Eve eased back on the corner of her desk. “I’m going to send you a picture of a tattoo. The killer inked the victim a couple days before he killed her. Lower back. We’re looking for a woman with that tattoo in that place—a woman between twenty and thirty, White, blond, about five-five and a hundred and twenty-five. I’ll give you the ID shot of the vic. There’ll be a resemblance. The tat may have been done in the last decade of the twentieth century or anytime since.”
“What is it, the tat?”
“Butterfly.”
“That’s it? Jesus, Dallas, do you know how many people get butterfly tats?”
“You want easy or you want to help?”
Nadine let out a huff of breath. “Send me the pictures. We’ll get started.”
“She’ll have a navel piercing,” Eve added. “Three piercings in the left ear, two lobe, one cartilage. Remember, it’s most probable the victim bore some resemblance, build, coloring. Same age range.”
“All right, that’s helpful. And without a lot of luck, this won’t be quick, but we’ll push. You think the killer more or less replicated someone. Mavis isn’t at all physically like the victim.”
“No, but I’ll talk to her anyway.”
“Okay. I’ve got to get to Seventy-Five, do the follow-up. I’ll start the team on this. I’ll be working it, too.” She looked at Peabody, smiled. “It’s a great house. An original—or it sure as hell will be when you’re done with it.”
“I’m in love with it.”
“Don’t blame you a bit. I’ll be in touch,” she said to Eve, and started out.
“Nadine?” Eve waited a beat. “Thanks.”
“No thanks when it’s family.”
Peabody cleared her throat after Nadine left. “I only had half a brownie, ’cause loose pants, and because she had just enough time to tell me she wanted to help before the rest of the bullpen swarmed.”
“If she finds the original Bad Mommy with what I gave her, it’s a miracle. But she may pull it off. We also search. I want you to start a search for missing women, using the vic as a template. Stretch it to between twenty and thirty, and in the last month. And contact Norman.”
“I did. He wants to come in, talk face-to-face. He’ll bring the files.”
“Give him the go there. I’m going to run like crimes, but if he did this before in New York, we’d already know. Not impossible he did it elsewhere, so we’ll nail that down. He fed her, Peabody. A few hours before he killed her, she had a solid, healthy meal. No signs of sexual abuse or torture.”
She needed to put up her board, start her book, but she thought about mothers and daughters, mothers and sons. What did she know, really? Observations, not personal experience. Personal experience didn’t count when your mother had been a monster.
“Describe your mother,” she said to Peabody. “Not physically. What’s the first word that comes to mind?”
“Love. She loves. We love her back.”
“Next word.”
“Ah. Strong. She’s loving, yeah, but she’s strong. Tough when she needs to be.”
“Third and final word.”
“Tolerant.” Peabody’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Tolerance is a basic element of being a Free-Ager. That’s offset by the strong. No bullshit from us kids, but tolerant of personal choices that cause no harm to others.”
“Would you use those same three, in that order, for your father?”
“Love first, tolerant next. And he’s strong, sure, but the top three? I’d probably say playful. He’s just … cuddly. How does that help?”
“Just trying to form directions. Male or female. I lean, as does Mira, toward male. Potentially asexual or impotent. I bet you fought with your mother more than your father.”
“Well, yeah, I guess. Yeah. I mean, like, lipstick and mascara aren’t tools of Satan, and at thirteen—”
“Don’t need the details. Your brothers probably fought more with your dad.”
“Probably. I mean, Free-Agers, so disputes are usually talked to death, or solved through meditation or mediation. But yeah, my brothers would claim Dad was harder on them than my sister and me, and I can attest Mom was harder on my sister and me—but piddly stuff.”
“And I bet if I did a survey in the bullpen, the percentages would agree. Not a hundred percent, but that’s the more general dynamic.