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“Have it your way.”
“That’s the way I like best.” This time he took her hand, but very briefly. “Go nail her down, Lieutenant.”
“Count on it.”
13
Nice neighborhood, Eve mused. Solid middle-class, with a selection of young families if the kid shit in the yards was a gauge. Little playgrounds with a lot of stuff to swing on, climb on, fall off, and break your arm on. A whole slew of bikes. Bikes not locked away, she noted, which meant nobody was too worried about theft.
A safe neighborhood—according to Ricchio’s data and her own observations—where the people didn’t know they had a predator sipping nightly cocktails right next door.
Mostly older vehicles sat in the drives and at the curbs, but with a sprinkling of shiny new ones so her ride didn’t stand out. In any case, she sat a full block away from the target and well out of sight.
She studied the duplex on her dash screen, listened idly to the chatter in the EDD van and the other vehicles on surveillance.
Nice little yard in the front, shared with the other half of the house. The slim two stories appeared all neat and tidy on the exterior. Sizzling red and purple flowers flourished in emerald-green pots on the stoop of the connecting house. Most of the houses sported gardens or flowerpots. Apparently the UNSUB wasn’t interested in posies as her entrance remained bare.
A pint-sized bike in vivid blue rested on its kickstand in the front yard of the house one unit up from target. Boy’s bike, she figured, given the style, and with those training-wheel deals.
Not a kid McQueen would be interested in, so his partner probably didn’t give him a thought.
Did she get along with her neighbors? Probably. Didn’t know how long she’d have to stay, wouldn’t want trouble. Kept to herself, the neighbors would say when interviewed after the fact.
Nice, quiet, pretty woman—women, she thought. She had to be able to come and go as either, didn’t she? They’d be college pals, living together, or sisters or something. Roommates. Never seen together, but who noticed? One worked days, say, the other nights. Different days off.
Not hard to run a game like that if you stayed smart and careful.
Top-line security, doors and windows. Well, a couple women, living alone. Who’d question that? Privacy screens drawn.
Come on, come out. Take a walk, take a drive. Don’t you miss him? You’re obsessed with him. Addicted. You think about him all the time.
Who are you? How do I know your face—your faces? Did you spend some time in New York before you hooked up with McQueen?
Maybe she’d busted one of her aliases. But then, she’d have run her. Wouldn’t she have felt some buzz there the way she felt it now?
Way back, maybe, Eve considered, gnawing on the sensation. Maybe busted her under her real name. Or interviewed her.
Maybe she’d crossed paths with the woman when she’d been riding the system in foster homes or state institutions and schools. That was more likely, she decided. That would explain the dread. All those years, trapped in the system that, at its base, tried to help. But most of those years had just been another kind of torture.
She hadn’t lived, hadn’t felt real, until she’d gotten out, gone to New York. The Academy.
She shifted, sat straighter when the door on the far side of the next unit opened. A kid ran out. Yeah, a boy, she thought. Maybe too young for school. Didn’t matter, no school today anyhow, she remembered. She watched as he zipped to the bike as if it was his one true love, his face shining with joy.
She eased back again, watching the boy pedal like a demon up and down the sidewalk. She saw him wave and shout, got a look at the guy in the shared yard. Older guy, ball cap, coming around to the front yard with gardening tools. The man set them down, planted his hands on his hips, and grinned at the boy.
Friendly neighbors. Yeah, just another day in the neighborhood. Kid playing, yard work. And here comes woman walking dog. Some weird little dog, all hair, pulling at the leash, jumping a lot, running in circles and yapping.
Why did anyone want something that yapped all the damn time?
Now Yard Work Man and Yapping Dog Lady stop to chat. How’s it going? Hot, isn’t it? Blah blah.
Thank God she didn’t live in a place where she’d have to make conversation with people about the weather, little hairy dogs, and how the garden grew.
She’d want to stun every one of the neighbors inside a week.
Now Yard Work Man has to show Yapping Dog Lady his flowers. Yeah, it’s a flower all right, growing right there on a bush.
And the dog jumps and sniffs and pulls and chews at the stupid leash while the kid keeps riding as if life itself hangs in the balance.
