She walked out, left the door open and unlocked.
Outside, she cut Carmichael and Shelby loose.
“We can sit on the place, Lieutenant,” Carmichael told her. “Until you get another team on. It’s a nice night for a stakeout, right, Shelby?”
“You got that. Sir, we’ve got the suspect’s ID on the ’links. We can generate copies if you want us to ask around.”
“Not yet. He’s bound to have one person around here who doesn’t think he’s a pervy jerk or a lazy punk ass. If he’s just chilling somewhere, we’d spook him. Just sit on it for now.”
As she drove back to Central, Eve contacted EDD.
“Feeney, I need a trace and target.”
“I need a brew and the game on-screen. Damn it, it’s the wife’s girls’ night. I’m picking up pizza on the way home, with freaking anchovies.”
“Ditch it on McNab. I’ve still got Peabody, so he’s at Central most likely. Or somebody. Just a trace and target. The name’s Aimes, Barry.” She rattled off the address. “It might be under his mother’s name. She’s—”
“You think I can’t find some asshole’s mother’s name? Stop wasting my time. Anchovies.” His droopy eyes took on a little shine. “I can’t even have them in the house when the wife’s in it. The boy’ll tag you back when he gets what you need.”
“We should do a girls’ night,” Peabody said. “Go to a club and—no, a piano bar! Classy. We could all have fancy drinks, and—”
“Consider this conversation the closest you’ll ever get me to a piano bar with a bunch of women drunk on fancy drinks. Who’s on the mother?”
“Santiago and Carmichael, so—hee hee—Carmichael’s going to relieve Carmichael. Zutter and Norton are checking with their LT on sitting on Banger HQ, don’t see an issue. And Zutter said he’s seen this finger-snapper. Pretty sure. They don’t have a name, don’t think he’s an official Banger unless he’s new, but they’ve seen him around, hanging with some of the lower levels. Big guy, they say about six-two, maybe two-sixty. Black, late teens to twenty. They’ll ask around—they know how.”
Another killer in his teens, Eve thought.
“What he did—whoever he is—is pull on the lower levels, young, stupid. The type who’d do what he said, want to impress, make their mark. So, sloppy.”
She pulled into Central. “Write it up. If McNab hits the target, let me know asap. Otherwise, when you’re done, the two of you swing by Casa del Sol, talk to Pickering’s boss, coworkers, then take this home.”
“You’re going home?”
“I’m going to see a sleazy, disbarred lawyer.”
“I’m up for that.”
“In this case, I’m going to see if I can hook in somebody who knows sleazy lawyers. Write it up—copy Mira. It might add to her profile.”
“All over it. How about I see if Reo can expand the warrant—just in case?”
“Do that. Out.”
Eve plugged in the sleazy lawyer’s address, pulled out. And tried Roarke on the in-dash.
“Lieutenant. I’m just
on my way home, and assume you’re not.”
“I’m not. We ID’d one of the killers.”
“Quick work.”
“Depends,” she decided, and brought him up to date.
“That’s quite a bit packed into your day,” he commented. “And more to come?”
“Yeah. I could’ve done without the stinky memory of trapped boy-farts at the end, but that’s the job.”