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“Not that well.” He ran a hand absently over Eve’s shoulder as he moved closer to the board. “Surface, socially, charitable foundation events sort of knowing. He’s intense without being preachy, and she’s dedicated without being tiresome. And they both put their time and effort into their particular cause.”
“Eton Billingsly.”
“Git,” Roarke said, using his childhood slang in insult.
“Maybe you can elaborate on that later, but right now I have to—” She broke off, answered her ’link.
“Dallas.”
“I’ve got the sketch, Lieutenant,” Yancy told her. “I think you’re going to want to see it.”
“On my way.”
She clicked off, rose.
“Why not have it sent to your comp?”
“Because he’s going to want to explain it to me.” She thought of the description. “You can tag along.”
“Why not, since it’s unlikely I can talk you into a late lunch or early dinner.” He flipped open the bakery box, helped himself to a cookie. “This will have to do. I haven’t had time to monitor the police reports,” he added as they walked. “Tell me about the case.”
She did as they used the glides to get to Yancy’s level.
“A strong Whitwood-Rosenthall connection,” he commented. “As I said, I don’t know them well, but I can’t see them involved in that. Unfortunately, I can’t see Billingsly involved either. Certainly he wouldn’t stoop to getting his hands dirty.”
“People who work with addicts, day in, day out, sometimes end up using themselves. Maybe one, or more than one of them, gets in too deep. Newly recoverings can be like converts. Fervent. One of them finds out, threatens to spill it. Reputation’s ruined, the Center blackened, blah, blah.
“Whoever did it had some medical training,” she added. “Morris confirms the amputations weren’t the work of an amateur.”
“Any number of people at the Center and Get Straight would have medical training.”
“Yeah, and I’m going to look at all of them.”
She moved through Yancy’s division, straight to the glass cube where she saw him and a woman in her early thirties with a baby on her lap.
Yancy gave Eve a nod.
“Cynthia, this is Lieutenant Dallas. LT, Cynthia Kopel—and Lilian.”
“Thanks for coming in Ms. Kopel.”
“I’m happy to. I only wish I’d contacted the police last night, when I saw him. But I just thought it was some crazy. I didn’t know about those people until Officer Slovic knocked on the door today.”
As she spoke, the baby sucked heroically on one of the plugs parents used to keep babies from screaming—as far as Eve knew.
“We appreciate your cooperation and information. Can I see the sketch?”
Yancy exchanged a look with the witness, and Cynthia sighed. “It’s what I saw. I know how it looks, but it’s what I saw.”
Eve held out a hand for the printout. And when Yancy gave it to her, looked at the face of a monster.
FIVE
The crooked jaw accented a twisted mouth with teeth long, sharp, and prominent. A thin nose hooked over it. The eyes bulged and gleamed red against skin of pale, sickly green. Hair fell in oily twists over a wide forehead, over ears with a defined point, nearly to the shoulders of a swirled black cape.
“I know how it looks,” Cynthia repeated, bouncing the baby on her knee either out of nerves or habit. “I know I sound like a nutcase, but I’m not. I got a good look because he was dancing around in the streetlight, like it was a spotlight on a stage. Just weird. Well, I thought—after it scared the hell out of me for a second—just some weird guy. But then when the police came and said those three people had been murdered right across the street . . .”
“Maybe he dressed up for it,” Eve considered. “Theatrics.”
