Because he invariably provided an exceptional sounding board, she went back to the beginning—the body on the bench of the playground—and caught him up.
“The Bad Mommy message. You held that back from the media.”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s key.”
“Has to be. I pulled Nadine, and she’s doing a deep dive to try to find the original.”
“Who you believe existed, and would’ve been in that age range, with that physical description, shortly after the turn of the century.”
“Due to fashion—how he dressed her, did her hair, makeup—according to Morris, Mira, and Peabody.”
“A long time to mourn, or hate, or obsess.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She watched a small group of tourists, announcing their status in matching I ? NEW YORK tees, gawking up at an airtram—and the street thief who slid through them like butter.
“By the time I stop, you get out, he’d be two blocks gone,” Roarke commented.
Eve looked back, noted he’d already turned a corner. “Yeah.
“They might as well wear shirts that say: I Heart Pickpockets. Anyway. Mira figures some sort of more recent psychic break. Mommy kicked it, or kicked him, or something just snapped.”
He wove his way through traffic—miserable traffic—with far more calm than she would have.
“And both women worked at bars—late shift. So you’d deduce the mother did as well.”
“It’s possible. Or their work, and the timing, made them easier to grab.”
“He had to look for them first, find candidates that suited his specific needs. But, at least for these two women, he didn’t look at other late shifts. Not at licensed companions, at any who work at twenty-four/sevens or building security or maintenance and so on. Which…” He glanced over at her. “You’ve factored in.”
“I factored it in, and deduce the probability the mother worked in a bar, or frequented them regularly, is high. It doesn’t get us closer to finding Anna Hobe before he kills her.”
“A handful of hours ago, no one knew Anna Hobe had been taken, was being held, by the same person who abducted, held, and killed Lauren Elder.”
“He held Elder for ten days before he killed her. He’s had Hobe for seven already.”
Coming fast up on eight, Eve thought.
“He left Elder where we’d find her, and quickly. He has a vehicle. He could have taken the body out of the city, buried her. He has somewhere private enough to hold women. He could have dismembered her, dumped her in a tub of lye. Shit, weighed her down and dumped her in the river. All kinds of ways to dispose of her, to at least stretch out the time between killing and discovery. But he didn’t.
“He wanted us to find her. Wanted to see the media reports.”
“You think Hobe doesn’t have the ten days.”
“I think he stepped up his schedule, taking Hobe so soon after Elder. Maybe because of the rain, good cover. Maybe because he didn’t want to put all his eggs in one box. Maybe because Elder already wasn’t working out for him.”
“Two are more difficult to hold than one, so I agree there was some need or reason. It’s basket for the eggs, not box.”
She turned in her seat. “I’ve seen eggs in boxes. With the little…” She outlined a dip in the air with a hand. “To hold them in.”
“You gather them up from the hens in a basket.”
“How do you know that? When’s the last time you snatched an egg from a chicken, ace?”
“That would be on the far side of never, but I watched my cousin gather them up on the farm in Ireland.”
“Don’t they get pissed off? The chickens. Like, ‘Hey, that’s my egg, you fuckhead.’ What’s Irish for fuckhead?”
“Fuckhead translates to all languages. Young Sean told me they, for the most part, go broody—don’t ask me why—but occasionally one might object and have a go at you.”
“I’d brood, too, if I worked to push out an egg and somebody snagged it to make an omelet. Anyway, now I’m thinking about exactly where eggs come from, so I have to erase this entire conversation from my memory bank.”
He only smiled as he turned, and the gates of home opened.
And home stood, fanciful as a castle, its towers and turrets stone gray against the summer-blue sky. Bright things dotted the lush green grass—artfully placed beds of flowers, blooming shrubs and bushes. Trees spread their quiet evening shade.