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Motive? Jealousy—pretty young girl. Art? Notoriety?
She input data, and ordered a probability scan.
WITH CURRENT DATA, the computer informed her, PROBABILITY BROWNING AND/OR BRIGHTSTAR MURDERED RACHEL HOWARD IS THIRTY-NINE POINT SIX.
“Not so hot,” Eve said aloud. “But we’re just getting started.”
“Lieutenant, I found something I think—” Peabody stopped her forward march into the office and stared at the small chunk of candy still in Eve’s hand. “What’s that? Is that chocolate? Real chocolate?”
“What?” Panicked, Eve shoved the hand behind her back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m working here.”
“I can smell it.” To prove it, Peabody sniffed the air like a wolf. “That’s not chocolate substitute, that’s not soy. That’s real goods.”
“Maybe. And it’s mine.”
“Just let me have a little—” Peabody’s gasp was shocked and heartfelt as Eve stuffed the remaining chunk in her mouth. “Oh, Dallas.” She swallowed hard. “That was very childish.”
“Uh-uh. And delicious,” Eve added with her mouth full. “What’ve you got?”
“I don’t have chocolate breath, that’s for damn sure.” At Eve’s arch look, she pokered up. “While others, who will remain nameless, were stuffing their face with candy, I diligently pursued an angle in the investigation that I believe might be of some interest to the incredibly selfish candy-hog primary.”
“It was dark chocolate.”
“You’re a mean person and will probably go to hell.”
“I can live with that. What angle did you diligently pursue, Officer Peabody?”
“It occurred to me that one or more of the individuals attached to businesses around the college might have a sheet. It seemed prudent to do a run on said individuals to determine any and all criminal records.”
“Not bad.” And exactly what Eve had in mind to do next. “You can sniff the wrapper,” she offered, and held it out.
Peabody grimaced, but she took it.
“And the results?”
“There’s good news and bad news. Bad news is the city’s full of criminals.”
“My God. How could this be?”
“Which leads to the good news that our jobs are secure. Most of what I got was petty stuff, but I did get a couple of nice pops. An assault with illegals possession, and a multiple stalking.”
“What’s your pick?”
“Oh, well.” Suddenly nervous, Peabody puffed out her cheeks. “We’d have to check out both, because . . . the assault doesn’t ring so much since the kill was careful, and he didn’t rough her up any. But the illegals does, because of the tranq used. But the stalking’s more in line with the MO, so I guess I’d start with the stalker.”
“You’re coming right along, Peabody. Got the name and address?”
“Yes, sir. Dirk Hastings, Portography, on West 115th.”
“Dirk’s a really stupid name. Let’s take a ride.”
With Dr. Louise Dimatto as his guide, Roarke took a tour of the newly completed common rooms of the abuse shelter. He approved the soothing colors, the simple furniture, and the privacy shields on the windows.
He’d wanted to establish this . . . sanctuary, he supposed, as a kind of symbol of what both he and Eve had ultimately escaped. And to provide a safe haven for the victims.
He wouldn’t have taken advantage of such a place, he thought. No matter how hungry, bruised, battered, he wouldn’t have bolted to a shelter.
Too proud, he supposed. Or too bloody mean.
