“We can walk it.”
When they reached street level, the storm that had blown in had blown out again.
Once she’d hiked back to the car, Eve opened the trunk. “Toss it in.”
She shut the trunk on a pair of wet umbrellas.
“The Martin Martin’s in Tribeca, and Kyle Drew’s the East Village.”
“Still walking this one, then that only leaves two to find parking.”
“Café Urbane has salads and sandwiches, as well as pockets, muffins, and cookies.”
“Fine.”
“It also closes at ten on Sunday night. So, he wouldn’t have been working during the timeline.”
Eve spotted the trench coat coming in her direction, and the way he eyed the bag of a woman chatting on her ’link as she clipped along.
Then his gaze shifted to Eve. She met it, angled her head. Barely lifted her eyebrows.
The way he turned around, strolled in the opposite direction reminded her of Galahad when caught bellying toward bacon.
She almost thought it a shame. She could’ve used a quick run.
But when she crossed the street with the river of others, trench coat kept going.
“Okay, Simon Standish, age twenty-eight, white guy, father’s from London. Single, no cohabs. Does the barista thing for his day job, and lasts from like six months to a year. Looks like he’s had one show at a coffee shop–slash–art gallery, and he fills in as an art teacher—substitute art teacher, high school level.”
Peabody put away her PPC. “He’s the one who punched another artist at the other artist’s show.”
“I remember.”
She gave a wide berth to two women who burst out of a shoe store loaded with bags and laughing like hyenas. What was it about footwear that drove some women mad?
Through the doors of Café Urbane the lights glowed bright and the air was filled with the smell of reasonably decent coffee and chatter.
“Get your salad.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Ah…” Eve scanned the menu board and tried to shift her brain to food. “Just a grilled cheese.”
She pulled cash out of her pocket and realized, damn it, she’d need to stop at a machine and get more.
“What kind of bread, what kind of cheese?”
“Whatever. Pick something. Go with Pepsi. I’m going to give Standish a tap.”
She handed Peabody the cash, then moved to the coffee station.
Since of the two baristas, only one was male, she got in his line.
Snippets of conversation swirled around her.
How Bart really needed to turn a report in. How someone else had a date to go salsa dancing. Someone else complained her kid dyed his hair purple, another expressed frustration with her mother.
She took the time to check Standish’s ID to make sure she had the right individual.
