I saw her, evening shift, the night she disappeared. "I left the station about seven. I know she was on till midnight, handling the eleven o'clock. Everything I've heard is secondhand, but it's reliable." She turned back. "She clocked out, left the station just after her shift ended. She would have taken the subway home, that's what she always did. It's just three blocks east. One of the guys saw her heading out, yelled good night. She waved to him. As far as I know he's the last one in the station who saw her. He said she was walking east, toward the subway." "Did she do crafts?" "Crafts?" "You know what crafts are, Nadine." Interest, keen, replaced the sorrow. "As a matter of fact, she did. She did a lot of handwork, always had a bag of supplies with her, and some project going. She used to work on it during breaks or wait time. Is that the connection?" "It's looking that way. You know any big, bodybuilder-type guys? Anybody like that at 75?" "We're desk jockeys and faces." She shook her head. "We on-air types work out, body-sculpt, whatever it takes to keep trim, but the public doesn't want their news and entertainment from big bruisers. We got some burly techs, and some overweight drones, but none of them would qualify as bodybuilders.

Is that your line on him?" "Another working theory." "I need a full interview when this is wrapped, Dallas. If Breen was part of this thing, I need to do a full interview with you and Peabody for the station. She was one of ours." "You'd want one anyway."

"I would." Nadine smiled a little. "But if this hits home, I need it. Fuck objectivity. It's personal." "I hear that."

To save time, Eve requested Breen Merriweather's childcare provider meet them at Breen's apartment. Eve used her master to gain access, and stepped into a small, cheerful set of rooms with air stale from disuse.

"Her family's paying the rent." Annalou Harbor, the sixtyish provider, looked around the apartment with sad eyes. "I still come in once a week, water her plants. Aired it out a couple times, but… I live upstairs." "Yes, ma'am." "Her husband took Jesse, her little boy. I miss that baby.

Such a sweetie." She gestured to a framed photo that showed a grinning little boy in a sideways ball cap. "Breen would never have left him. Not while there was breath in her body.

So I know there isn't. I know she's dead. That's why you're here. You're Homicide. I recognize you. I've seen you onscreen." "We don't know, Mrs Harbor. But we're pursuing-" "Don't pad it for me, Lieutenant Dallas." The tone was firm, and just a little prim. "I'm not a gossip, and I'm not looking for some sort of twisted excitement. I loved that girl like she was my own, and I can help you more if you don't try to dance around it." "We believe it's highly possible that she's dead, Mrs Harbor, and that her death may be connected with another case we're investigating." "The murder in Central Park, the rape-murder. I keep up." She pressed her lips together until they turned white, but she didn't crumble. "What can I do to help you?" "Where does Ms Merriweather keep her craft supplies?" "In here." She led the way into a tiny room equipped with two counters, several hand-painted cabinets, and the machines Eve was now accustomed to seeing in such places.

"See, she set it up as an activity room, for her and Jesse.

His toys and games over there, her supplies here. That way they could be together when they had leisure time. Breen liked making things. She knit me a beautiful throw last Christmas." Eve opened cupboards while Peabody tackled communications and data. There were several samples of the corded ribbon.

"I got hits on Total Crafts, and a couple of the others on the list," Peabody announced.

"Mrs Harbor, we're going to need to take her "links and computer, and some other items into evidence. Can you give me the contact number for her next of kin?" "Take what you need. Her mother told me to cooperate with the police in any and every way. I'll get in touch with her." "My partner will give you a receipt." "All right. It'll be easier for them, for all of us, to know." She looked around the room, and though her lips trembled once, she firmed them. "However bad it is, it'll be easier to know for certain." "Yes, ma'am, it will. I realize the other detectives interviewed you, but I'd like to ask you some questions." "That's fine. Can we sit down? I'd like to sit down."

It's hard to think," Peabody began when they were back in the car, "that if these three women are linked, that nobody connected to them saw this guy. If he's the physical description we believe, you wouldn't see him blending." "He's careful." "Are we going to try another push with Celina?" "Not yet. I need think time."

– -**--

She settled down to it in her office, her feet on her desk, her head back. She visualized the pattern. He wouldn't have expected them to recognize the pattern so quickly, because he wouldn't have expected the police to link the murder with the disappearances.

But if when he killed again, he'd know they'd see the connections between victims. It didn't worry him.

Why? The murder weapon was available at the shops the murder victim, and the suspected victims, had frequented. It wouldn't take much longer for the exact location to be identified.

Did he think, because it was a fairly common item, the cops couldn't nail the source through basic lab work? Possibly.

But even so, he'd have to believe the investigation would include the point of purchase. Even if someone else had bought the ribbon, he'd been inside or within sight of the store or stores, in order to select his victim.

But he wasn't worried about it any more than it seemed he'd worried about being seen or caught assaulting Elisa in a public park.

Because, like many psychopaths, he believed he was invulnerable? That he wouldn't be caught, or because a part of him was begging to be caught? Stop me. Find me, catch me.

Either way, wasn't he enjoying the risk factor? Wasn't he aroused by the chances he took? Arousal: in the selection, in the trolling, in the stalking.

All that anticipation building.

Gratification: physical violence, sexual violence, murder committed with an item considered more traditionally female, then left on the victim like a decoration.

Enjoyment: possessing the strength to overpower and control and kill. And more, the strength to bear the weight of the dead, more than the average man could manage.

Final satisfaction: removal of the eyes. Owning the eyes, Eve thought. Arranging the body in a specifically chosen manner and location.

He'd be back to the arousal stage again. If not now, soon.

She swung her legs off, wrote up her daily, then gathered what she needed for an evening session at home.

She went out to Peabody's desk. "I'm hitting some of the gyms, working my way uptown toward home. If you're with me, you'll have to get yourself back downtown when we call it a day." "I'm not missing a chance to ogle and interrogate big, sweaty guys. I might cut out at six, though, unless we've got something. McNab and I have a packing date tonight." "A packing date?" "Yeah, we've got to get some serious packing done at my place. We'll be moving into our place in a few days. Our place." She patted her belly. "Still gives me a little bit of the jitters." "You can't imagine what it gives me," Eve said, and walked away when Peabody snorted.