Still, she’d rather not finish off the four or five hours with a nightmare.
He’d be careful, she assured herself. It wasn’t as if her dreams were prophetic. Her subconscious ruled there, and sometimes it pushed the worst of her thoughts and fears to the surface.
Love pushed the button, she thought. In her dreams, in reality. Who else who loved so deeply had these murderers-by-proxy targeted?
Most likely a male, a father of at least one young child. No, she considered, almost certainly only one young child. More than one complicated it, made it more difficult to restrain and control.
They’d stick with an only child unless they didn’t have a choice.
Most likely male, married, a father—one kid . . . twelve or under, she thought. Older, again more difficult to control, not as helpless. And most likely a father between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. It could tip slightly over either end, but that was the sweet spot in her mind.
Single-family home. Multifamily brought in complications again. Proximity to neighbors, more chance of being seen or heard.
Successful man with at least some power and status in his business or employment. Someone who wouldn’t be questioned when walking into the key area.
And she’d bet, just bet, one or both of the killers had crossed paths with both targets. Not friends, she thought as she swung into the garage at Central. Not directly connected. But they’d crossed paths. Golf, tennis, the gym, a favorite restaurant, the theater, the vids, buying a damn tie or a pair of shoes.
Easy to cross paths with Denby, she thought as she walked to the elevator. You just had to stroll into the Salon. An art lover, or just a browser. A salesman, another artist.
Chewing on it, she got in the elevator, headed up.
She ignored the cops nearing the end of their shift who trudged on, and the LC with the black eye and split lip who stood stoically on legs scraped raw at the knees.
Because the LC smelled of stale sex and resignation, Eve go
t off and took the glides the rest of the way to Homicide.
In her office, she updated her board and book to reflect the night’s work. She reupped her hold on the conference room, sent memos to her team to report there.
She shot off a text to Feeney asking him to attend the briefing if it worked with his schedule.
After running a probability—ninety-six-point-eight—she sent an inquiry to Mira asking for confirmation or rebuttal on her belief both killers would remain in New York, in close proximity, and keep their targets in the city.
Couldn’t be a hundred percent, she mused, but if Mira agreed, it added weight.
As the sun came up, filtered light through her skinny window, she reviewed her squad’s caseload—what remained open, what had been closed. What looked to be going cold or heating up.
Made notes.
Finally she gathered what she needed—including a pot of real coffee—and walked to the conference room.
In the quiet, she set up the board lining up the data on interviewees by priority. She earmarked Hugo Markin for a second pass. Not just because he was a prize dick, she told herself. But because there was something there. She felt it in her gut.
Though she’d have preferred to toss the job to Peabody, she struggled her way through programming the data she wanted to put on-screen.
Just as she finished, Feeney walked in.
“You couldn’t have gotten here fifteen minutes ago?”
“Why?”
“Nothing.” On a huff of breath, she shoved her hands through her hair, relieved to have the programming off her task list. “You’re here early.”
“A second ago I was fifteen late. Is that real coffee?”
“Yeah.”
He helped himself. “I got a shit-ton of paperwork piling up. Figured I’d come in early and deal with it. Now I’ve got an excuse not to, and real coffee. It’s a good day.”