“Why do you think?”
“Because he’s shithouse crazy, Peabody. You don’t do all this unless you’re shithouse crazy. Ten days, ten months, whatever, the crazy’s going to crack through the control eventually. The perfection of the tat, the piercings, the makeup, the hair, the clothes. That’s control, precision. So he’s got to have that, but under it? Shithouse crazy.”
And following that logic, Peabody turned to Eve. “He’s going to need another substitute.”
“Yeah, so let’s hope he doesn’t already have one picked out.”
Eve followed her in-dash directions to a pretty house with a pretty yard on a block of pretty houses and yards.
“Father’s a mechanic—owns his own place,” Peabody began. “Mother’s an artist—you saw some of her stuff in the vic’s apartment. She runs a local gallery. I’d guess both the sibs are home from college for the summer. Somebody’s probably home.”
“Let’s find out.”
Eve got out of the car and prepared to destroy someone else’s world.
* * *
By the time they’d finished, the emotional overload had a headache trying to drill through the crown of her head. She programmed coffee, black for her, regular for Peabody.
“They reminded me of my family.” Peabody let out a sigh. “Not Free-Agers, but they’re tight. They’ll get through it, but nothing’s ever going to be exactly the same.”
“You can check out the couple of ex-boyfriends they gave us. If nothing else, it’ll block that avenue. We’ll take the bar next, then you can split off, check out the exes, for what it’s worth. I’ll take the morgue. Morris should have at least started on her by the time I get there.”
“Need to close off the avenue,” Peabody agreed, “but I can’t see either of the exes they gave us. I think we’re looking for older.”
So did she, but Eve glanced over at her partner. “Why?”
“It’s that control and precision. It’s not that somebody in their twenties or early thirties can’t have it, and we’ve dealt with younger organized killers, but you add the control and precision with needing, almost for sure, a private space, a vehicle. And the killer could be female. Daughters have mom issues, too. She’d have to be strong enough to load a struggling or unconscious woman into a vehicle. Unless we have a team. And it could be. Siblings even.”
“Siblings.” Eve considered it. “Both obsessed, severely pissed or sexually attracted to their mother? Not impossible. Interesting even. Easier for two to do the snatch and grab, the transporting. But the kill was one stroke from the look of it. Then again, the second could have done the sewing up. You’d think that and the ribbon covering the wound could be signs of remorse, then the sign contradicts that. The sign was like a kid’s printing, and with the thing.”
“Crayon.”
“Right. A kid thing. Made her pretty—or his/her/their version of pretty. Dressed her up, put her near a playground—another kid thing. Who’s Mommy? His/her/their mommy. Is she still alive, already dead?”
“Mommy didn’t have much fashion sense,” Peabody commented. “I mean her clothes were just tacky.”
“Cheap. Maybe she couldn’t afford better ones. The jeans were ripped.”
“I’ve seen pictures of my granny in jeans with holes in the legs. When she was younger.”
“A Free-Ager thing? Don’t all you guys sew? Wouldn’t she sew up the holes or whatever?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was a thing. I’ll check into it. But the top—really short—and all spangles, the shoes—really dressy, and tacky, out of style—shoes with the weird jeans? Comes off kind of slutty, especially with the overdone makeup.”
Fashion might not have been Eve’s area of expertise—by a long shot—but she followed Peabody’s line.
“Mommy could’ve been kind of slutty—which may be part of the issue. Or he/she/they see her that way. Or he/she/they want Mommy to be slutty. I really need to talk this out with Mira. We’ve got to find the logic in the shithouse crazy, so we need a shrink.”
* * *
With the manager’s cooperation, they spent an hour at Arnold’s interviewing coworkers. More tears, no new information, and more confirmation of Eve’s sense that the victim had a solid, happy life, enjoyed her job, her circle.
The bar struck her as solid as well, if a little pretentious. It wasn’t the casual neighborhood place you’d belly up for a brew, but where you’d take a date to impress, or a client to ply with a fancy drink served in a fancy glass on a table with low lights flickering in a little potted plant.