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She glanced back. “Sure.”
She gestured to Peabody as she headed down the corridor. “Tell me what I want to know.”
“The lab, after considerable brownnosing by yours truly, was able to discern that the material used in the note and envelope is of a particular grade of bond. It’s not even recycled, which not only shocks my Free-Ager heart, but means it had to be sold and manufactured outside of the United States and its territories. We have laws here.”
Eve lifted her eyebrows as she walked back out into the heat. “I thought Free-Agers didn’t believe in man-made laws of government interference in society.”
“We do when it suits our purposes.” Peabody slid into the car. “It’s English. The paper was manufactured in Britain, and is available in only a handful of outlets around Europe.”
“Not available in New York.”
“No, sir. In fact, it’s difficult to buy it through the Internet or mail order as we have unrecycled paper products on our banned list in this country.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Eve’s brain clicked several steps ahead, but as Peabody was studying for her detective’s exam, she thought it was a good pop-quiz question. “So how did it get from Europe to an alley in Chinatown?”
“Well, people smuggle all sorts of banned products into the States. Or use the black market. Or if you’re traveling on another passport, touring or visiting the U.S., you’re allowed a certain number of personal possessions that aren’t strictly kosher. You could even be a diplomat or something. But whatever, you’d have to pay the price, and it’s high. That particular paper goes for twenty Euro dollars a pop. One sheet. The envelope’s twelve.”
“Lab boys tell you that?”
“No, sir. Since I was sitting out there, I checked it out myself.”
“Good work. You got the outlets?”
“All the knowns. Though the paper’s manufactured exclusively in Britain, there are sixteen known retailers and two known wholesalers who carry this particular style and weight. Two are in London.”
“Is that so?”
“I thought, since he’s copying Jack the Ripper, the London angle was the best.”
“Start there. We’ll pursue all the outlets, but London will be priority. See if you can get a list for purchases of that paper.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant, about this morning. I know I didn’t do the job—”
“Peabody,” Eve interrupted. “Did I say you didn’t do the job?”
“No, but—”
“Has there been any time since you came under my command that I’ve hesitated to tell you when I felt you didn’t do the job to my requirements, or that I was dissatisfied with your performance, or that you’d screwed up in any way, shape, or form?”
“Ah, well, no, sir.” Peabody puffed out her cheeks, expelled air audibly. “Now that you mention it.”
“Then put it away, and get me those client lists.”
At Central, she was waylaid in the detectives’ bull pen with questions, rumors, speculation about the Wooton homicide. If cops were buzzing about a case, she knew the public would be screaming.
She escaped to her office, hit the AutoChef for coffee first, then called for her messages and missed transmissions.
She stopped counting the hits from reporters when she reached twenty. But six of those were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.
With coffee in hand, Eve sat at her desk. Drummed her fingers on it. She’d have to deal with the media sooner or later.
Later would be better. In fact, sometime in the next millennium would suit her just fine. But she’d have to make a statement. Keep it short and official, she decided. Refuse and avoid any sound bytes and one-on-ones.
That’s what he wanted. He wanted her going out, talking about him, getting airtime and print, giving him some glory.
Many of them did, she reflected. Most of them did. But this one wanted to be sensational. He wanted the media shouting:
MODERN DAY RIPPER
