States, I’d think. I don’t know of him coming, for business at least, to New York before, and I think I would. But he’s here now.”
She took it in. It was rare to see him agitated—more than angry—so she took it in, and took it seriously. “Describe him—as you saw him tonight.”
“About six feet, a strong build, wide in the shoulders, light brown hair worn in what you’d call a topknot. Light complected, clean-shaven. Black pants and shirt, a red jacket. He stepped clear so I’d see him, looked right at me. Smiled.”
He ran his hands down her arms, back again. “He’ll know what you are to me. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll now make it his business to find out.”
“Why does he hate you, particularly?”
“Particularly? He claimed to be Patrick Roarke’s bastard, and as senior to me, his oldest son.”
“Was he?”
“Unlikely, but not impossible, I suppose. Unlikely, as the old man liked him considerably more than me, and if he’d been his blood, would have taken him in. That’s not important at the moment. He bloody well didn’t just happen to be in the park when a woman—a wealthy one—ends up gutted. And gutting, throat slitting, disemboweling are favorite pastimes of Lorcan Cobbe.”
“All right, I’ll run him. I’ll put out a BOLO.”
Now he framed her face with his hands before she could object. “And you’ll take care. Take very good care.”
“Yes,” she said because he needed her to. “And same goes.”
“He won’t try for me right off—what’s the fun in that? I have to contact some people.”
“We’re going to need to talk about this, in more detail.”
“And we will. Your car’s here.” He gestured toward the arch. “I’ll see you at home.”
As she watched him stride away, she realized she was worried because he was worried.
Marriage, she thought. It could fuck you up.
“LT.” McNab pranced over in his airboots, long tail of blond hair swinging. “Got your security discs. I already looked at the footage of the kill.”
“We have the kill on the feed?”
“Yes and no. I’m going to say the killer knew the cam angles, and kept his face clear. What we’ve got is the vic coming in, then what appears to be a male, about six feet, probably about one-ninety, black pants, black hoodie worn up, cutting across her path. We got him from the back, so no way to tell age or race or make a firm determination of gender.”
McNab glanced back as the morgue team bagged the body. A line of colorful hoops glittered on his earlobe. “He had his hands in his jacket pockets, his head down, moving right along, then cuts in front of her. She stops. You can see his right arm jerk up, then pull back. He keeps right on walking, and she staggers a couple steps. A lot of blood even before she goes down. Then you’ve got a couple of people running over to her. One of them turns her over. And the screaming starts. He’s already out of cam view by then.”
“Take them in, run through them. I need copies. All feed, all angles.”
“You got it. He had to be waiting for her, Dallas. The way he moved on her. It was purposeful, you know? Not random, it just didn’t feel random.”
He might dress like a circus act, but she knew his cop instincts hit solid.
“No, I don’t think random. Peabody,” she said when her partner joined them.
“I talked to a handful of people, and to a couple of the uniforms who talked to people. Most didn’t see or notice anything until she went down, but I have two who stated they saw a man in a black hoodie walking away as she fell. No solid description beyond the hoodie, worn up, and the assumption of male.”
“That coordinates with the security feed. McNab, when you’re going over the discs, look for a male—the height and build you described. Caucasian, late thirties to early forties, light brown hair—man bun deal—red jacket. Flag anything you find with a view of him.”
“Okay. Is he a suspect?”
“Odds are. His name’s Lorcan Cobbe, out of Dublin. Roarke saw him in the crowd, recognized him. He’s a pro.”
“I can start reviewing on my portable if I stick with you for now,” McNab told her.
“Fine. Let’s move. Peabody, start a run on the vic’s husband, Jorge Tween, and let’s go notify him.”
“If this was a hired hit,” Peabody began.
“The spouse is number one,” Eve finished.
Her car waited at the curb, as advertised. She got in,