“Carter, this is Detective Yancy. He’s a police artist. The best we’ve got. The witness he worked with today didn’t remember the suspect well. But he got this.”
She handed Carter the sketch. “The eyes—hundred percent on the eyes. But there’s a line between the eyebrows, and they’re darker—I really think so—and more arched. And I don’t think— Crap. I think, unless I’m wrong—his face is more oval—that was my first instinct, and I think it’s right. More oval, a little thin, but oval, and soft in the chin.”
After a glance at Eve, Yancy sat. “More like this?” he said, and corrected the sketch.
“Yeah, I think… a little leaner. I know how it sounds, but I’m going to say it anyway. He had a hungry look that had nothing to do with food. And his hair was up, bunned up, not down like that when I saw him. We saw him.”
“Okay. Let’s start fresh.”
“I’m going to leave you to it. Thank you, Carter, this is very helpful. Thank you, Mr. Barry, for assisting.”
“It’s awful,” Travis said. “But it’s frosty, too.”
“This is going to work,” Eve told Peabody as they left. “Between what Yancy got from the other witness, and what they’ll put together here, it’ll work.”
She quickened her stride. “It just has to work in time. Get us a conference room, Peabody. We’re on the verge in a half dozen areas. Something’s going to fall.”
When she walked back into the bullpen, Trueheart raised his hand.
They’d washed most of the green off him, Eve thought, but Detective Troy Trueheart was just wired as polite and earnest.
“Speak.”
“I lucked into a woman working late who answered the ’link. In France. Doing an inventory, and she said she gets through it better when everyone’s gone.”
“And?”
“She remembers him, Lieutenant. She doesn’t have a name, and can’t get to any of that paperwork, but she remembers him. I got a solid description. She didn’t like him, said he was impolite. Spoiled and demanding. He ordered the fabric there for the costume the last victim wore. She remembers because she knows the painting, and commented. He said it was none of her business, and how he’d have her fired if she didn’t keep to her place.”
“He sounds nice,” Eve muttered.
“So she remembers him. She’s contacting her supervisor and asking him to access the records for the order. She said he came in the second week of March. She remembers because her friend got married that weekend. The one after he came in.”
“This is good. If you don’t hear back within the hour, call back. Nag.”
“I got one.” Rather than raising his hand, Baxter grinned. “The French cheese. Kept busting out, then hit on one in Tribeca. The clerk said he’sa regular—the description matches. Pays cash, but he’s almost sure he lives close enough to walk. He’s next to—not all the way, but right next to—sure he’s seen him in the neighborhood.”
“Peabody, have McNab zero in on Tribeca. Jenkinson.”
“Whittling it down.”
“Carmichael, Santiago, push on March. Flights and rooms. Ordered the fabric then. Had to go back to pick it all up. How long, Peabody? Best guess.”
“Jesus,The Blue Boywould take longer. But if he did spread out the orders… Three or four weeks. Maybe up to six.”
“If it’s three, he might just stay over there. He could pay for a rush job.”
“It’s probably more like four, but—” Peabody grabbed her ’link. “It’s the paintbrush guy. Shit.” She plopped at her desk, engaged the translator. “This is Detective Peabody. Thank you so much for getting back to me, Mr. Cabot.”
He had a mane of snow-white hair that flowed to his shoulders and a luxurious mustache to match.
His blue eyes twinkled.
“My wife says this I must do. And since I want to make love to my wife on our anniversary, this I do. He pays in cash, both deposit and the final bill. He gives the deposit on the fourth of March of this year, yes?”
“Sir, do you have a name?”
“I think now this is not his true name. A joke, yes? He signs the receipt for the order—on this I insist—as J. H. Artiste. Artiste, you see. I think this is a joke, yes?”
