“Odds are shorter she rabbits. If I don’t have her in the box or a cage within thirty-six, that’s another story.”
“It’s my story.”
“My case.”
“Your case, my story. They’re not opposed. I damn well helped you get this far this fast.”
“You’ll get your story when I close my case.”
“Jesus, you guys are sexy. Sorry,” Jake said without a hint of remorse when they both blasted him with stares. “Thinking out loud. But facts are facts. Sexy is sexy. Do you ever go at each other like that when you’re, you know, more … casually attired?”
“Don’t respond,” Nadine said. “It only encourages him.”
“Run with what you’ve got,” Eve advised, “and within thirty-six”—less, she thought, less—“you’ll have the rest.”
With that, she vaulted over the side of the glide, dropped down two feet, and bolted.
Nadine hissed after her.
Jake grinned. “I like her.”
Eve double-timed it into Homicide.
“We’ve got a face,” she snapped at Peabody as she continued straight into her office.
She pulled up the file Yancy sent, programmed for facial recognition, then printed out hard copies.
When Peabody hustled in, Eve slapped the sketch on her board.
“That’s her? She looks …”
“Harmless,” Eve finished. “Part of her arsenal, looking harmless. Being so bland she can morph into anyone. A ‘fader,’ Jake said, and that’s just right. She can fade into the characters she chooses. And right now she’s got some rich woman in her crosshairs. We are not going to let her take that shot.”
“McNab tagged me, said they’re working on a search for you, and have a first pass.”
“Where is it?”
“They’re refining it. He says it’s too broad, and they’re working on narrowing it.”
“How fast will she move?” Pacing the confines of her office, Eve kept that face in her line of vision. “That’s the question. She won’t be in the system, so the facial match may take longer. She won’t have done anything up until now to get noticed. Maybe we’ll find some mental, emotional treatments in her medicals when we nail her down, but that’s no given. Nothing to stand out.”
“She’s a good seamstress. Better than good.”
“Yeah, you do that alone. And to make a living, you do it for other people who get to wear what you make, or alter, right? Do they notice you? Do they give you a second thought—like the line chef in a restaurant who’s sweating it out to make the meal you order? Behind the scenes, under the radar. Writing, now, you get your name out there. Bullshit Book by A. E. Strongbow. You get recognition, praise, maybe some fame and fortune. Here I fucking am. It’s her turn, god-damn it. Finally her turn.”
Eve swung around, drilled a finger into Strongbow’s face. “How does she gain access to the rich woman? In the book, the greedy son argues with the rich mother, ends up shoving her. She falls down the stairs, breaks her neck. He manages to pin it on his sister because said sister had a public tiff with the dead mother just that afternoon. How does she get into the house?”
“Disguises herself as the son?”
Eve shook her head. “Rich people have security. She can’t get through that pretending to be a member of the household. Security, staff.”
“Delivery person,” Peabody considered. “Part of a cleaning crew, newly hired staff.”
Eve held up a finger. “What does she do well? Sews. Rich women hire seamstresses, right? They can have them come to their home—more private, more convenient. She’s been in New York long enough to have established herself in that line of work. Has to pay the bills, and she thinks ahead. She needs a rich woman to kill.”
“Leonardo.” Peabody shrugged. “It’s a long shot, but we have a direct line to a top designer. Rich women, such as yourself, use top designers.”
“I’m not rich. Roarke’s rich. Leonardo’s an angle. Let’s see if we can contact him, show him the sketch. Maybe it’ll ring. If not, he has plenty of contacts of his own in the business. Somebody he knows might recognize her.”