The canvasses of Chinatown and the surrounding areas had come up zero, one more time.

– -«»--«»--«»--

“No trace of semen with Gregg,” Eve told Peabody as they headed to the Village. “ME findings indicate she was raped and sodomized, with the broomstick only. No prints on-scene other than hers, family members, and two neighbors who’re clear. Hair fibers, manmade. Dickhead thinks wig and mustache, but isn’t ready to commit.”

“So we think he wore a disguise.”

“In case he was seen around the neighborhood. He had to keep tabs on her, a few weeks, I’d say. Solidify her Sunday routine. How’d he pick her, though? Out of a fucking hat? How does he target this particular LC, this particular woman?”

“Maybe there’s some connection. A place they shopped, ate, did business. A doctor, a bank.”

“Possible, and it’s a good line for you to tug. I’m more inclined to think it was the area first. Neighborhood. Select the setting, then the character, then put on your play.”

“Speaking of neighborhoods, this is really nice.” Peabody gazed out at shady sidewalks, large old houses, pretty urban gardens planted in window boxes or pots. “I could go for this one day. You know, when I settle down, start thinking family and stuff. You ever think about that? Kids and all.”

Eve thought of the hate-filled eyes, staring at her out of a dream. “No.”

“Tons of time and all. I figure maybe to think about it in six, eight years anyway. Definitely going to be taking McNab on a long test drive before I commit to more than cohabbing. Hey, your eye didn’t twitch.”

“Because I’m not listening to you.”

“Are, too,” Peabody muttered when Eve pulled to the curb. “He’s been really great working with me for the exam. It makes a difference having somebody rooting for me. He really wants it for me because I want it. That’s… well, that’s just solid.”

“McNab’s a moron the majority of the time, but he’s in love with you.”

“Dallas!” Peabody shifted in her seat so sharply her cap tipped over one eye. “You said the ‘L’ word and ‘McNab’ in the same sentence. Voluntarily.”

“Just shut up.”

“Happy to.” With a happy smile, she squared her cap. “I’m just going to savor in silence.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

They walked three houses down to a three-story home that Eve imagined had once been a multifamily dwelling. Writing about killers was obviously profitable if Breen could afford something this up-market.

She went up a short flight of flagstoned steps to the main entrance, noted the full security system that must have made the man confident enough to keep the etched glass panes on either side of the front door.

There was a wife as well, she knew from her quick background check, and a two-year-old boy. Breen collected partial professional-father pay from the government as primary at-home parent while his wife earned a substantial salary as a VP and managing editor of a fashion rag called Outré.

A nice, tidy setup, Eve mused, as she rang the bell and held up her badge for scan.

Breen answered the door himself with his son sitting astride his shoulders. The boy was holding on to Breen’s blond hair like the reins on a horse.

“Go, ride!” the boy shouted and kicked his feet.

“Only this far, partner.” Breen hooked his hands around the boy’s ankles, either to anchor him,Eve thought, or to stop the busy little heels from digging holes in his armpits. “LieutenantDallas?”

“That’s right. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,Mr.Breen.”

“No problem. Always happy to talk to the cops, and I’ve followed your work. I’m hoping to do a book onNew York murders eventually, and figure you’ll be one of my prime sources.”

“You’ll have to talk to public relations at Central about that. Can we come in?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Sorry.”

He stepped back. He was in his thirties, of strong, medium build. From the definition in his arms, Eve doubted he sat at a computer all day. He had a good face, handsome without being soft.

“Blaster!” the boy called out as he spotted Eve’s weapon under her jacket. “Zappit!”

Breen laughed, flipped the child off his shoulders in a rapid and smooth move that had the kid squealing in delight. “Jed here’s a little bloodthirsty. Runs in the family. I’m just going to set him up with the droid, then we can talk.”

“No droid!” The kid’s face went from angelic to mutinous in a heartbeat. “Stay with Daddy!”

“Just for a little while, champ; then we’ll go out to the park.” He tickled the boy into giggles as he charged up the steps with him.

“Nice to see a guy handle a kid that way, and enjoy it,” Peabody commented.

“Yeah. Wonder what a guy, a successful guy, thinks about pulling in a professional-father stipend, dealing with an offspring, while the mother’s being a busy exec at a major firm every day. Some guys would resent that. Some might think the little lady’s pushy, domineering. Maybe his mother was the same-Breen’s mother is a neurologist and his father went the professional-parent route. You know,” Eve added, looking up the stairs, “some guys would build up a nasty little resentment of women over that kind of setup.”

“That’s really sexist.”

“Yeah, it is. Some people are.”

Peabody frowned up the steps. “It’s some brain that could take a nice, homey scene like we just witnessed and turn it on its head into a motive for murder.”

“Just one of my natural-born talents, Peabody.”

Chapter9

Breen set them up in a roomy office just off the kitchen. Two large windows faced the rear, where they could see a kind of tidy patio skirted by a low wall. Behind the wall were leafy trees. With the view, they might have been in some quiet suburb rather than the city.

Someone had put pots of flowers on the patio, along with a couple of loungers. There was a small table shaded by a jaunty blue-and-white-striped umbrella.

A couple of big plastic trucks lay on their sides, along with their colorful plastic occupants, as if there had been a terrible vehicular accident.

Why,Eve wondered, were kids always bashing toys together? Maybe it was some sort of primitive cave-dweller instinct that, if things went well, the kid outgrew or at least restrained into adulthood.

Jed’s father looked civilized enough, sitting in his roily chair that he’d scooted around from his workstation. Then again, he made the bulk of his living writing about people who restrained nothing, and rather than outgrowing any destructive instincts, had bumped it up from plastic toys to flesh and blood.

It took,Eve was very aware, all kinds.

“So, how can I help?”

“You’ve done considerable research into serial killers,”Eve began.

“Historical figures, primarily. Though I have interviewed a few contemporary subjects.”

“Why is that,Mr.Breen?”

“Tom. Why?” He looked surprised for a moment. “It’s fascinating. You’ve been up close and personal with the breed. Don’t you find them fascinating?”

“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”

He leaned forward. “But you have to wonder what makes them who they are, don’t you? What separates them from the rest of us? Is it something more or something less? Are they born to kill, or does that need evolve in them? Is it a single instance that turns them, or a series of events? And really, the answer isn’t always the same, and that’s fascinating. One guy spends his childhood in poverty and abuse”-he tapped his index fingers together-”and becomes a productive member of society. A bank president, faithful husband, good father, loyal friend. Plays golf on the weekend and walks his pet schnauzer every night. He uses his background to springboard himself into something better, higher, right?”

“And another uses it as an excuse to dive into the muck. Yeah, I get it. Why do you write about the muck?”