He swiveled in his chair. “Essentially, the nothing is the new. She has no bank or brokerage accounts. None. She deals in cash. This means whatever income she may receive is also cash based. It’s possible to get checks cashed at some outlets, for a fee, but why would she? Cash leaves no paper trail. When she withdrew her funds, they amounted to thirty-three thousand and change. So in addition to her pay from Dobb’s she likely did some side business in cash, banked it, or a portion of it. To survive on side business and those dwindling savings, her expenses have to be cut to the bone. I’d look for her in an SRO. Being off the grid, she can’t apply for assistance, and would be unlikely to pass the vetting in most established rentals.”
“We had a sighting, two months ago. I need to bring up a map.”
He got up, offered her the chair. “Have at it.”
“Brooklyn. Flatbush … this area. What the hell is there?”
“Let’s see.” Leaning over, he manually shifted a few things. “Working-class area—family restaurants, shops, residential, some studios. She couldn’t afford to live there with what she has. If she took other employment—”
“She hasn’t.”
“Well then.” He shifted things again. “Only a few blocks south. A little rougher, certainly cheaper. More your tat parlors, dives, haunts for the street people, and your projects and SROs.”
She contacted Santiago, relayed the area. “Push there, pass that to the other team and the locals. SROs most likely, but she could’ve slithered into the projects. Check private homes that take in borders. Some of them do that off the books.”
“Very good,” Roarke said when she clicked off. “I hadn’t thought of that last one. Which is why you’re the cop. And one, I’ll wager, who hasn’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He went to the AutoChef, programmed her a slice of the pizza she’d forgotten he’d somehow stocked in there.
“Fine. Thanks.” She bit in. “Jesus, that’s good. She’s likely gone off the Internet, too. Feeney found her, but she went dark the same time she quit and ditched the apartment. That’s her break, that’s
when she got serious about killing. But not DeLano—who’s responsible in her head. She has to prove something first. She’s better—and the villain’s superior to the hero. That’s her mission. That’s her new passion.”
“She’s lived a lonely life.”
“Her choice, that’s first. And a lot of people do who don’t decide to kill strangers to prove a fucking point.”
He heard the frustration under the cool, rubbed a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t argue it.”
“I don’t know when she’s going to move on the next, but she won’t wait long. She can’t. She feels the squeeze, so she needs to finish. She’s got three out of eight, not even halfway there—and don’t forget DeLano for the final chapter. She has to move soon.”
She grabbed the incoming when it signaled, studied Yancy’s sketch. “This is good. It’s her, but just enough like the character. This is how she’ll look when she goes for the next kill. Maybe how she looks now as she gears up for it.”
She sent the sketch to Santiago and the rest of the team.
She pounced again at another incoming.
“And that?” Roarke asked.
“Head seamstress at Dobb’s. Customers she thinks Smith did side work for. Good, this is good. Only fourteen names.”
Roarke lifted his eyebrows when her comp signaled again. “Aren’t you Lieutenant Busy Bee today?”
“Callendar. She’s pushing through on what we started in the search for the potential target. Gonna cross-check and maybe. Son of a bitch, son of a big, beautiful bitch, we got one. Natalia Durban Berkle.”
“Ah, I know Natalia a little. She’s very philanthropic if a cause appeals. A widow now, since her husband fell off a mountain.”
That jerked Eve back. “Fell off a mountain?”
“Attempting to climb one. Off, or it might have been into—as in crevice. Either way? Oops.”
“Huh. Does she like you?”
He smiled. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Right. You’re with me.” She grabbed her coat, calling for Peabody as she went.