Eve considered, then shook her head. "No, it feels sticky, and we're probably done with her, in any case."
"I've got that she's single. Never married, no kids. She's thirty-five, parents live in Queens, three sibs. Two brothers and one sister. And, we have my personal take," Peabody added as she set the PPC aside. "I hope we're done with her, because she'd really, really like to hurt you."
Eve only smiled. "That's gotta be frustrating for her, doesn't it? Do you have a personal take on why?"
"Not a clue except you're you and she's not." Uneasy, Peabody moved her shoulders. "I'd pay attention, though. She looked like the kind who'd come at you from behind."
"We're not likely to run into each other on a regular basis." Eve filed the matter, dismissed it. "Eat up. I want to go see if this sleeper of Trueheart's knows anything."
• • • •
She decided to use an interview room, knowing the stark formality of that often loosened tongues. One look at the Gimp warned her that while he might be coherent now, thanks to a hefty dose of Sober-Up, his skinny body still jittered and his nervous eyes jumped.
A quick spin through the decontamination tank had likely chased off any parasites and had laid a thin layer of faux citrus over the stink of him.
An addict, Eve thought, with an assortment of vices that had certainly fried a good portion of his brain cells.
She brought him water, knowing most brew hounds suffered from dry mouth after decon. "How old are you, Gimp?"
"Dunno, maybe fifty."
He looked to be a very ill-preserved eighty, but she thought he was probably close to the mark. "You got another name?"
He shrugged. They'd taken away his clothes and disposed of them. The gray smock and drawstring pants hung on him and were nearly the same color as his skin. "Dunno. I'm Gimp."
"Okay. You know Officer Trueheart here, right?"
"Yeah, yeah." Suddenly, the beaten face glowed with a smile as pure as a baby's. "Hi! You slipped me some credits, said I should get some soup."
Trueheart flushed painfully, shifted on his regulation shoes. "I guess you bought brew with it."
"Dunno." The smile faded as his busy eyes landed on Eve again. "Who are you? How come I have to be here? I didn't do nothing. Somebody's gonna take my stuff if I don't watch out."
"Don't worry about your stuff, Gimp. We'll take care of it. I'm Dallas." She kept her voice low and easy, her face bland. Too much cop, she thought, would just spook him. "I just want to talk to you. You want something to eat?"
"Dunno. Maybe."
"We'll get you something hot after we talk. I'm going to turn on the recorder, so we get it all straight."
"I didn't do nothing."
"Nobody thinks you did. Engage recorder," she ordered. "Interview with witness known as the Gimp regarding case number 28913-H. Interviewer Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also attending, Peabody, Officer Delia, and Trueheart, Officer…?" She glanced over.
"Troy." He flushed again.
"Troy Trueheart?" Eve said with her tongue in her cheek. "Okay." Then she pinned her gaze on the pitiful man across from her. "Subject witness is not under suspicion for any wrongdoing. This investigator appreciates his cooperation. Do you understand that, Gimp?"
"Yeah, guess. What?"
She didn't sigh, but was momentarily afraid the detestable Bowers was right about him. "You're not here because you're in trouble. I appreciate you talking to me. I hear you moved your crib last night."
He wet his cracked lips, drank. "Dunno."
"You used to have it across the street, near Snooks. You know Snooks, don't you, Gimp?"
"Maybe." His hand shook, slopping water on the table. "He draws pictures. Nice pictures. I traded him some Zoner for a pretty one of a tree. He makes flowers, too. Nice."
"I saw his flowers. They're pretty. He was kind of a friend of yours?"