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As she turned to the elevators, a woman got off, looking lost, looking exhausted.
From the shoes Eve pegged her as housekeeper or waitstaff, maybe a hospital employee—something that kept her on her feet most of the day.
“Excuse me, miss? I’m looking for . . .” Her chin trembled; her eyes shone with tears. “The Homicide Division. Detective Jenkinson or Reen-eek.”
“Reineke,” Eve corrected. “Straight down, on the left.”
“Thank you.” She walked away, every step showing the weight she carried on her shoulders.
Eve turned away, muscled onto a brutally crowded elevator.
“How does that happen?” Peabody wondered. “A woman like that? You can tell she works hard. She’s well-spoken, polite. You figure she’s doing the best she can, trying to raise two boys when she’s already raised her own. And they do something so vicious, they kill another mother’s son for toys, and they’ll spend their lives, or a good part of it, in
cages for it.”
“How does it happen?” Eve repeated. “Some people just like to kill. Sometimes it’s not any more complicated than that.”
“It should be,” Peabody replied.
Should be meant squat, Eve thought, and made herself stay on the elevator all the way down to the garage. And all the way down she had to push away the shattered look in the eyes of the grandmother of killers.
• • •
The criminology instructor turned out to be a bust, and the twenty-minute interview with him—and the grad student he’d been banging when they arrived—left Eve annoyed and with a real desire for an ass to kick.
“So, that just happened,” Peabody observed when they stepped out from the shabby little townhouse where one Milton Whepp lived and banged grad students and worked on what he touted would be the book of the century. “He actually suggested we join him and that skinny brunette because sex enhanced critical thinking.”
“He did. And the skinny brunette alibied him for last night. But check on the philosophy major who, allegedly, made up the threesome.”
“He’s not even good-looking.”
“Maybe he bangs like a fully charged turbo hammer.” Her head currently was. “Either way, up close and personal he doesn’t fit. He’s a horndog, not a killer. He’s just looking for sex wherever he can get it, and considers himself an intellectual and an expert on crime.”
“Well, he is loosely basing the central character of his book of the century on you.”
It would’ve creeped her out if Eve believed the horndog would stop banging grad students long enough to actually write an entire book.
“Which explains some of the obsession in the correspondence.”
“That,” Peabody put in, “and he figures once the two of you bang it out, he’ll be your new expert consultant, civilian, you’ll ditch Roarke and bring along a nice fat settlement so the two of you can live in the lap while you solve crime. That was my take.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Was there anything more exhausting than having complete strangers build fantasies and scenarios around you?
“Take it home, Peabody. Check on the last of the threesome—and the people he claimed to be with at Bastwick’s time of death.”
“The people he joined on what he called an emotional, intellectual, and physical exploration? I call that an orgy.”
“Who wouldn’t? I’m going to work from home. Here.” Eve dug in her pocket, pushed credits on Peabody. “Take a cab.”
“What? The subway’s only a couple blocks.”
“Take a cab. It’s cold. And I’m not spending my fat settlement on that horndog, so you benefit.”
“Lucky me. Thanks.”
Eve started for the car. “If you have any orgies with McNab, do it early and get some sleep. We’re going to have another tomorrow. There’ll be another.”
