It could play.
12
She pulled up a map, began to highlight the buildings on Roarke’s list. Mosebly’s residence—a semidetached townhome, two-story with full basement—fit right in. She might have wished for fully detached, and/or a garage, but it still worked.
Others—townhomes, brownstones, warehouses, private garages, an old converted church now a privately owned residence—also worked.
And when she went through the owners or tenants, she gave Roarke points.
All of them could work.
Not all hit the profiled age range, but all were single occupancy.
She started a run on each and began to arrange them in order. She put one last on the list—male, thirty-eight, sales exec, transferred from Chicago to New York five months ago, after a divorce.
Not impossible, but unlikely.
As she started on the next, her incoming beeped. Before she could retrieve it, she heard Peabody’s boots.
“Got her! I am so good! I’m so good I should have coffee.”
Eve just gestured to the AutoChef and pulled up the data and photo.
“This is an old mug shot. You said no criminal.”
“Expunged.” Peabody programmed coffee for both of them. “And since it was eighty-four years ago, in Arkansas, it was basically poofed. Who cares, right, about a ding for possession of a few grams of coke eight decades ago.”
“Possession, use, and resisting.”
“Yeah, yeah, she partied, got stoned, got busted, tried to take a swing at the officer. And did her court-directed rehab. Her parents had enough money and influence to have it all wiped.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I found an article written at the time—gossipy. Her dad was a city councilman, and her mom’s family had deep pockets. Anyway, that’s her.”
“She’s got the right coloring. Shape of the face is close enough. Hair’s wrong. Blond, yeah, but what do you call it? Platinum, and with a lot of roots. Add it’s long, and all fuzzy.”
Frowning, Eve kept studying. “No distinguishing marks, so no tat.”
“She could’ve gotten one later.”
“Yeah. She’s the type. We can say she’s the type, The clothes, Peabody. This would be years earlier than we dated the ones on Elder. This is from 1977. Did they wear the same sort of thing?”
“Shit. I don’t know. I’m betting not. Okay, but try this. He wasn’t even born for another nine, ten years. Then you have to add a few years for him to fix a memory. Maybe it’s a more adolescent memory, and he pictures her how he sees women—young women dress.”
“Does that work, or are we trying to make it work?” Eve printed out the photo and the attached gossip piece for the board. “I don’t know. Book us a conference room.”
“Really?”
“I want to set up three sections, one for each woman. I’ve got Roarke’s list of properties, and I’m running the occupants. I’m going to have Jenkinson and Reineke head out, start checking them. Let’s get a room, spread this out.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Let Jenkinson and Reineke know I’m pulling them in.”
Out of curiosity, she did a search for fashion from 1975 to 1985.
Her jaw dropped.
“Seriously? What’s wrong with people?”
She closed it off before her eye started to twitch.
“Conference room B.” Peabody’s voice came through the interoffice comm. “I’ll transfer the files.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
On the off chance, she shot a memo to Mira.
Briefing in CR B if you have time. New data, new questions.
She turned as brisk steps came her way, and waited until Officer Carmichael stood in her doorway.
“Sir. We’ll be writing up the results of the canvass in the two areas designated. But I wanted to let you know, we found plenty who recognized Covino, but no one who remembered anyone who appeared to follow her or make recurring stops when she did.”
“Yeah, he’s too careful for that—or he blends too well. Thanks.”
“People had a lot of nice things to say about her.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“Sorry we couldn’t find more.”
“Even negatives are details.”
He cracked the faintest smile. “That’s the truth.”
Eve gathered what she needed, downed the last of the coffee, then headed to the conference room.
She found Peabody already setting up, and Reineke and Jenkinson looking hopefully at the AutoChef.