“How often does she come in?”
“Like I said, I’ve seen her a few times, and she might come in on my nights off. I wouldn’t even call her a semi-regular, but often enough I remember the hair, the tat.”
“Describe her otherwise.”
“Hell. I’d know her if she walked in, but … A white girl, like you said. Maybe on the thin side? A lot of skin showing, a lot of face paint. That’s like a uniform in here.”
“She blends.”
“Yeah. Except most come in to hang out, to get trashed, to dance, to hook up. She sits by herself, so that stands out. It’s why I got her when you started asking.”
“Would you work with a police artist?”
“Ah, sure, but I don’t really have a picture in my head.”
“You’d be surprised. Peabody, get Yancy on this.”
“Got it. Can I just say, this is seriously mag coffee. Those touches of caramel and vanilla.”
He smiled, wide and pleased. “Glad you like it. I did the barista thing as an undergrad. Tips here are way better.”
“Brad—and it is good coffee—if you see her in here, contact me. If she’s in here and any of the women I named are in here, see if you can move them to a private space.”
“A lot of times they’re here at the same time. Especially if we’ve got a headliner playing, you’ll see most if not all of the regular rock chicks come in to hang.”
“Move them if you can. If the redhead orders a pomtini, stall.”
Deep, dark eyes showed worry now, and a few nerves. “You think she’s going to hurt one of them? Which one?”
“It’d be easier if I knew. She’s dangerous. Don’t confront her, tag me and pull in whatever security you’ve got. Are they any good?”
“I guess. They handle shit when shit comes down.”
“Let them handle her. I’m going to talk to your manager about passing the word on her, but you pass it to the other bartenders and waitstaff.”
“Yancy can be here in about an hour,” Peabody announced.
“We’re going to be open by then. I’m supposed to—”
“This is important,” Eve told him. “She’s already killed two people.”
“Holy fuck.” He rubbed a hand over his hair. “Ho
ly fuck. I’ll make it work.”
“I’m going to clear it with your manager. What do you do if she comes in?”
“Tag you, get security, try to move any of the rock chicks in here to … the kitchen’s back there. The kitchen would be good, right?”
“It would.”
“And stall if she orders a pomtini—tell the rest of the crew. Don’t fucking panic.”
“You’ve got it.”
Eve worked her way back to Central through the bitter insistence of the rain. She updated board, book, notes, pushed through some standard paperwork.
Then sat, coffee in hand, boots on desk.