The bartender added a twist of lemon to the glasses, set them on bar coasters.
“She focused back?”
“She did, but that’s not unusual for her. Part of the job’s to get a little flirt on. Anyway, she came to the bar on her next break to thank him, and they got more of a flirt on. I’ll say he had that dreamy accent, and a lot of style.”
Londa took an order for a Zombie and a vodka martini.
“Did she leave with him?” Eve asked as the bartender skillfully mixed the drinks.
“Yeah. Now that’s not usual for her, but they had that click—and she and the guy she was seeing for a while broke it off a few weeks ago, so she was loose. She’s back on at nine tonight if you want to talk to her.”
“I need her address.”
For the first time, the bartender pulled back. “Look, I get you’re cops, but I really don’t like to do that, and she’ll be back in a few hours anyway.”
“Do you figure a couple of cops are in here showing his photo because they want to get a flirt on with him?”
“Well, no, but—”
“He killed a woman a couple nights ago. He’s made a living doing that for a couple of decades. Give me her address.”
“Oh my Jesus. She’s only a couple blocks from here.” She spewed out the address. “We’re work pals, you know, Kaylee and me. Four years. Tell her to tag me, okay?”
“All right. If he comes in tonight, contact me.” She nodded for Peabody to put a card on the bar. “Don’t do anything to tip him off. Just serve him his drink, and contact me.”
“You bet your ass. Have Kaylee tag me, please.”
“I will.”
“This is another break,” Peabody said when they went out.
“Maybe. They’d have walked, just a couple blocks. Maybe she lets him come up, maybe not. How far would he push if it’s maybe not? He’s expecting sex, he bought her drinks, didn’t he? Primo champagne. She led him on, didn’t she? Either way, he probably got inside with her.”
Eve paused outside the building. A nice six-stack, fully residential, with good security, including cams.
“See if there’s a super on-site who can give us the security feed. She’s on the second floor. Meet me up there.”
“On that.”
Eve mastered in, entered the small lobby with its old, meticulously refinished wood floors. She ignored the elevators—a pair with doors painted with murals of New York’s skyline—and took the stairs.
A clean building, she thought, on the arty side. Kaylee either made a damn good living with those pipes or had other income to afford the rent.
She paused outside apartment 2A, hit the buzzer. Tried again with no response.
Her gut went tight as she turned, tried 2B.
A woman’s voice answered through the intercom. “Yes?”
“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Kaylee Skye.”
The door opened, and the voice became a woman in a black leotard, a swirly blue skirt, with red-streaked black hair worn in a tight bun over a striking face. “Why?”
“We need to ask her some questions.”
“About?”
“Do you know Ms. Skye?”
“She lives right across the hall.”
Apparently cop cooperation had hit its limit for the day.
Eve yanked out her PPC, brought up Cobbe’s picture. “How about him?”
“Never seen him before.”
“She has, and he’s wanted for multiple murders. She was seen leaving her place of employment with him last night, and may have let him into her apartment. She would be unaware of his criminal record. Now, do you know where she is?”
“No.” But the bitchy look and tone shifted. Some suspicion still, some knee-jerk dislike of cops—but concern, too. “She might still be sleeping, she works late. But I expected to see her before I left for my next class. My partner and I run a dance school.”
“This man’s dangerous,” Eve began.
The elevator door opened, and Peabody came out.
“Got the feed—they came in together at two-twenty-three. No duress. He left at three-oh-one. He was disheveled,” she added, casting a glance over at the dancer. “Dallas, his knuckles were scraped up.”
The dancer leaped across the hall, began to bang on Kaylee’s door. “Kaylee! Kaylee, it’s Marta! Open the door. Wake up and open the damn door.”
“The super cleared us to enter,” Peabody said. “He’s calling the lawyer, but he said to go in.”
“Take her.” Eve pushed past the dancer, used her master.
“NYPSD,” she announced. “We’re coming in.”
She already knew it was too late for the warning, but stepped inside. A pretty, female living area, all quiet colors and plush fabrics. A pair of sky-high silver heels obviously kicked off, a long white and silver gown in a silky pool.
They’d started the dance here, she thought, excited, needy kisses, rushing hands, peeling out of the dress as they moved toward the bedroom.
Where something went wrong.
Too rough? Slow down? No, don’t? Wait?
Any or all of that, she imagined.
Had she screamed, called for help? A place like this would be well soundproofed.
Because he hadn’t slowed down, he hadn’t waited. He’d used his fists to convince her. Maybe he hadn’t meant to kill her. He hadn’t used a knife.
He’d closed his hands over her throat and squeezed the life out of her so she lay, the bits of underwear she’d worn in tatters, her face—stunning even now—bruised, the bedding tangled from her struggles.
Eve could hear the dancer shouting at Peabody, so she turned and strode back to the doorway where her partner physically held the woman back.
“You need to stop. If you don’t, we’ll be forced to restrain you.”
“Is Kaylee in there? Kaylee!”
“There’s nothing you can do for her now.”
The woman jerked back, then simply slid like water out of Peabody’s hands to the floor.
“I’ve got her, Dallas. Come with me now. It’s Marta, right? Come with me, Marta.”
Trusting Peabody to deal with grief and shock, Eve shut the door.
And called it in.
By the time she’d finished, Peabody eased in the door. “I got her calmed down, and her partner’s coming. Did he cut her?”
“No. Beaten—mostly facial—and strangled—manually. We need the field kits out of the car, and we’ll need to inform the bartender, get a more formal statement.”
“Okay, I’ll get the kits, and tell the bartender. I can ask her to give a statement when we’re done here.”
“Good enough.”
While she waited, she ran the victim.
Kaylee Skye, age thirty-one. Next of kin, a mother, stepfather, and half sib in Dayton, Ohio; a father, stepmother, and half sib in Columbus, Ohio. And maternal grandparents, who’d established a trust fund, which explained how she could afford the rent.
Eve walked over, studied a tidy galley kitchen, the equally tidy bath—fresh, fluffy towels, a fat white candle.
A small alcove off the kitchen served as a kind of office—mini-comp, cream-colored desk and chair, with a royal blue cushion on the chair.