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“But—”
“I’m heading to the Bronx—Betz’s bank box—and unless I need to, I’m not coming back into Central. Yancy’s doing the face recognition on the two unknown women in Downing’s painting, and I’ve got one going on the house in the second painting. We get hits, I’ll pull you in, if necessary. Otherwise, I want you digging every byte of data there is to dig. These five women’s paths crossed somewhere—and we only have three of the five for certain. I want to know where and when on all of them.”
She headed for the glide—just couldn’t face the elevator all the way to the garage this time. And pulled out her signaling ’link.
“Dallas. Tell me you got the warrant.”
“I will have by the time you pick me up,” Reo told her.
“What? Why?”
“Because banks are notoriously fussy. You can use a lawyer. Plus when you have me wrangling this many warrants in one day, I deserve a field trip.”
“It’s the freaking Bronx.” Impatient, Eve wound through people content to just stand and ride down.
“Pick me up, courthouse. I’ll be outside Justice Hall.”
Before Eve could argue, Reo cut off.
Still weaving, Eve muttered. She’d intended to use the drive time as thinking time with some nagging mixed in. The lab, EDD, Yancy. Then there was the likelihood of tapping Roarke for some assistance.
By the time she got to the garage, she’d resigned herself to hauling a passenger. And, yeah, sometimes a lawyer came in handy.
At least this one was as good as her word and stood outside with a sassy red beret tipped over her blond hair. Her coat matched it, and hit mid-calf over a pair of black boots with a high-curving heel.
“How do you walk on those?” Eve demanded when APA Cher Reo hopped in.
“With grace and sex appeal.” She settled her trim briefcase and enormous handbag on the floor and, like Peabody, ordered the seat warmer.
“New York winters, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to them.”
“They come every year.”
“You’re irritated because I’m coming along. How many warrants was that today?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Same team, Dallas. I’m assuming Franklin Betz is still missing.”
“Unless they decided to wrap it up and run—and I don’t see it—he’s still alive. But he’ll be in a world of hurt, and he won’t be breathing too much longer.”
“Such cloying optimism.” At its signal, Reo pulled out her ’link, scanned the readout, hit ignore.
“Don’t you need to take that?”
“No. I’m all yours,” Reo said cheerfully. “I’ve got some details. What don’t I know?”
Eve ran it through. It never hurt to run it through step-by-step again, for herself as much as Reo.
“You believe these men, your two victims and the three—no, four with the suicide—others, raped these women.”
“Yes. And since one of them is about two decades older than their usual taste, I think they’ve been raping women for at least that long. Maybe a lot longer.”
“Because of the tats.”
At least she didn’t have to explain every damn point.
“If the woman running the crisis center recognized three of them—by your instincts,” Reo added, “maybe the five of them met there.”
