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“That’s what I said. Didn’t you see that idiot woman? Creeping along at twelve miles an hour?”
“Um. Well, it sort of pays to be cautious when —”
“While she was slapping on lip dye with her vanity mirror down, so she’s looking at herself instead of the damn road – and babbling on her ’link while she’s at it. Could’ve put it on auto if she needed to admire herself instead of fucking drive, but no, she’s creeping and weaving and doing her christing makeup.”
“Oh. Well. Do you really want to fine her? I always felt sort of crappy issuing autos when I worked Traffic.”
“Get over it. Slap her with driving while stupid.”
With McNab giving her butt a pat for support, Peabody issued an auto-citation while they took the elevator up.
“They don’t stalk the vics,” Eve said, shifting gears. “There’s not enough time for that. It’s luck of the draw. It doesn’t matter who – rich, poor, young, old, male, female. If the pattern holds we’ve got
two days to find them before they finish Jayla Campbell.”
“The weather’s helping them now,” McNab commented. “Cold, wind, snow, sleet. People spring for a cab or take public. Or stick close to home. They’ve just got to find a solo walker in a relatively quiet spot.”
“Right now they’re two for two in New York.”
As the elevator began to stop and start floor-by-floor with cops and civilians piling in, Eve pushed out.
“Odds are they boosted this dark all-terrain or van they’re using. Peabody, run a search for stolen vehicles fitting that, try New Jersey and Pennsylvania. And, yeah, it’s a general type in a big area,” she said before Peabody could point it out. “But we start, and maybe whittle it down before they decide to switch again. They may have taken it from another victim.”
She wove her way through people on the glides, moving up and up.
“McNab, get me that triangulation. They’re downtown somewhere. They have to have a place to live, to take the vics. Low security – can’t have cams picking them up carting in a vic. Nothing popped yet on the canvass of abandoned, so either we haven’t hit there yet, or they’ve found somewhere private.”
When she turned into Homicide, Baxter signaled from his desk. “Alerts on Campbell are out, Loo. The media’s already doing bulletins.”
“Okay.” She saw his gaze flick up to her snowflake hat. Eve yanked it off, stuffed it in her pocket. “What’s the deal with this Arkansas badge?”
“Well, he’s mannerly, but he was pretty firm he needed to talk to you.”
She pulled off her gloves, scarf. “Still in the lounge?”
“Last I checked.”
With a nod, she shoved the gloves in one pocket, the scarf in another, and headed out still wearing her coat.
She wanted coffee like she wanted to live. She wanted to sit down in the quiet, write everything up. Update, analyze, think.
In her head a clock was ticking, and there were less than forty-eight hours left.
She paused at the door to the lounge with its lines of vending, its tiny tables and hard chairs. She spotted him quickly.
A half mile of leg stretched out under the table. Long, narrow hands worked a PPC while a vending cup of something sat neglected in front of him.
A lot of wavy hair the color of a wheat field, a long narrow face to match the hands. He either hadn’t shaved recently or wore the scruff on purpose.
He wore jeans, boots that had seen a lot of miles, a flannel shirt that made her think of lumberjacks even though she wasn’t entirely sure what a lumberjack was.
A black parka hung over his chair back, and a duffel bag was under the table.
He looked up when she started toward the table. Blue eyes, she noted. Not Roarke-blue, but few were. His hinted at gray, showed smudges of fatigue under them, and a cop alertness in them.
“Deputy Banner.”
“Yes, ma’am. Will Banner.” He shifted his long legs, rose. Unfolded was more like it, she thought. He was an easy six-five with a build like a beanpole.
