“If there are more than ten, I’ll take half, otherwise you push this angle.”
“You don’t think it’s going anywhere.”
“It could. Definitely could,” Eve countered as she suffered through the confines of a crowded elevator. “We have two already crossed. On one hand, the odds would say it’s a long shot for another. But offices have gossip trains, and somebody else might have gotten on, tried the group after the two we know of left.”
“Because they’d have mentioned another if they knew another.”
“Right. So it’s worth looking.”
“What’s your angle?”
“I want that substance, then I need to think. Some of the women in that group filed police reports. Not all, not even close, but some did. So I’m going to see what I can dig into there. First names, reported crime or offense, what other information comes out of Zula’s notes. She lists their first attendance, so that gives a time frame. And I’ll push Zula for more if I need to.”
“Do you want me on that?”
“I’ve got Mira on it, actually. You take your angle. Work it here, or take it home.”
“You’re still looking at Darla Pettigrew,” Peabody commented as they—finally—pushed out into the garage.
“Just something there—and Zula’s notes didn’t make me think otherwise.” In the car, Eve paused a moment. “First vic—a rapist, a vicious, ugly son of a bitch who drugged, raped, and threatened women. Second vic—cheated on his wife, then ends up with the woman he cheated on her with. He likes to bang LCs. He manipulated—and we can even say cheated—the ex out of a lot of money. But he doesn’t reach the level of vicious and ugly that McEnroy does. So why is he next on her list? Why is his torture more violent?”
“Okay. You’re going with it was personal because it was Darla.” Peabody considered as Eve drove out of the garage. “But it could just be timing. He was next because she could get to him next. And the level of violence is characteristic escalation. Especially since there was no lull between.”
“Also true,” Eve admitted. “All of it.”
“And it could be the level of the crime or sin or offense—however she looks at it—isn’t the point. It’s all the same to her.”
Eve frowned over that. “That’s good.” Though she hated to admit it. “That could be true.” Still, she picked at it. “And it may be the timing goes to, yeah, who she can get to—and who she felt closest to in the group. Who she felt deserved or needed her brand of justice most. That’s something to add in there.”
“Maybe Natalia Zula would have some insight. Who she feels clicked, or made friends—maybe on the outside. Lester said some of them met for coffee or whatever.”
“Yeah. We’ll look there, or have Mira work with Zula there. Two good angles in a row, Peabody.”
“Woot.” Then she sighed. “I wish I didn’t get this feeling like something was off with Darla Pettigrew, too. I don’t know if I got it on my own or if I picked it up from you.”
“Right now, let’s play the angles.”
When they walked into the lab, the white-coated lab nerds worked busily at their counters, at their stations, inside their glass-walled rooms. Eve headed straight for chief lab tech Dick Berenski—not so affectionately known as Dickhead.
He hunched at a computer, his thin black hair slicked back over his egg-shaped head. His spidery fingers crawled over keyboards, slid over touch screens as he rolled on his stool from tool to tool at his workstation.
He spotted Eve, gave her the gimlet eye. “We’re working on it. Your DB isn’t the only DB in the city. Plenty of live ones, too, need analysis.”
“How freaking hard is it to
ID a substance sent to you hours ago—and flagged as priority?”
“Every other fricking substance comes in here’s flagged.”
He had a point, she knew, but she also knew how he operated. He was chief because he was damn good—and he was Dickhead because he liked squeezing out a little extra.
“Box seat, Mets game—if I get the results in the next sixty seconds.”
“Who wants to go to a game solo?”
“Two seats. Clock’s ticking.”
He smiled at her, and what she read in the smile just pissed her off. “You already have the results, you little weasel.”