“I’m fading,” Peabody confessed. “I need something more than half an energy bar. You do, too.”
Eve eyed the offered pocket cynically. “What’s in it?”
“Veggie ham, nondairy American cheese, and shredded spinach. Everything else in Vending looked worse. At least it’s sort of hot.”
“Why is there always spinach?” Eve wondered, tried a bite. “It’s terrible.”
Peabody sampled. “Yeah, but still, sort of hot. I’ve lost six pounds.”
“Depend on Vending, you’ll whither away to nothing.”
“That’ll never happen, but I’ve lost six and kept it off for eighteen days and counting.”
“I thought you weren’t going to obsess about the numbers?”
“I like obsessing about the good numbers, and my currently loose pants. It motivates. If I’m not motivated, I’ll eat a bunch of brownies.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Mmm, brownies. Then I obsess about packing on enough to crush McNab’s skinny ass whenever I’m on top.”
Eve slapped two fingers to the corner of her twitching eye, noted Peabody’s innocent smile. “That was on purpose.”
“Just breaking the tension.” Peabody took another bite of the pocket. “But now I so really want a brownie.”
Shaking her head, Eve decided if she had to eat a revolting fake sandwich, she might as well top it off with the terrible cop coffee in the conference room AutoChef.
She was scowling over the first sip when Baxter and Trueheart came in.
“What is that smell?” Baxter demanded.
“Vending lunch,” Peabody told him.
“There ought to be a law.” He walked to the board, stood, hands dipped into his pockets, studying. “L’Page and Burroughs—possible targets?”
Eve forced down more coffee. “That’s right.”
“We’ve got two of those.”
“Put them up.”
Trueheart stepped up to do so while Baxter took a harder look at the most recent crime scene shots.
“Having a real party now. Escalating from target to target, but killing Strazza’s opened up a whole new world for him. He killed the male first?”
“ME has confirmed, yes.”
“Bigger threat—and having Strazza get loose, to go at him? Spooked and pissed. But if he can work up the balls, he’ll do the female first next round.”
Eve nodded, following Baxter’s reasoning. “Watch me kill your wife. You can’t stop me, can’t protect her. I’m a bigger, better man than you.”
Trueheart cleared his throat—his substitute for raising his hand. “Slitting the male’s throat? It’s quick, eliminates any potential threat. But it’s also messy. I think he liked the mess. It desecrates the bedroom. The victims’ private space.”
“And adds to the staging,” Eve agreed. “We can—”
She broke off as Olsen came in with her partner. Something tugged at her memory when the male detective—narrow shoulders in a tired-looking glen-plaid sport coat, lanky legs like skinny pipe cleaners in brown trousers—walked in.
His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and his eyebrows formed sharp, inverted Vs over hazel eyes. He wore a single gold stud in his left earlobe.
Then it clicked.
“Tredway. It’s been a while.”
“It has. What, six, seven years?”
“About. Detective Tredway and I worked a murder together some time back,” Eve explained.
“Back when Feeney was your LT. Vic was one of my weasels, so Feeney brought me in. We got the bastard.”
“Still in a cage.”
“And now you’re the LT.” He crossed to the board, shook his head. “Better you than me. These potential targets?”
“So far.”
“We have two couples to add to that,” Olsen said.
“Put them up,” Eve told her, “and let’s get down to it.”
She had Peabody run them through the interview with L’Page and Burroughs.
“This guy who put the moves on her at the gala deal. Any chance of a sketch on him?” Tredway asked.
“Next step. She says it was dim light, and almost a year ago, but we have a detective artist who’s got a way of refreshing memories and getting details.”
“Is that his work?” Olsen gestured to the devil sketch on the board.
“Yeah.”
“It’s worth a shot.” Tredway considered, drank cop coffee as if it didn’t burn the stomach lining. “Course some guys—most, really—are likely to put the moves on a frosty-looker. We’re either assholes or optimists, depending how you look at it.”