“What the fuck!” Dirk Hastings wrenched open the iron door. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stupid asshole.”
He was a big man, big and burly, with beady eyes the color of mud. Fury rolled off him in hot, red waves.
Ugly man. Ugly, disrespectful man. You’ll be dead soon.
“Sorry, sir. Just delivering this package.”
“Can you read, fuckhead? Sign says No Goddamn Asshole Deliveries!”
“Sorry.” Reach into the pocket, slow, careful. “They’re closed below, and it’s stamped Urgent. Are you Dirk Hastings?”
“Fuck me!”
“You just have to sign, and I’ll be out of your way. Listen, it’s really freaking cold.”
“Then get an inside job.” Hastings started to reach for the box. The killer stepped to the side, easing over the threshold, drew the stunner.
It struck mid-body, made the muddy little eyes pop wide, and the big body shake before it fell back.
The bigger they are, ha ha.
Perfect.
Only have to drag him farther into the studio. Take that time, this time. Plenty of tape in the kit. Big guy though, strong guy. Don’t be stupid. Don’t let him come all the way back.
The killer crouched, started to grip the unconscious Hastings under the arms.
“Hey, Dirk, baby? What was that racket? Listen, I got us a bottle of—”
The tall, half-naked blonde stopped on her skip down the steps, and her perfect red mouth formed a wide O. Just before the screaming started.
Panicked, the killer swung up with the stunner, and the blonde heaved the bottle of pinot noir. The stun went wide; the bottle crashed like a thunderbolt against the wall. Glass and wine flew as the blonde turned, still screaming, and ran back upstairs with the speed of a gazelle.
“I’m calling the cops!” she shouted back. “I’ve got my ’link and I’m calling the cops. And I’ve got a knife! A really big knife! You’d better run, you bastard!”
Tears of frustration blurred the vision as the killer grabbed the box, took one quick glance at failure. And ran.
At her desk, Eve studied Yancy’s latest sketch. Like Misty Polinsky, Mason had described a narrow face. The scarf still blocked the lower part of the face, but with this one, she got the shape of the nose, the style of wraparound sunshades, and a hint of the top lip.
She agreed with Yancy’s notes. If Mason was accurate—and Yancy believed he was—that hint indicated a wide mouth, on the thin side, at least on the top lip.
Like putting a frigging puzzle together, she thought, when most of the pieces were missing.
Yancy had extrapolated, using probability percentages and merging both sketches. With that he’d given her seven most likely faces, filling in features.
Still too nondescript for facial recognition match, and far too vague for her to say, with any confidence, if any of them seemed familiar.
So it wouldn’t be the face, not for now, she decided. She had to count on the words. A quick glance at the time told her it was too soon to nag Roarke about any progress there.
Instead, she opened Carmichael and Santiago’s first report.
“Holy shit.”
She sat back, stared, repeated, “Holy shit.”
“My timing’s good,” Roarke said as he walked in.
“Over two thousand people who applied to law enforcement and were denied—for various reasons—or washed out sent me communication over the past two years.”