Of course the stupid bitter man had a point. The dealers left were a black young man and a white girl: the hit-man had gone for the white men first. The question was how to guess whether he'd stick to race or gender. And whether he'd wait for three days before his next hit or he'd speed things up.
On her way to one of the safe houses, Gillian called Banks and they decided that he would set a tail on the dealers. At the house, Fred and the DEA agent were happy to welcome her—or rather the takeout she brought them. Everything was quiet there. Ron's motion scanner hadn't shown any suspicious readings, other than the neighbors coming back home.
At the other safe house, she found the DEA agent watching TV, while Hank and the cook were completely absorbed in a technical conversation. Gillian wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was about, so she didn't ask.
Back home, Connor noticed his mother was lost in thought, even though she tried to chatter with him over dinner. And later she didn't chide him when midnight found him playing online with Tanya to keep her some company during her watch.
Gillian lay on her bed, eyes on the ceiling, most of the night. As usual, Brock's words had set her mind in motion, and she had his question going round and round her head. It even woke her up when the day was hardly breaking, with a weird urge to see pictures of the four dealers again.
She headed to the station and checked with Fred and Hank along the way. Nothing had happened at either of the safe houses, and the cook would be moved at eight. She texted Banks, so he would call her when he woke up in a while.
The office was warm and quiet. She turned the coffee machine on and went to the meeting room. There she pinned the mugshots of the four dealers to the board and stepped back to study them. She wasn't exactly thinking. She just let her mind wander around possibilities, coming and going without any order or direction. Still chewing it over, she went to fix herself a coffee. As soon as she turned her back to the board, the notion appeared, crystal clear in her mind, so she hurried back to the meeting room with her mug.
She held her breath at the idea, eyes moving over the mugshots. Was it possible? Could that be a pattern? The killer was going from the strongest to the weakest? She cursed under her breath. Now she could really use the stupid bitter man around, to tell her if she was right, or falling into a tunnel vision to answer his questions, which wouldn't help them catch the killer.
Her phone buzzing startled her. Not nice, thinking of Brock and the damned thing setting off like that. It was Banks, to let her know the two dealers left were safe and sound, sleeping like babies in their beds, and she shouldn't ask who with or how if she wanted to spare herself a month of nightmares.
"I think he's going after the black boy next," she said.
"Young?"
"Yeah. If we wanna nail the bastard, you gotta make sure Young's tail is completely invisible, 'cause our guy's gonna follow him around all day to study his habits. We need to let'im be, so we can catch him at Young's place."
"What!? How d'you...? Forget it, I know how. Okay, don't worry, I got it."
"Call me if you're not sure about who to assign, 'cause Fred's perfect for this kind of job."