“He’d almost have to, right? If neither of these pans out, if he’s still in the stalking phase, that’s one thing. But if either of these, potentially both, are targets, he had to have picked them and studied them for a while.”
“And how does he pick them? You can’t pick what you don’t see. We don’t have a pattern yet, we’re assuming one.” Though it troubled her to assume, her instincts continued to demand it.
“Mavis doesn’t fit the pattern—the assumed pattern. I talked to her,” Peabody added. “She said you had, and asked her to bring in her security guys. She did, and that’s just a good idea considering the proximity of the dump site to the apartment and the house. But she doesn’t fit, Dallas. She’s smaller, and coloring—if we take hair and eyes? Mavis is all over the place. She doesn’t have a real routine, either, and she’d usually have Bella, or Bella and Leonardo, or Trina with her when she goes anywhere. Or me and McNab.”
All true, Eve thought, and all reassuring. But she had to think on the dark side—the killing side.
“He knew the playground. He didn’t pick the dump site on impulse. He scoped it out, or he knows it because he lives or works in the neighborhood. Add the mommy thing. She’s already a mommy.”
“Because of Bella, and she’s already showing some with Number Two.”
“He could’ve seen her—them—in that playground.” And it gnawed at her, Eve admitted. Gnawed away at her. “What does he want? A good mommy. She fits there. She’s a damn good one.”
“Okay, that ups my worry level. McNab and I will stick close.”
“Stick close but keep the worry level low. She doesn’t fit. It’s just … Friends are a pain in the ass more than half the time.”
“Aw.” Peabody beamed a smile. “That’s down from what you probably thought a couple of years ago. That would’ve been more like eighty percent, not fifty.”
“I said more than half. Eighty’s more than fifty. Contact Hobe’s building super, get him or her to clear us into her apartment. We’ll walk her route once we check at the bar.”
“Already did. See? Friends are handy.”
Eve flicked a glance over as she rounded a turn. “That would come under partner. Partners are a pain in the ass about a quarter of the time.”
Eve spotted a slot in a loading zone about a block from Mike’s Place and decided to grab it rather than take time to hunt another.
She flipped on her On Duty light.
“Decent neighborhood,” she decided when she got out. “Not as quiet or high on the scale as Elder’s.”
“More crowded, dingier,” Peabody agreed. “Not as close to home,” she added.
“A solid walk from Elder’s, but if you’re hunting the area, this fits.” She paused at a crosswalk as vehicular traffic pushed by and pedestrian traffic crowded in.
“Maybe bars are part of it. If there’s a pattern, bars might be part of that. Maybe the mother worked at a bar.”
“Worked at one,” Eve agreed, “or spent a lot of time drinking in them.”
When the light changed, they joined the flood.
“According to the report, Hobe worked till twelve-fifty or clocked out at twelve-fifty. She walked a few blocks with a coworker—the same one who checked her apartment. Coworker peeled off to go another half block south to her residence. It was raining, so they were walking fast. Hobe’s building doesn’t have door cams, but she would need to code in. She didn’t.”
Eve stopped in front of Mike’s Place. It boasted a bright red door and a wide glass window filled with neon. The name of the bar, a figure of some guy with a mic and an arm raised. Under him, it announced: KARAOKE! NIGHTLY!
Eve considered working in a karaoke bar versus getting eaten by sharks. The sharks came close to winning.
She stepped inside, relieved the Nightly! hadn’t yet begun.
A few asses snuggled in stools at the bright red bar. A scatter of people slumped at shiny silver tables. Those struck her as primarily tourists worn out from shopping—likely for things they could just as easily find at home.
The stage—all silver and red—remained, thank Christ, empty.
Clean, she noted, and it probably packed them in at night with people who thought they could sing, those who wanted to humiliate their friends by making them sing, or those who couldn’t resist a mic once they had a few drinks in them.
A single waitress navigated the tables in high red heels, a short black skirt, white shirt, and red bow tie. She served one of the tables what looked like decent bar food and a carafe of white wine.