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He's hunting. I read it in his posture, I see it in his liquid, feral movements; he's not out for a casual evening stroll. None of the tourists or neighbors--he's far afield and his thirst has grown huge and there is nothing human about the approach.
His victim eyes him disdainfully; she is armored with her sense of place and self, expensive clothes, beautiful jewelry, sleek motorized chariot. A look into his hypnotic gaze and her scorn is replaced with helpless wonder.
When he's finished, his eyes still hypnotic, find me. He smiles, delighted. “Are you following me, Louis?”