Concealed in Death (27 page)

“No” was all Eve said when Quilla started to slip some sort of hair clip in her pocket.

The girl only shrugged, put it back. “Anyway, Mr. Jones didn’t kill anybody, that’s for solid. He doesn’t even hit or push or even yell. When you screw up you get this.”

She mimed a sternly disapproving look.

“Or this.”

Now one of strained patience that slid into sorrowful disapproval.

“And says stuff like: ‘My dear Quilla, perhaps you need twenty minutes in the Quiet Room to consider your behavior, how it affects you and those around you.’ Ms. Jones is more direct, you know? Screw up, the next thing you know you’re scrubbing toilets. Which is way, way gross. Anyway, he’ll lecture your brains out, and she’ll just hand you a bucket or something. Mostly the bucket’s better. So he didn’t kill anybody, and especially those old dead girls, but something is bogus.”

In a few sentences, the kid had given her a pretty good sense of house and sibling dynamics.

So she’d happily listen to the rest of the flood.

“What’s bogus?”

“Something.” She admired herself in various poses and expressions in the little mirror on the wall. “Since the day you first came he’s been spending a lot of time in the Quiet Room, and more time in his quarters. More than usual. And he’s taking a lot of walks. Once he walked all the way to the old place. It had the police tape on it and stuff. He just stood across the street and stared at it. Weirdo-city.”

“How do you know he walked there?”

“I followed him. If you’re quick, you can get out the side door when they’re making deliveries. I’m quick, and I wanted to see. And he talks on his new ’link a lot, quiet, so you can’t hear even when you try.”

“What new ’link?”

“He bought one when he was walking. A toss-away.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeeeah. So something’s bogus, but he didn’t kill the dead girls because of the halo. I think he feels really bad about them being dead, especially since he knew a couple of them.”

“How do you know that?”

“I hear, I listen, I know.” She turned a shaky pirouette. “He and Ms. Jones and Matron were all huddled in Ms. Jones’s office about it. And crying some—him, too, which is totally whoa. And they’re going to have a memorial thing. We’re
all
going to have to go, even though we didn’t know them and they’ve been dead forever already. But it’s gonna be the big M for mandatory.

“Anyway, I think he’s having sex somewhere, and they say in group health and well-being, you can feel guilty and conflicted about having sex if you aren’t in love and committed to the one you’re having the sex with, and the higher power, and all that fucking blah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Maybe he’s your higher power, maybe not.” Quilla shrugged. “They don’t push it. Anyhow, I think he’s feeling really bad, and he’s all that conflicted, so he probably went off to have a whole bunch of sex to get it out and done, and so he won’t have to feel bad for a while.”

After Eve’s ears stopped ringing, she decided it actually made sense, or would under different circumstances.

“I’ll look into that,” she said, figuring it was the best response.

“Okay. I gotta get back before they miss me.”

She zipped off, and the room suddenly felt bigger, quiet and still. Blowing out a breath, Eve sat on the side of one of the beds for a moment to let the quiet in.

The kid’s brain was like one of those rat things—hamsters—on a wheel. Spinning, spinning. But she’d actually turned over considerable information, once you pulled it out of the maze of thoughts and jumbled words.

So she sat a moment longer, making a few notes now in case anything slipped away back into that maze.

She went back to Nash’s quarters, found Philadelphia in the shared living space with Shivitz urging her to finish the soother, and Peabody on guard.

“Lieutenant, I want to apologize for falling apart that way. I’m generally more sturdy.”

“No problem. Ms. Jones, I can get a warrant, and I’m going to have my partner start that process—now. Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it would be better all around if you gave permission, on record, for my partner and me to begin a search. I’d like to start in the quarters. I’ll have more officers come in, with the warrant, to assist with a search of the entire premises.”

Eve figured the woman couldn’t get any paler, but her voice dropped to an unsteady whisper.

“You’re going to search the home?”

“With or without your permission, yes. It would be easier, all around, with your permission.”

“You should contact your lawyer, Ms. Jones,” Shivitz began.

“We have nothing to hide here.” Straightening her shoulders, she patted the matron’s hand. “I’ll give my permission, and I’ll contact my lawyer.”

“Those are good choices,” Eve told her.

“I think it’s obvious now that my head’s cleared, Nash just needed some time alone, away, to process all this. I know how much it’s affected me, and he tends to hold things inside, to stand as the strong one, the head of the household. I think he just needed some time, especially when I was so emotional when I came back from talking to you. He must have found a retreat—there’s always one going on, and he’ll contact me as soon as he’s settled. He’ll realize he forgot his ’link, borrow one, and let me know where he is.”

“I’m sure that’s it.” It was Shivitz’s turn for a bolstering pat.

“Could you put together a list of current retreats for Lieutenant Dallas? Or it might be quicker, Lieutenant, if Matron checked herself if Nash registered for one today.”

“Why don’t we do both? Peabody and I’ll get started up here.”

“Do I have to stay?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’d rather not watch you . . . search our things. I’ll go down to my office, contact some friends, some associates. It might be someone knows Nash’s plans. I’ll feel much better when I know where he is, and we can straighten all this out.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll go down then. Matron.”

“It’s all going to be fine.” Shivitz hooked an arm around Philadelphia’s waist, led her from the room. “You’ll see. You have faith now, and everything will be fine.”

“What the hell was in that soother?” Eve wondered.

“I think Shivitz tipped a little liquor in it, and I think Philadelphia’s just gone straight to denial. She can believe what she just said, and delete the rest. Otherwise, it’s too much to deal with, and she has to deal. She’s wired that way. She has a houseful of troubled kids to keep in line, to keep calm, so she has to deal.”

“She’s going to have a lot more to deal with. Set up Baxter and Trueheart to assist us, if they’re clear. Trueheart’s a nonthreatening presence. Toss in Uniform Carmichael and another uniform. It’s a big place.”

“I’ll get it done.”

“Meanwhile,” Eve said as she moved to Nash Jones’s bedroom, “I’ve got Quilla as a bottomless source. Things are bogus, according to her,” Eve began and filled Peabody in as she started the search.

The small bedroom area and few possessions didn’t take long. She learned Mr. Jones liked good fabrics, and was practical and thrifty enough to have his shoes resoled.

“Nothing out of line on his pocket ’link,” she told Peabody when she checked it. “But it shows some recent deletions from the contact list. Let’s get EDD in here, too; they can check all the e-junk, and see if they can dig out the deletions.”

“McNab’s coming in with Baxter and Trueheart. I figured we’d need an e-man.”

“You figured right.”

“You know, this all speaks of a pretty simple lifestyle.” Standing beside the bed, Peabody took another study of the room. “A box of condoms—but tucked away in the bathroom, not in the bedside table. No sex here on site. The clothes, decent material—it wears longer. Somebody darns his socks.”

“Does what?”

“Sews the toes, heels. You know how you can wear a hole in the toe or heel? Somebody darned a couple of his—repaired them.”

“Like the shoes. A simple life, one where, from the looks of it, money and possessions don’t drive the engine, doesn’t mean the halo.”

“The halo?”

“Quilla again. Her term for totally good. That’s how she sees Jones. Maybe a hidey-hole somewhere.” Hands on hips, she did a turn. “But I can’t find it.”

“If he had something to hide, odds are it’s with him.”

“Yeah. Left his bedside reader, discs and downloads—mostly halo stuff—some novels, some books on psychology, spirituality, dealing with addictions and low self-esteem, all what you’d expect. Let’s move on.”

The living area offered little more. The music and vids stuck primarily with the spiritual and uplifting again, with a few random secular options.

Healthy food in the little kitchen. No alcohol or illegals hidden away. Not even a secret stash of candy.

“Got your warrant, LT,” Baxter said when he walked in. “Duly served to one Philadelphia Jones. The building’s full of kids pretending to be bored the cops are tossing the place. I bet a princely amount of zoner’s flowing into the sewer from here right about now.”

“Maybe, but they run a pretty tight operation.”

“We’ll be the judge of that. Your love muffin’s starting on main level e-shit, Peabody.”

“He’s not my love muffin. He’s my lean, mean sex machine.”

“I stand corrected. Where do you want us to start, Dallas?”

“Basement. Storage. Potential areas of concealment. Work your way up. We’ll work our way down. Uniforms should give the residents’ rooms a quick pass. I’m not looking for anything there, but we can’t leave them out.”

“Basement.” Baxter sighed at Trueheart, looked down with a shake of the head. “I knew I should’ve changed these shoes.”

“Be glad I don’t make you darn your socks.”

“Do what?”

“That’s what I said. God, this is a snack? Ginger-flavored rice cakes. Cakes of rice are not a snack. I suspect them of evil deeds for this alone. Basement,” she repeated.

They found nothing in the private quarters. Eve learned Philadelphia was slightly looser in her reading and personal music choices, mixing in more pure entertainment, with a lot of current options.

On which she made notes in her memo book.

So she could discuss what the kids watched, listened to, talked about, with some practical knowledge, Eve concluded.

She used birth control, skin-care products—a lot of those—and minimal enhancers. A couple of lip dyes, some hair gunk, some eye gunk.

It occurred to Eve, with some embarrassment, that she had more herself.

Not her fault, she thought. It got dumped on her.

They worked their way down to the main level where she saw Quilla—the kid was everywhere—giggling over McNab’s shoulder as he conducted what she assumed was a standard search on Shivitz’s comp.

“Ah, she’s crushing,” Peabody said quietly. “Who can blame her? He’s so cute.”

Eve frowned, studied the little tableau. Quilla in her house uniform—but yeah, she’d slicked something shiny on her lips. McNab, his long blond hair in a straight, streaming ponytail down the back of his screaming pink shirt with a purple elephant emblazoned on the front. He wore his usual complement of silver ear hoops. She caught a glimpse of purple airboots under the desk.

Next to Quilla’s dull and simple uniform, he looked like the opening act of the circus.

Next to anything, Eve corrected.

They continued down; Quilla Bat-ears glanced up. And yeah, Eve concluded, she had that dewy, dopey, love-struck look in her eyes.

“McNab said I could watch.”

“McNab’s not in charge. If you get caught meddling in a police search, you’ll end up doing time in the Quiet Room.”

Though Quilla only shrugged, McNab caught Eve’s eye, nodded. “Hey, Quill, this is thirsty work. Any chance of getting a fizzy around here?”

“Zippo. Not allowed in the house.”

“Sad.”

“Totally sad. But I can ask if I can get some at the market. It’s right next door.”

“Ask,” Eve said, then dug in her pocket for the price of fizzies. “If it’s cleared, get a variety pack, and a tube of Pepsi.”

“Completely.” She took the money, rushed back to the kitchen area.

“That’ll keep her busy.”

“She’s cute and funny,” McNab commented. “Smart, too. What’s she doing in here?”

“The same as a lot of them. Shit for parents, kicked around, picked up repeatedly for truancy, shoplifting and so on. She’s better off here, which doesn’t say much for the shit parents. What have you got for me?”

“Not much. I went over the suspect’s e-stuff first. I’m taking it in to give it a deeper look, but honest, Dallas, it’s mostly for form. Nothing pops. It’s all work, work, work. Some correspondence, but nothing funny. Some pictures in files—some personal of him, his family, with some going back a ways. Pictures of some of the kids, but nothing perv-oriented. Some interoffice stuff, kinda jokey with his sister now and again, but mostly just straightforward.”

“No searches for transportation, tickets, accommodations?”

“No, not in the last ten weeks. Some of that prior, a booking for some deal in northern PA. He’s got all that in a file, too, with some speech he wrote for it, and some notes about a workshop.”

“A retreat.”

“I guess.” He flipped the notebook he had on the desk. “Yeah, the Reaching Inward Retreat. The list I got from the sister says he has the office comp, and they each have a mini upstairs. He has a PPC, a pocket ’link, a memo book. The office comp’s all that’s in the office.”

“He left the ’link.”

“I got it.” Peabody handed over the ’link, sealed in an evidence bag.

“I took a look, and there’s nothing overt,” Eve began. “But it looked to me like a couple of contacts had been recently deleted. And your new girlfriend tells me he bought a new disposable in the last couple days.”

“She’s my little playmate. I’ve only got one girlfriend.” He reached over, wiggled his fingers against Peabody’s. “I’ll check out the ’link. No PPC on site?”

“Not found. He must have taken it and the memo book with him. I scanned through the minis, didn’t see anything, but take them with you, too.”

“Will do.” McNab dug some gum out of one of the many and copious pockets of his purple baggies, offered it. With no takers he popped one of the little green squares into his mouth. “So the sister’s is the same, but she’s got budgetary stuff on there, revenue, expenses, a list of benefactors. Admin stuff. Some of that’s on here, too. And files for each kid, circumstances and date of admission and/or release. Progress reports, infractions, problem areas, positive areas, like that. It’s all coming off pretty clean and pretty blah.”

“He’s got personal stuff somewhere, and he was in a hurry to get gone. We’ll find something.”

•   •   •

T
wo hours later, Eve admitted defeat.

“Either he’s a lot more devious than he comes off and McNab will find something back in the lab, or everything here’s clean, aboveboard and as boring as ginger-flavored rice cakes.”

“They’re not so bad,” Peabody commented. “Especially if you drizzle just a little chocolate-flavored syrup on them, which negates the purpose, but still. Rice cakes. I think I’m punchy.”

“We’re lucky our brains aren’t leaking out of our ears when we spend half a day combing through this place and the most interesting thing we found was a single smashed joint of zoner inside an air vent that looked like it had been there for months. Maybe years.”

She stayed out of the way while McNab and the uniforms hauled out what few electronics seemed worth a second pass.

Shivitz literally wrung her hands. “Our records.”

“You were instructed to make copies of anything needed for daily operation.”

“What if I forgot something?”

“You never do,” Philadelphia assured her.

She’d gone pale again as the effects of the soother wore off. The strain tightened around her eyes, her mouth, but she had her voice under control.

Still, she bit her lip when Uniform Carmichael carried out boxes of archived discs, labeled by year.

“We keep careful records, Lieutenant. We have inspections. We have—”

“I don’t expect to find any problem with your operation. Some of this is just procedure.”

Eve turned so she faced Philadelphia, looked straight into her eyes.

“I have to impress on you again, if your brother contacts you, you need to persuade him to come in. You don’t want him hauled in to Central in cuffs.”

“No.” She groped for Shivitz’s hand. “Please.”

“Then convince him to turn himself in. Failing that, find out where he is. Either way, you need to contact me immediately.”

“I will. I gave you my word. No one I spoke with has seen or heard from him.”

“You’ve got a sister in Australia.”

“I contacted Selma. He hasn’t contacted her, and now she’s trying everything to find him. I hated to pull her in, and now she’s as worried as I am. I even spoke with our father, though Nash wouldn’t go to him.”

“No?”

“Father would insist he come back right away. He’d never allow Nash the quiet, contemplative time I believe, absolutely believe, he’s taking if he understood we had a problem. I’m sure he’s just taking time to think, and he’ll be in touch with me soon. He wouldn’t want me to worry.”

She looked around, over, back, as if she expected to see him coming down the steps, striding down a hallway any moment.

“Nash is very protective. He wouldn’t want me to worry.”

Maybe that was true, Eve thought. Maybe that was the core of it.

She walked out, ridiculously thrilled to be outside again even with the thin spit of sleet splatting on the sidewalk.

“Go with McNab,” she told Peabody.

“Always my plan.”

“Ha-ha. Do another round on the retreat list, in case he decides to try a late check-in. And let’s have the locals have a talk with both the father and the other sister. Just tie that off. Otherwise . . . I’m going to work from home,” she said as she started to her car. “If he digs out those contacts, or anything else, I know the second after he does.”

“You got that. Hey, you never got your consult with Mira.”

“Shit.” She stopped, shoved at her dampening hair—and what the hell, dragged the snowflake cap out of her pocket and pulled it on. “Shit,” she said again, and yanked out her ’link as she hoofed to the car.

Mira’s office contact went straight to the off-hours recording. Cursing again, Eve gave in, pulled on the red gloves, and formulating apologies, tried Mira’s personal ’link.

“Eve. I’m sorry we couldn’t manage that five minutes between us today.”

“I got hung up at HPCCY. Some things are breaking—I think. I’ve got new information, and a direction. But I could use corroboration on that direction. I’m just heading out now. I hate to ask again, but if I could stop by for just a few minutes . . .”

“I’m actually not quite home yet myself, as I got hung up a bit, too. Dennis and I are going out to see some friends later this evening.”

“Oh well, fine.” Damn actual life, Eve thought. “If we could set something up for tomorrow.”

“We could stop by your home on our way.”

“I don’t want to mess up your night.”

“It’s practically on the way. We could be there in about . . . let’s say ninety minutes if that works.”

“If it does for you, that’s great.”

“About ninety minutes then. I’ll tell Dennis you wore the cap. He’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, ha. These, too.” She waved a red-gloved hand in front of the screen.

Mira laughed. “Very pleased. See you shortly.”

She attacked traffic. She wanted home—home where she could take a few minutes to think, to organize her thoughts, put her theories in order before meeting with Mira.

Was she supposed to let Roarke know the Miras were coming? It wasn’t a social visit; it was work. He didn’t have to let her know if he had a business associate come by. Did he?

Oh hell, she’d never figure all the rules out, so better to err on the side of caution.

She’d just send him a quick text, and that hit somewhere in the middle, she decided.

She ordered his personal ’link, ordered text mode. And had barely begun to compose the text when the whole thing shifted. He came on screen.

“I’d rather hear your voice.”

“I’m going to be home in . . . a couple of weeks if this traffic doesn’t Get The Hell Moving! How did that asshole get a license to drive a maxibus?
How
? You have to take a test. Just hold it a minute. Fucker.”

She skimmed in front of a shiny limo, muttered, “Bite me,” at the dignified protest of horns, shimmied in beside the offending bus, then around.

“I swear I’d pull the asshole over and impound the goddamn bus and everyone in it if I had time.”

“Yes, I’d rather hear your voice, anytime.”

“Better now. I’m about ten minutes out, maybe less. I’ve had some movement on things, and a whole bunch of bullshit. I need a consult with Mira and couldn’t get to her today, so they’re going to stop by on their way to some deal.”

“It’ll be lovely to see them.”

“Okay. I just . . . wanted to tell you.”

“Because you decided it might fall into the rules. I’m probably a few minutes behind you. Where did you get that fetching cap?”

“Crap.” Instinctively, she slapped a hand over the snowflake.

“And those . . . adorable gloves.”

“Crap and crap.” She dropped her hand. “Mr. Mira. I’ve got to go to war with these fucking cabs. Later.”

She clicked off on his laughter, geared up for battle.

When she finally pulled up in front of the house, she decided the drive home had been more exciting than most of her workday. And that just showed how tedious a full building search could be when people lived like droids.

No sex toys, no porn, she thought as she got out, hunched against the sleet as she walked to the door. No cache of money or ill-gotten gains, no illegal weapons. Just one ancient joint.

Really, how did anyone live that way?

She stepped inside, to the cat, to Summerset, wondering just how many interesting things a full house search of her own would turn up, and that didn’t even count Roarke’s private office with the unregistered equipment.

“Well,” Summerset said, “this is new.”

“What? Don’t start.”

“You appear to be wearing a glittering snowflake, and fuzzy gloves.”

“Crap, crap.” She yanked it all off. “They were gifts, so knock it off. The Miras are coming by in about an hour. Not socially. It’s a consult.”

“I believe we can still be cordial and welcoming.”

“I can. You’ll still have all the cordiality of a corpse.”

Since it was the best she could do with her mind so damn crowded, she bolted upstairs, and straight into her office.

She pulled off her coat, tossed it on the sleep chair, then immediately had to lift the cat off it. She should’ve known better.

She picked up the coat, put down the cat, tossed the coat elsewhere.

Coffee, she thought. Please God, some coffee. Programming some, she just stood, drank half the mug, then breathed out.

Setting it aside, she made some minor adjustments to her board. She sat at her desk, cobbled together some notes, made some additions, reordered them.

Then she picked up the coffee, put her boots up, and let her mind clear.

Because it was clear, the first thing that popped in when Roarke stepped inside was: He’s so pretty.

“You couldn’t have been more right or more succinct about the traffic. It was bloody vicious.”

“We won. We’re home.”

“You’re right. That calls for a drink.”

“I guess maybe.”

He came over to her first, put his hands on the arms of her chair, leaned down to kiss her.

She surprised him, undid him, by rising up, wrapping her arms tight around him, and making it much more than a welcome-home kiss.