“Crafts?”
“You know what crafts are, Nadine.”
Interest, keen, replaced the sorrow. “As a matter of fact, she did. She did a lot of handwork, always had a bag of supplies with her, and some project going. She used to work on it during breaks or wait time. Is that the connection?”
“It’s looking that way. You know any big, bodybuilder-type guys? Anybody like that at 75?”
“We’re desk jockeys and faces.” She shook her head. “We on-air types work out, body-sculpt, whatever it takes to keep trim, but the public doesn’t want their news and entertainment from big bruisers. We got some burly techs, and some overweight drones, but none of them would qualify as bodybuilders. Is that your line on him?”
“Another working theory.”
“I need a full interview when this is wrapped, Dallas. If Breen was part of this thing, I need to do a full interview with you and Peabody for the station. She was one of ours.”
“You’d want one anyway.”
“I would.” Nadine smiled a little. “But if this hits home, I need it. Fuck objectivity. It’s personal.”
“I hear that.”
To save time, Eve requested Breen Merriweather’s childcare provider meet them at Breen’s apartment. Eve used her master to gain access, and stepped into a small, cheerful set of rooms with air stale from disuse.
“Her family’s paying the rent.” Annalou Harbor, the sixtyish provider, looked around the apartment with sad eyes. “I still come in once a week, water her plants. Aired it out a couple times, but . . . I live upstairs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Her husband took Jesse, her little boy. I miss that baby. Such a sweetie.” She gestured to a framed photo that showed a grinning little boy in a sideways ball cap. “Breen would never have left him. Not while there was breath in her body. So I know there isn’t. I know she’s dead. That’s why you’re here. You’re Homicide. I recognize you. I’ve seen you on-screen.”
“We don’t know, Mrs. Harbor. But we’re pursuing—”
“Don’t pad it for me, Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was firm, and just a little prim. “I’m not a gossip, and I’m not looking for some sort of twisted excitement. I loved that girl like she was my own, and I can help you more if you don’t try to dance around it.”
“We believe it’s highly possible that she’s dead, Mrs. Harbor, and that her death may be connected with another case we’re investigating.”
“The murder in Central Park, the rape-murder. I keep up.” She pressed her lips together until they turned white, but she didn’t crumble. “What can I do to help you?”
“Where does Ms. Merriweather keep her craft supplies?”
“In here.” She led the way into a tiny room equipped with two counters, several hand-painted cabinets, and the machines Eve was now accustomed to seeing in such places.
“See, she set it up as an activity room, for her and Jesse. His toys and games over there, her supplies here. That way they could be together when they had leisure time. Breen liked making things. She knit me a beautiful throw last Christmas.”
Eve opened cupboards while Peabody tackled communications and data. There were several samples of the corded ribbon.
“I got hits on Total Crafts, and a couple of the others on the list,” Peabody announced.
“Mrs. Harbor, we’re going to need to take her ’links and computer, and some other items into evidence. Can you give me the contact number for her next of kin?”
“Take what you need. Her mother told me to cooperate with the police in any and every way. I’ll get in touch with her.”
“My partner will give you a receipt.”
“All right. It’ll be easier for them, for all of us, to know.” She looked around the room, and though her lips trembled once, she firmed them. “However bad it is, it’ll be easier to know for certain.”
“Yes, ma?
?am, it will. I realize the other detectives interviewed you, but I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“That’s fine. Can we sit down? I’d like to sit down.”