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he’s another regular. Not as often as the girl, but regular, routine. Divorced, but years ago. Civil relationship with the ex-wife. Tight with the daughter, enough that they’d all get together for dinner at the ex-wife’s for birthdays and holidays—no drama. He liked to take his grandkids skating now and then. He’s skated for years, nothing fancy. Said it helped him keep in shape, helped reduce stress.”
    â€œAnd the last?” Roarke said. “The one who was killed while holding his wife’s hand.”
    â€œYeah. You pay attention. Today’s their anniversary. Five years. They were re-creating their first date. Some people knew they were going to the rink, but from what I can gather not many—it was more a personal thing. And what time they’d be there wasn’t laid out.”
    â€œYou see him as random. They all may be, but you’re more certain he was. If one of the others was specific, then potentially two of them were no more than cover, so all would appear random.”
    â€œI think all or two out of three. I have to hope for two out of three, because then it’s done. Or probably done. Like Lowenbaum said, the shooter’s feeling pretty fine. More, if one is target specific, I’ll damn well find out who and why. But if all three were pulled out of a damn hat . . .”
    â€œIf it was all random, why the rink?”
    He thought like a cop, but since he was being so helpful, she wouldn’t insult him by mentioning it. “Public, big impact. Media frenzy. That would be a high motive for an LDSK. Maybe he has a problem with the rink itself. Maybe his wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever, dumped him there. Maybe he used to skate but sustained an injury so he’s pissed at skaters.”
    She brooded over it—so many maybes. “She’s pregnant. The wife of the third vic. She just found out, hadn’t even told him yet. Was going to tell him over the first-date lunch re-creation.”
    Roarke let out a sigh. “The ripples go on and on, don’t they? It’s never just the victim, just the dead, you stand over. It’s also those they leave behind.”
    â€œHer father’s Irish—a little more of an accent than you, but just a little. I think he and the ex have the civil, but I doubt they have holiday meals together, you know? But they were a unit around the daughter. And he—the father—stayed back with me for a minute, talked about his son-in-law. You could see he loved him.
    â€œIt matters,” she said, reaching for her water, “because I think he’s going to be the least of it. If one of the others was target specific, he’ll be the least. An afterthought.”
    â€œNot for you, Eve.”
    â€œShe was first. The girl in red. Couldn’t miss her, like Lowenbaum said. Wouldn’t you take out the target first, make sure you did the job? Part of me leans there. But then, I think, how cocky are you, you bastard? And it seems to me somebody who can do this, who does this, that’s plenty cocky.”
    â€œSo you bookend the target—one before, one after.”
    â€œJust another maybe.”
    â€œHow can I help?”
    She looked over at him. “You were working when I got home.”
    â€œNo, actually, I’d just finished what I was doing when those designs came through. I was looking at them a second time when you came home. I’ve nothing I need to do.”
    He took her hand again. “I’m sorry for the wife, the parents, and all the other ripples. But it’s the girl, that girl in red, who’ll haunt me for a while. She had such joy on her face, such freedom in her movements. He ended that. I’d like to help you find who ended that.”
    Home, she thought again. Him. Where she could lean and not lose who and what she was.
    â€œCollectors. Of the tactical, since Lowenbaum figures most likely there, but of anything that