She shook off annoyance and dug in.
Some businesses had a fleet, some a handful. She couldn’t discount either. The individuals ranged from two to a dozen or more, but most hit the two to three range.
She got up, paced.
“He doesn’t work, not a job. No workweek for him. He’s an artist, and I swear he’s living high on someone else’s money. Family money hits for me, too. Mama’s money—and he’s the spoiled son. So why would he want a van or a cargo AT? He’s young, single—has to be single. He’s fucking important in his own mind.”
She actively yearned for fifteen minutes to put her feet up, close her eyes, and think. But time, and the empty frame of her dream, pushed her to keep pacing.
“Computer, filter results for cargo all-terrains, vans, minivans purchased within the last two years.”
Acknowledged. Working…
“It’s probably less,” she muttered to herself. “But we can’t go too narrow. He’s thought about this for a while, planned it out, detail by detail. Had to do at least a little research on the wardrobes, the props. Had to.”
She sat again, considered giving her unit a little punch. “Come on, come on, give me something.”
Search complete.
Just as she leaned forward, she heard footsteps. And recognizing the stride, got to her feet.
“Commander,” she said when Whitney filled her doorway.
“Lieutenant. I didn’t want you to take the time to come to me.”
He stepped in, a big man, broad in the shoulders, dark skin, dark eyes, close-cropped dark hair sprinkled with gray. Like his suit, command fit him well.
“I haven’t requested an oral report.” He glanced toward her board. “But now there are three, and three’s the magic number.”
“Yes, sir. We could request federal assistance. I’ve discounted that,for now, as in a matter of hours, there could be a fourth. We’re pursuing multiple viable angles. I don’t want to take time away from those pursuits to spend some of these vital hours briefing the FBI.”
“You’re convinced he’ll hit again tonight?”
“We can’t know how many he’s planned for. We can’t risk he’d only planned for three.”
“Agreed. And if those angles don’t pay off in time, and he kills another?” Still watching her, he gestured toward her AutoChef.
“Sir.”
While she programmed coffee for him, he shifted to scan her screen. And saw the pink box.
“Is that a brownie?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like it?”
“More than I can say, but she’d know. She always does. Anna has a way.”
He shook his head over his wife’sways, and settled for the coffee.
“No one wants another life taken,” he continued. “God knows we don’t want a serial loose in New York. The media’s heating up. They’re calling him The Artist.”
Well, of course they were, Eve thought.
“He’ll love that. He’ll celebrate that.”
She’d have paced if Whitney hadn’t taken up half her pacing space.
“It’s acknowledgment, adulation. But I believe the media can help. The more warned and informed, the less likely the next target is to go with him. I’ve covered all three victims’ financials. And all three earned, as a rule, three to five hundred a night. All three could and did hit on bigger nights, but that’s the general range. To get them to leave with him, it had to be more than their nightly take. So all three went. But they weren’t warned and informed.”
