Roarke took a booth, smiled at her over the table. “Satisfied?”
“About what?”
“That you won’t have to arrest anyone in here.”
She smiled back. “You never know.”
She opted for a beer when the waitress came over, and Roarke held up two fingers. “Now, as we’re a bit early, tell me what you learned back there.”
“It was the girl. It was Jen. She was the primary motive. He wanted her to see what he did, how he killed the others, took away what mattered most to her in the cruelest way. She was the easiest kill of the three, but he saved her for last because she was the most important. Then he killed her with his hands, so she could see his face and he could see hers. The others didn’t matter as much, except for their connection to her. He wanted her, and she said no—or worse, didn’t see him as a man.”
“He didn’t rape her. I looked at your board.”
“It had gone past sex or rape as power and control, and he got off on the killing. But taking the body parts—they’d seen or heard something he couldn’t afford them to talk about. Whatever it was, it was recent.”
She waited until the waitress served the beers. “See that group over there.” She lifted her chin toward the booth of four. “Two guys, two girls. But they’re not couples.”
“Aren’t they?” Roarke said, enjoying her.
“Look at the body language. They’re tight, but it’s not sexual. Pals. And they never run out of conversation. Blah, blah, blah. They talk all the time, hang all the time. When they’re not together, they tag each other. He took their ’links because he got that, he knew they connected that way when they weren’t together, and had to conclude they’d talked about whatever they’d seen or heard via ’link.”
“All right.”
“He worked alone. He doesn’t connect, he doesn’t have that closeness with anyone. So that bumps the two female suspects down the list for me. It wasn’t Arianna Whitwood or Marti Frank. They may know something, may not know they know it, but this one had to have all the fun for himself. He’s smug, and a show-off, which is why I like Billingsly just on principle.”
“Arianna said no to him,” Roarke pointed out.
“But he still believes he can get her. She’s also on his level. How humiliating would it be for a man like that to want an addict, a squatter, a nothing, and be rejected by her?”
“That’s a great deal for a second look at the crime scene.”
“But not enough. Here’s Louise and Charles.”
Roarke stood, greeting Louise with a kiss, Charles with a handshake.
As Charles, former licensed companion turned sex therapist, slid in beside his wife, he grinned at Eve. “How’s it going, Lieutenant Sugar?”
“I’ve got three bodies and a short list of suspects. It could be worse. Sorry,” she said to Louise. “Insensitive.”
“No. We both deal with death all too often, but at least I come into it when there’s still a chance.”
“You look tired,” Roarke commented.
“Long day. Good day,” she added, “as I didn’t deal with death.”
Both she and Charles ordered a glass of the house white.
“What can I tell you about your short list of suspects?”
Eve drew out the sketch, laid it on the table. Puzzled, Louise leaned closer. “We’ve still got a month till Halloween.”
“This is who the witness saw outside the crime scene.”
“It’s a hell of a disguise,”
Charles commented. “Why would anyone want to dress up, be that noticeable when doing murder?”
“Maybe it added to the thrill. We’re not having any luck on replicating the disguise, and Mira says it’s unlikely he could tolerate the jaw—broken or dislocated that way.”