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“I see somebody bothering one of my customers, even if it ain’t a regular, I move ’em along.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder like an umpire calling out a base runner. “I been here fifteen years. This is my place.”

“There was a man, a couple of weeks ago. She helped him pick out some produce, struck up a conversation.”

“Just like her.” He pulled out the bandanna once more.

“He went out with her, carried her bags. Nice-looking guy, probably under forty.”

“Mrs. Gregg, she was always talking to somebody in here. Let me think.” He raked his hands through his thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, screwed up his narrow face. “Yeah, couple Fridays back, she took this guy under her wing, picked out some nice grapes for him, some tomatoes, head of romaine, radishes, carrots, got a pound of peaches.”

“Can you tell me as much about him as what he bought?”

Vincenti cracked his first smile. “Not so much. She brought him up with her—I always checked Mrs. Gregg out—and she says: ‘Now, Mr. Vincenti, I want you to take good care of my new friend, Al, when he comes in here by himself. He’s got a little boy who needs your best produce.’ I say something like, ‘I got nothing but the best.’ ”

“What did he say?”

“Don’t recall that he did. Smiled a lot. Had on a ball cap, now that I think. And sunshades. This heat, most everybody’s got on a cap and shades.”

“Tall, short?”

“Ah, damn me.” He mopped at his sweaty face with the bandanna now. “Taller than me, but who the hell isn’t? I top out at five six. We were busy, and I wasn’t paying much attention. She was doing all the talking, like always. She asked me to put some peaches aside for her the next week. She was going to her daughter’s in Jersey Sunday next, whole family deal, and she wanted to take her some peaches ’cause her girl had a fondness for them.”

“She come in for them?”

“Sure, this past Friday. Five pounds. I put them in a little basket for her, let her take them home in it ’cause she’s a good customer.”

“The guy who went out with her, has he come back?”

“I haven’t seen him again. I don’t come in on Wednesdays, like to golf on Wednesdays, so he coulda come in and I wouldn’t know. But if he’d come back any other day, I’m here. You think that’s the guy? You think that’s the sick prick who killed Mrs. Gregg?”

“Just covering the ground, Mr. Vincenti. I appreciate the help.”

“You need any more, you need anything, you come see me. She was a jewel.”

“You think he might be the killer,” Peabody said as they walked the neighborhood, following the route Leah had outlined for them.

“I think he was being a smart-ass, introducing himself with the name Al—Albert DeSalvo, the method he planned to use for her murder. I think it would have been a very smart way to feel her out, coming to the market, putting on the baffled single-daddy routine. If he’d scoped out the area, looking for a woman, a single woman of her age group, spotted her, considered her while he was trolling, he’d have watched her routine, gotten her name, looked up her data, so he’d know she volunteered at a kid care place.”

He knew how to research, Eve thought. Knew how to take his time, get the data, digest it before he made a move.

“A woman does time in day care, voluntarily, she’s into kids, so he tells her he’s got a kid when he makes his first contact.”

She nodded as she spoke, as she studied the neighborhood. It was smart. It was simple. “Good place to make that contact is the market. Ask her for advice, give her a story about having a kid needing day care. Walk her part of the way home. Not all the way. He doesn’t have to, he knows where she lives. Just like he knows her plans for Sunday. Not the next Sunday, the following, so he can have plenty of time to watch her, get it all down, plan it out, enjoy the anticipation.”

She stopped on the corner, watched people walk by, most with the native New York stare that stopped well short of eye contact. Not a tourist sector, she acknowledged. People lived and worked here, went about their business.