally iced at it. Oooh, and twin baby girls. How adorable is that? You should’ve felt the . . .” Hunching at the hard gleam in Eve’s eyes, Peabody yanked out her PPC. “I’ll start the search for the first reconstruction now.”
“Really? What a fine idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
Wisely Peabody said nothing until she had the search under way. “Where are we heading?”
“To talk to the handyman. I want a sense of him, and I want to run down this helper type the matron had that feeling about. Then mayb
e we can run down Brigham and her grandmother. We’re going to need to run all the staff at Higher Power, have a chat with anybody who overlaps with the other building. We can’t—”
“Holy shit! Holy shit, Dallas! I’ve got her. I’ve already got a hit.”
“Vic One?”
“I’ve got her. Look—wait—I’ll put it up on the dash screen.”
And there she was, Eve thought. The dark, almond-shaped eyes, the curve of chin, the full lips, the ebony hair glossed to a sheen. Not a wedge, but a long fall.
A professional and posed shot, Eve decided. A studio photo taken for official ID where the thirteen-year-old Linh Carol Penbroke stared soberly—with a touch of defiance—at the camera.
Missing since September twelfth, 2045.
The report gave her height, which matched Victim One, and a weight of ninety-seven pounds—so DeWinter hit on that as well, Eve calculated. Small girl, petite frame, pretty face with those glimmers of unrealized beauty.
“It lists both parents,” Peabody said. “Two older sibs, one male, one female, and a Park Slope address. Affluent.”
“Run it. See if the parents, or either of them, have the same address or another one.”
“Searching now. Same address, for both of them.”
Eve made the next turn, then the next, and headed toward Brooklyn.