In Death 29 - Kindred in Death

decades.
    “How old are you?”
    His brows lifted. “Twenty-eight. Why?”
    “Just figuring something.”
    He munched another handful of fruit. “You’re thinking of the suspect. He skews young, but may be older.”
    “Something like that.” She glanced at the bag he offered. “No, thanks. Why do you eat that?”
    “I wish I knew. I finished with Marta.”
    “Delroy, nanny from the park. What do you have?”
    He shook his head. “She didn’t get a good look. She was game, and she worked at it, but it comes down to a quick glimpse, and in the rain. She’s pretty solid on height and build, coloring, hair length. I walked her through it, and it’s coming out that she saw his profile. I got what feels like real on what he was wearing, and a pretty good idea of the style airboard. But his face is mostly impression. Young, good-looking.”
    “Why don’t you show me?”
    He puffed out a breath. “You’re not going to be happy.”
    But he led her out, wound around to his workstation. Standing, he called up the sketch on the computer, then laid out the drawing he’d done.
    “Shit. It could be anybody. It could be female.”
    Yancy lifted a finger as a point. “Yeah, and the second part might be an advantage. It was a male, she’s sure of that, but she used terms like cute, and once, pretty. It may be he’s got androgenous features. Young girls feel safe, and are often attracted to boys with androgenous features. They’re not as threatening.”
    “So, we may or may not have a pretty boy who may or may not be nineteen.”
    “I’ve got your second wit coming in. She’s due in about a half hour. I did a quick ’link warm-up with her. She’s more decisive than Marta, brisker, comes off more confident. I may do better with her. And what I get from her I can use with what I’ve got here. I’ll show the finished to both wits, and see if it rings.”
    “Tell me about the airboard.”
    “Black, silver racing stripes. Metallic silver, she thinks, because it glinted, and it was raining so no sun. That’s pretty simple for an airboard design. So I did a search. Two manufacturers make one that basic design. Go-Scoot and Anders Street Sport.”
    “Anders.”
    “Yeah, how about that? Wasn’t that long ago you were investigating his murder.”
    “Small world, even for the dead, I guess. But it’s interesting as the second wit ID’d his shoes as an Anders brand. Could be brand loyalty. Get me what you can get me as soon as you get it.”
    “You got it,” he said and grinned.
    Back in her office she did a run on Nattie Simpson, the husband, the kid. As MacMasters had told her, Nattie was doing her time at Rikers. The husband—now ex—had relocated to East Washington, with the kid. He was thirty-five, and couldn’t pass for a teenager. The kid was ten, and couldn’t pass either.
    Still, she followed through with a call to Rikers for an overview of Nattie before she crossed that angle off her list.
    No connection, no pop, she thought when she’d finished.
    Dead end.
    She checked the search results on like crimes, and found nothing to connect to MacMasters in the last five years.
    She considered adding in victims and witnesses, then decided her office unit would probably implode from that much activity. She’d do it at home.
    Earmarking that for later, she began cross-referencing Deena’s box of souvenirs with the list from Lapkoff.
    There, she hit fast.
    “Spring musical, Shake It Up , May 15-18.”
    She skimmed through it, scanning photographs, play summary, the cast and crew lists, the ads, in case Deena had made any notations.
    Though she found none, she logged the playbill into evidence, bagged it.
    She continued through, making ordered piles—plays, concerts, dance theater, performance art. And frowned when she came on a second playbill for Shake It Up , same dates.
    “Did you take his, too, Deena? Shit, shit.” She grabbed Seal-It from her desk, coated her hands. She paged through the second book, and found a small notation inside a heart above the summary.
    D&D
5/16/60
    “One’s his, one’s got to be.” She logged and bagged the second playbill, then placed a ’link call to Jo Jennings.
    Her mother answered. Not frazzled this time, Eve thought. Weary.
    “Ms. Jennings, I need to speak with Jo.”
    “Lieutenant, my girl’s wrecked. Just . . . devastated. Do you know she’s blaming herself? Blaming herself for not telling anyone Deena was seeing a boy? All she did was keep her