“And adds to the staging,” Eve agreed. “We can—”
She broke off as Olsen came in with her partner. Something tugged at her memory when the male detective—narrow shoulders in a tired-looking glen-plaid sport coat, lanky legs like skinny pipe cleaners in brown trousers—walked in.
His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and his eyebrows formed sharp, inverted Vs over hazel eyes. He wore a single gold stud in his left earlobe.
Then it clicked.
“Tredway. It’s been a while.”
“It has. What, six, seven years?”
“About. Detective Tredway and I worked a murder together some time back,” Eve explained.
“Back when Feeney was your LT. Vic was one of my weasels, so Feeney brought me in. We got the bastard.”
“Still in a cage.”
“And now you’re the LT.” He crossed to the board, shook his head. “Better you than me. These potential targets?”
“So far.”
“We have two couples to add to that,” Olsen said.
“Put them up,” Eve told her, “and let’s get down to it.”
She had Peabody run them through the interview with L’Page and Burroughs.
“This guy who put the moves on her at the gala deal. Any chance of a sketch on him?” Tredway asked.
“Next step. She says it was dim light, and almost a year ago, but we have a detective artist who’s got a way of refreshing memories and getting details.”
“Is that his work?” Olsen gestured to the devil sketch on the board.
“Yeah.”
“It’s worth a shot.” Tredway considered, drank cop coffee as if it didn’t burn the stomach lining. “Course some guys—most, really—are likely to put the moves on a frosty-looker. We’re either assholes or optimists, depending how you look at it.”
“Me, I’m an eternal optimist.”
Olsen snorted at Baxter’s comment. “World champ.”
“Worth a shot,” Tredway continued. “What are the odds some random asshole or optimist puts those kind of moves on her at that event, and she and the guy she gets married to fit the target requirements down the fricking line?”
He took notes as they talked—actual notes in a little dog-eared book with a stubby pencil. Though she knew better, Eve would have sworn it was the same book, the same pencil he’d used seven years before.
“I tagged Yancy on this,” Eve said. “He’ll take his first pass with L’Page today. If this is our guy—and though the world is full of assholes, I’m with Tredway on the odds—she’s the only one we know of who’s seen the suspect’s face.”
“Maybe that face?” Tredway gestured toward Anson Wright’s ID shot.
“I’ve just completed an interview with him.”
Eve ran them through it.
“To sum it up, there’s some weight there. He’s been in the third vics’ home, has a second connect with them through the first male vic’s studio. He knows how to do makeup. No alibis, lives alone. He’s the right height and build, and if L’Page is correct, the right race. On the other side, he made no attempt, whatsoever, to come up with an alibi, and seemed oblivious as to why I asked. Not stupid, but oblivious and self-absorbed.”
“An actor,” Baxter added.
“Yeah. Apparently a good one. So I want to keep eyes on him the next couple days.”
“We can take some of that.” Olsen glanced at her partner for confirmation, got his nod.
“The boy and I can run shifts with you. That work, boss?” Baxter asked.
“I’ll clear it. Set it up. Who are your picks up there?”
“Take it away, Detective,” Baxter told Trueheart.
He ran through the bombshell’s data, her husband’s.
“My angle on that,” Eve began, “she doesn’t fit.”
“My angle is, she’d fit anywhere.”
Eve sent Baxter a cool stare. “Keep it in your pants, horndog. She doesn’t fit his type,” Eve continued, and laid out her theory.
Tredway took his notes, nodded through her explanation. “He’s looking for his dream girl, and his dream girl doesn’t bang out the sexy.”
“Unless it’s for him,” Olsen agreed. “But the get-’em-up-big-boy on screen doesn’t fit the image.”
“Too much competition,” Baxter added.
“That factors. They should take precautions,” Eve added, “but they’re low on the list. Who’s next, Trueheart?”