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“I interviewed him; you didn’t. He’s got a thing for her. She’s totally oblivious to it, but he’s got one. Look at the replay of the murder again. He’s in the wings when Jenkins starts choking, seizing. But he stays where he is. He doesn’t run out until after Jolene’s gone down. And he goes to her, not the dead guy. He barely gives Jenkins a glance.”
“Yeah, I guess I noticed that, too,” Peabody said as she played it back in her head. “But there was so much going on, I didn’t separate it out. Do you think he did it because he wants Jolene?”
“He won’t think so, won’t let himself think so. But it’s under there. I think he killed him, or so he tells himself, because Jenkins’s behavior, and refusal to stop, could have brought down the church, shattered the family. And I think he did it because he tells himself Jenkins wasn’t worthy of his position—or that family.”
“He made a lot of mistakes. Even without the guilt-stink, it would’ve come back to him.”
“Impulse.” Eve powered through a yellow light. “He hears about the dead priest, and he coattailed. He didn’t think it through, not like whoever killed Lino. He just jumped.”
“Why didn’t you push harder? We could get him in to interview, pull it out of him—lawyered or not.”
“Guilt’s going to do that for us.” Eve tipped her wrist to check the time. “He’s not going to be able to take it much longer. He’ll need to confess. If not, if I’m wrong, we’ll be hauling his ass in real soon. Meanwhile, we see if we can track down where he got the cyanide. Impulse, again. It had to be within the last couple of days. And we see how McNab’s doing with the many Linos.”
“I had an idea about the Lino angle,” Peabody told her. “The medal. It was from his mother. Just his mother. It could be his mom just wanted to give him something special, just from her. But maybe she was a single parent at that point. We could cross-reference your list with single parents, or couples who divorced—though I think divorce is still a big deal for Catholics—or with women whose husbands died or took off.”
“That’s good, Peabody. That’s very good. Let’s dig into that. Or, better yet, you dig into it. I have to take a meet with Mira.”
“I’ll get started on it. I’m actually supposed to meet Nadine and Louise about thirteen hundred, if we’re not running hot. We’re going to finalize plans for the bridal shower-slash-bachelorette party.”
“Bachelorette is a stupid, demeaning word.”
“Yeah, but it’s kinda cute, too.” Even the idea of a party had Peabody scooting happily in her seat. “Anyway, we decided, since the wedding’s coming up, we’d do the combo. I figured you’d like that, since it means only one event.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And you just mostly have to show up.”
“No games.” Eve took a hand off the wheel to point. “That’s my line in the sand. That and strippers. No games and no strippers.”
“Done. See? It’s easy.”
Maybe too easy, Eve mused, but she tucked it away as she pulled into Central’s garage. “Check with McNab,” Eve told her, “and get started on that cross-referencing. I’m going to walk over to meet Mira. I should be back within the hour.”
“I’ll leave whatever I’ve got for you, in case we miss each other. Oh, and if Billy comes in stinking to confess, I’ll tag you.”
“Do that.” But Eve figured it would take a little longer before he couldn’t stand his own stench.
She liked the walk, just striding across New York with its noise, its crowds, its attitude coming at her from all directions. She passed through the greasy smoke of a glide-cart, drew in the smell of grilling soy dogs, fries, veggie hash—and heard the operator snarl at a whiny customer.
“Whaddaya want for five bucks? Freaking filet mignon?”
She passed a couple of cops in soft clothes quick-marching a guy greasier than the dog smoke across the sidewalk and into Central while he proclaimed his innocence in all matters.
“I didn’t do nothing. I don’t know how that shit got in my pocket. I was just talking to the guy. Sweartagod.”
She watched a bike messenger—a Day-Glo blur on a shiny jet-bike—gleefully challenge a Rapid Cab for position, and whiz away with lunatic speed, leaving the horn blasts and curses in his dust. An enormous black guy walked a tiny white dog, and stopped to responsibly scoop miniature dog poop.
She crossed the street with a throng of others at the light. Passed a flower vendor who sent perfume madly into the air, a deli that wafted out pickles and onions when a customer walked out. A couple of women walked by speaking what might have been Cantonese.
She crossed again, making the turn north.
And two women flew out of a shop door, screaming, punching, to drop nearly at her feet in a hair-pulling, scratching, teeth-snapping tangle.
“Why?” Eve wondered. “I was having such a nice time.”
Pedestrians scattered like pool balls at the break. Others edged closer, calling out encouragement and/or grabbing ’links or cameras to record the bout. Eve barely resisted the urge to just keep going, and instead waded in. She grabbed a hank of hair, pulled hard. When the owner squealed and reared up, Eve nabbed her opponent in a headlock.
“Cut it out!”
