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SHE KNEW BETTER THAN TO PUSH YANCY when it came to renderings. But she thought she could try a single, firm nudge. When she didn’t find him at his workstation, she did a quick search of the trio of private conference rooms.
She interrupted two other police artists, but didn’t find Yancy.
She tracked him down in the break room.
He stood, leaning against the short counter, munching on dried fruit from a bag, eyes closed, headset on.
His mop of hair curled appealingly around his striking face. He wore his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of well-worn jeans.
It occurred to her he probably looked more like a college kid than a police detective.
Could pass for twenty-two or -three, she thought. Younger if he worked at it.
Then his eyes opened, and she added on another five years. The eyes knew too much for barely two decades.
“How old are you?”
His brows lifted. “Twenty-eight. Why?”
“Just figuring something.”
He munched another handful of fruit. “You’re thinking of the suspect. He skews young, but may be older.”
“Something like that.” She glanced at the bag he offered. “No, thanks. Why do you eat that?”
“I wish I knew. I finished with Marta.”
“Delroy, nanny from the park. What do you have?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t get a good look. She was game, and she worked at it, but it comes down to a quick glimpse, and in the rain. She’s pretty solid on height and build, coloring, hair length. I walked her through it, and it’s coming out that she saw his profile. I got what feels like real on what he was wearing, and a pretty good idea of the style airboard. But his face is mostly impression. Young, good-looking.”
“Why don’t you show me?”
He puffed out a breath. “You’re not going to be happy.”
But he led her out, wound around to his workstation. Standing, he called up the sketch on the computer, then laid out the drawing he’d done.
“Shit. It could be anybody. It could be female.”
Yancy lifted a finger as a point. “Yeah, and the second part might be an advantage. It was a male, she’s sure of that, but she used terms like cute, and once, pretty. It may be he’s got androgenous features. Young girls feel safe, and are often attracted to boys with androgenous features. They’re not as threatening.”
“So, we may or may not have a pretty boy who may or may not be nineteen.”
“I’ve got your second wit coming in. She’s due in about a half hour. I did a quick ’link warm-up with her. She’s more decisive than Marta, brisker, comes off more confident. I may do better with her. And what I get from her I can use with what I’ve got here. I’ll show the finished to both wits, and see if it rings.”
“Tell me about the airboard.”
“Black, silver racing stripes. Metallic silver, she thinks, because it glinted, and it was raining so no sun. That’s pretty simple for an airboard design. So I did a search. Two manufacturers make one that basic design. Go-Scoot and Anders Street Sport.”
“Anders.”
“Yeah, how about that? Wasn’t that long ago you were investigating his murder.”
“Small world, even for the dead, I guess. But it’s interesting as the second wit ID’d his shoes as an Anders brand. Could be brand loyalty. Get me what you can get me as soon as you get it.”
“You got it,” he said and grinned.
Back in her office she did a run on Nattie Simpson, the husband, the kid. As MacMasters had told her, Nattie was doing her time at Rikers. The husband—now ex—had relocated to East Washington, with the kid. He was thirty-five, and couldn’t pass for a teenager. The kid was ten, and couldn’t pass either.
