Chapter 15

Again, all the pretty girls sat in a circle. More had faces of their own now, young and sad in contrast with their bright clothes, bright hair.

They didn't chatter like the girls in Times Square, or giggle at jokes only they could understand. They sat, they watched.

Eve thought they waited.

"I'm getting close," she insisted. "It takes time, and work—and maybe some luck. There are so many of you. I only need two more IDs."

And the two wearing her face turned and looked away.

"There's no point in being pissy about it."

"They don't like being dead," Linh told her. "None of us do. It's not fair."

"Life's not fair. Neither's death."

"Easy for you to say." The girl named Merry sneered at her. "Your life's totally mag. You're sleeping in a big warm bed with the frostiest guy on or off planet."

"Her father beat and raped her when she was just a little girl," Lupa told Merry. "Younger than us."

"She lived through it, didn't she?" Shelby stood up, crossed her arms over her chest. "And landed in the prime. Now she's blaming me for everything."

"I'm not blaming you, for anything."

"Are too. You're saying it's my fault we're dead. That just because I wanted my own place with my own friends, everybody got killed. Like, what, I knew it was going to happen or something?"

"Listen—"

"So what if I sucked off a few fuckheads?" She threw her arms out now. "So the fuck what! I got what I wanted, didn't I? And shit for my buds, too. If you don't take what you want, somebody takes it first. No way I was going to be stuck in that ‘holy higher power meditate your brains out' shit until some jerkwad who didn't know jack about me decided I could get the hell out. I decide for myself. Nobody was going to push me around again, ever, ever, ever!"

"Wow." Eve gave her a considering nod. "You really were a bitchy little whiner. Not that you deserved to die for it. Maybe you'd have grown out of it, or maybe you'd have been a bitchy grown-up whiner given the chance. But you didn't get the chance. And that's where I come in."

"You're no different than the rest of them. No better than the rest of them."

"I'm what you've got."

"Fuck you!"

"Sit down. Shut up."

Mikki hauled herself to her feet, hands bunched to fists at her sides. "You can't talk to Shelby like that."

"Sure I can. It's my dream, and I'm in charge here."

"I don't like when people fight." Iris put her hands over her ears, began to rock. "People shouldn't fight."

"Where's your dog?" Eve wondered. "Didn't you have a dog?"

"We don't have to listen to you!" Shelby shouted, running to each girl, hauling her up to stand. "We don't have to talk to you. We don't have to do anything you say. Because we're dead! And it's not my fault."

"Jesus. Shut up. Shut up so I can think."

"You're the one doing all the talking."

Eve blinked her eyes open, looked blurrily around the dimly lit room. "What?"

"That should be my question." Roarke stroked a hand over her hair. "Who needs to shut up?"

"Shelby. The girls came back. That Shelby. Bitching, whining, bitching. I probably would, too, if somebody drowned me in the tub. What time is it?"

"Early." He leaned over to touch his lips to hers. "Go back to sleep."

She sniffed him. "You're up, just out of the shower."

"Can't fool an ace detective."

"Your hair's still damp." She walked her fingers through it. "And you smell really good." And her detective skills told her he wore nothing but a towel. "I bet you have a 'link conference with Pluto and a holo-meeting with Istanbul or somewhere scheduled."

"And a mind reader as well. What a lucky man I am."

"You could get luckier." She skimmed a hand down his chest, down his belly, down. And grinned. "But I see you knew that."

"I've deductive powers of my own."

She used her other hand, tugged him down by his hair. "What else you got?"

"Apparently a randy wife." His hands got busy as well, skimming up and under the thin nightshirt she wore. "Pluto can wait."

"Now, how many people can say that?" She tugged again so his lips came to hers.

And in the thrill of the long, lazy kiss, wrapped her arms, her legs around him, holding him tight and close.

Because she was lucky, and wouldn't forget it. She had lived through it, all that had come before. And she was in the big warm bed with the frostiest guy on or off planet. The man who loved her, wanted her, tolerated her, and understood her.

Whatever the day brought when it dawned, she had this, she had him, to begin it.

"I love you." She tightened around him. "I really mean it."

"I love you." She felt his lips curve against her throat. "I really mean it."

"Show me."

She arched toward him. He slid into her.

On the slow rise, the slow fall, he watched her face in the quiet light. Happy, he thought, there in her eyes, in the easy, fluid move of her body, in the quickening beat of her heart.

Whatever had troubled her in dreams she'd set aside, for this, for him. For them.

He touched his lips to her cheek, then the other, her brow, then her lips. To show her.

Dawn crept closer as they gave pleasure and took it. She sighed, a simple sound of bliss, stroked her hands down his back, up again until her fingers tangled in his hair.

All as sweet and lovely as a walk in a summer garden.

As the heat built, as the need sharpened, he watched her still, saw that pleasure peak in the deepening of her eyes even as he felt her body arch up to reach it, to take it.

Her heart drumming now against the thud of his own, her sigh sliding into a long, throaty moan. And her eyes, her eyes going dark and blind for that moment, that sumptuous moment when she lost herself, surrendered herself to what they made.

Reaching, taking, he fell into her eyes, fell into her.

She lay under him, limp, dazzled. If she could wish a single thing for a single day, it would be to stay just as they were, all warm, all tangled, all content. She turned her face, nuzzled it against his hair to cover herself with the scent.

She could take that with her, whatever else the day handed her.

When she stirred, he pressed his lips to the side of her throat, then levered up to look down at her again. "Can you sleep now?"

"I think I'm awake. Just as well."

Rolling over, he drew her to his side.

"Don't you have Pluto on tap?"

"In a bit."

He thought he could lull her back to sleep, she realized, but her mind was already starting to churn.

"I don't blame the kid for it."

"Of course not."

"Figuring she might be the key isn't the same as thinking it's her fault."

"Got under your skin, did she?"

"I think I'm looking at her as a part of me I was still testing out at that age. Not the bjs and booze."

"Happy to hear that."

"It's the pushy little bitch part, the ‘I want my own place, my own purpose' part. She, from what I know and the dots I connect from that, let all that right out. I mostly kept it under wraps."

"She was in a safe place, Eve, or what should have been. You rarely were."

"But I hated it, safe or otherwise. Hated all of it. I think she did, too—or am I projecting? I think she hated it, resented it, thought it was all bullshit. Even Sebastian's club. None of it was hers, and that's how it was going to be. Someone she knew used that. She thought—I'm probably projecting—she thought she was using him, but she was a child, and easily strung along. Figured she knew the score, but she was still just a kid."

"How does that help you?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm trying to get a clear picture of all of them, and she's pretty clear at this point. Anyway, you should do your Emperor of the Known Universe thing. I think I'll get in a workout before I start all this."

"I'll be about an hour. I'll meet you back here for breakfast."

"That'll work."

They rolled out of bed, he to go to his closet for a suit, she to grab some sweats.

As she pulled on a tank, she frowned over at him. "It's not really Pluto, right?"

"Not yet." He smiled at her. "The day may come."

···

She let her mind roll around possibilities, speculations, avenues while she pushed her body into a good, muscling-pinging sweat. Satisfied, she took the elevator from the gym back to the bedroom, and straight into the shower.

Roarke hadn't come back by the time she got out, so she amused herself by hunting up the financial reports he habitually scanned in the mornings before she even opened her eyes.

She glanced down at the cat bumping his head against her leg. Suspicious, she hunkered down, sniffed.

"I know Summerset fed you. I can smell your kibble breath."

He merely stared at her with his bicolored eyes, then butted his head lightly to hers.

Okay, so she was a sucker. Rising, she ordered up a saucer of milk—a small one—and set it out for him. While the cat happily lapped, she grabbed pants, a sweater, a jacket she was reasonably sure she'd never seen before. But she liked the dark chocolate leather trim at the pockets, and the cloud-soft rest of it.

She started to swing it on over her sweater and weapon harness, caught the label.

"Cashmere. Jesus, Jesus, why does he do that?" she demanded of the cat, who merely continued fastidiously washing himself. "Watch, just watch. I'll get in a fight with some psycho and ruin in. Just watch."

With those dark thoughts she put it on because, damn it, she liked it—and it was his own fault if she destroyed it on the job.

As he was still with Pluto or whoever, she considered the AutoChef, then made her choices for breakfast for two.

She was sitting, as he usually was, the financials on mute, as she went over her notes and drank coffee when he came in.

"It took longer than I thought it would," he began, then stopped to smile at her, and the two plates, covered with warming domes, on the table in the sitting area. "You've done breakfast for me. What do we have?"

He lifted the dome. "Omelets, berries, toast, and jam. Nicely done."

"I figured you'd stick me with oatmeal. Beat you to it."

"An omelet does very well." He sat beside her.

"How are things in Roarke World?"

"Satisfying at the moment. I've some meetings later—"

"My shocked face." She opened her mouth and eyes wide.

Amused, he popped a berry in her mouth. "I can and will make time if you can use me for anything."

"I thought I already used you this morning."

"Aren't you the clever one today."

"Every day. I'll let you know. If Sebastian doesn't come through on DeLonna this morning, I may ask you to dig out his flops."

"I like to think he'll come through."

"We'll see."

He gestured toward her PPC. "How are things in Eve World?"

"I shot off some more notes to Peabody, to Mira. Figured I'd work here for an hour or so as I'm getting going so early."

She forked up some omelet—not bad at all.

"This will happen when you're waked by a group of unhappy girls, then want sex."

"I guess. It'll give me a jump anyway. She was unhappy," Eve said after a moment. "Not just pissed off and defensive. She picked up Linh somewhere along the line, but never took her to Sebastian's. Going to take her to her place. Get a few supplies first, take her newest bud to the place she was making for herself. And he kills them both. Did she know? Was she aware enough to know? Now I'm going to be dead, and so's Linh. I'm never going to have what I want. It's not fair."

She could picture that—the despair, the frustration, the guilt, the anger.

"It worked so well for him, he could do it again. Some, like Mikki, just walked right in, probably looking for Shelby. Others, he lured. Lupa and this Iris kid. A church-type thing for them, at least for them if not some of the others. Use what works? Vary it to suit. Or did he use the same basic ploy?"

It nagged at her, the not knowing. Shaking her head, she tried to focus on the food, but her thoughts kept circling.

She sat up. "The dog. Where's the dog?"

"I don't believe we have one. We have a cat."

"No, the toy dog. The kid's stuffed dog. She took it with her when she left The Club. It wasn't with any of the remains. He had to take it, like their clothes, out of the building. Did he toss it?"

"I would think."

"Maybe he kept it. A little souvenir. He might have other things. The jewelry we didn't find, e-stuff, backpacks. Yeah, he might have kept some of it, to remind him."

She shoveled in more omelet. "Something else to think about."

···

When she walked into her home office, she frowned at the board, studied it, then muttering to herself changed the arrangement again.

She pinned Nash, Philadelphia, Shivitz on one side, with the victims in residence at The Sanctuary below—connecting them in turn to Fine, Clipperton, Bittmore, Seraphim Brigham in one group, Linh Penbroke offshooting from Shelby.

Sebastian headed the other section, the victims from his club ranged under him.

Cross-matched were victims connected to both groupings.

Too many, she thought, too many crossed, and that meant the killer had knowledge of both pools to fish in both pools.

And however she arranged it, she still came back to Shelby as a key.

Considering, she moved Montclair Jones from ancillary to the head group with his siblings.

It had to flow from there, she decided. So turn it all over, start again at the top.

She went to her desk to review the runs on all three. She picked apart little details, poked through on education, activities, relationships, medicals, and financials.

Then got more coffee, and did it all again from another angle.

Despite the early start, the extra work had eaten up the time. Rising, she went to the doorway of Roarke's adjoining office.

"I've got to go in."

He paused at his work on screen. "I'll be leaving shortly myself."

"This new place you're starting when the building's cleared. What's the name again?"

"You inspired it. An Didean."

"Yeah, that. It'll be good works, socially conscious, blah, blah, but to some extent it has to be run as a business, right? Payrolls, overhead, job descriptions, supervisors, pecking orders."

"It would."

"Organized so people have schedules, duties, so bills get paid, supplies get bought and distributed. And like a home, too, with that kind of dynamic—chores, say. Somebody's got to take care of laundry, cleaning, food."

Interested, he sat back. "The concept is to have the residents take part in that. Assignments to cook and clean—to establish routine, discipline, and a sense of ownership."

"And when you don't have unlimited resources, you have to keep things pretty tight. You'd have a budget, and somebody has to keep a handle on that. And to keep within that budget, everybody has to pull weight, pull some extra when it comes down to it, and it's going to come down to it pretty regularly without solid outside funding."

"You run a department," he pointed out. "And have a budget to work within."

"Yeah, which got me thinking. I'm juggling all the time, or trying to mine what I have for a little extra. Shift this to open that, then you have to figure out how the hell to fill the hole you opened when you shifted. It's a pain in the ass, but it has to be done. The Joneses had the same deal. This is what we've got, and we have to figure out how to make it work."

Those wild blue eyes lit with interest. "Now you're following the money?"

"Kind of. Both Nashville and Philadelphia Jones got the training and degrees for the social work and counseling aspects. The older sister—the Aussie now—she got some of it, too. Philadelphia some business management, so you have to figure she was the one with the budget headaches."

"I wouldn't say she did a stellar job of it."

Eve pointed her finger at him. "That's exactly right. They pretty consistently swam in the red, right up until they were swamped by it before Bittmore built them a big, shiny boat. Now, many people like that run on good intentions and the hope that a higher power—one with deep pockets—is going to come to the rescue. But Philadelphia strikes me as more realistic than that. When you're the one trying to add up the columns and stretch the numbers, you have to be."

"All right. What does that tell you?"

"You sound like Mira," she commented. "Anyway, it makes me look at the whole production, and the parts of it. Philadelphia's pulling a lot of weight; the older brother, he looks to be pulling pretty hefty, too—even did some outside work, part-time teaching, part-time preaching—to bring in a little more here and there."

"And the younger? Not pulling weight."

"It looks like he was weight. Didn't get the certifications, so he can't officially run any of the sessions or counsel or teach. Treatment for depression, and meds to deal with it. No specific training I can find. From my shuffling around in the financials, it looks like he had a little stipend from the mother at her death—just him, not the others—a portion of insurance there, but no stipend—which is also telling."

"She left what she could to the one she felt needed it most."

"Yeah. And for the rest, his siblings covered him. Even the Aussie sister sent them some money now and then," Eve added. "They paid baby brother out of the budget for general labor, and that's mostly a bullshit term to get around specifics when there just aren't any.

"That goes on for years. Then boom, they get that big, shiny boat. They're barely on board when they send him to Africa—and it wasn't first-class travel, but it cost them. They finally have a little breathing room in the budget, and instead of absorbing him into the new place, they ship him off."

"And you wonder, was it to just divest themselves of the weight, was it a sudden opportunity they believed would serve him, or did they get him as far away as they could because his mission wasn't to help young girls, but to kill them."

"That's just what I'm wondering. He's the one with all the loose time."

"And it would take time to lure, to kill, to construct the walls."

"Yeah, and where does somebody with a full schedule, with an armload of stuff to do, get that time? But he's got plenty on his hands. What do you do with that? Maybe you hang around the neighborhood, and you see where some of the kids—like Shelby—go when they get out and around."

"A kind of stalking," Roarke suggested.

"Maybe. Or maybe envying. Some people kill what they envy. If you're Montclair Jones, you know what they're doing, the girls, and maybe you let them know you know and you're okay with it. You build up that trust—we're all pulling something over on the do-gooders."

"Why kill them?"

"Don't know. Maybe you've got a stresser that breaks in. Moving to a new place, have this huge opportunity to do more good, and do it right. But the sibs lay it on the line for him. You have to straighten up, bro. We can't keep floating you the way we have. We can't squander this gift from the old higher power. So that's a pisser. Now he has to actually work? Have real responsibilities, and they're going to be on his ass. And who's fault is that?"

"The children."

"He could think so. And those girls—they sneak around doing what they want, but he's going to have to toe the line."

"And back to envy."

"Yeah, so screw that, screw them. Something like that," she said, not quite satisfied. "Because I'm not buying all the coincidence in timing, in cross-relationships. It all has a center. If Shelby's a key, maybe he's a lock. Put them together and it could open the center."

"You're going to have a busy day."

She cocked her head. "Am I?"

"You'll want to consult with Mira because talking it out with her will help you refine the theory. You'll want to talk to both Joneses—separately. You'll hope to get this DeLonna's contact information from Sebastian, otherwise you're going to squeeze me to find his HQ so you can put your boot on his neck until he does. And I imagine you'll be talking to someone in Africa."

He rose as he spoke, came to her, laid his hands on her shoulders. "My meetings pale beside your meetings."

"I don't have meetings," she insisted. "They're interviews, interrogations, consults. Meetings are for suits." She gave his tie a tug.

"You may not wear one, Lieutenant, but you're a suit with a badge."

"Insulting me so soon after we've had sex could mean it's the last sex you have for the foreseeable future."

He pulled her in, caught her mouth with his. "I like my odds," he told her, taking another quick nip before he let her go.

They were probably pretty good, she admitted as she headed down. She flipped her coat off the newel post, shrugged into it as she headed out into the frosty, ear-numbing morning. And as she engaged her in-dash 'link to contact Mira, she thought as she often did, if Roarke had turned right instead of left, he'd have made a damn good cop.

"Eve. You're moving early today."

"Yeah, I've got a full plate. I'm hoping you can make room for me on yours. I've got some thoughts on the Jones siblings I want to run by you. Get your sense."

"I have an hour now if you can come to my home."

"Oh. I don't want to push into your off time."

"It's not a problem. I was about to review the notes you sent me in any case."

"I'm on my way then. Thanks." She switched off, contacted Peabody as she made the first turn out of the gates. "I'm swinging by Mira's for a quick consult, then I want to hit Jones and Jones again. I want to talk to them separately."

"You want me to meet you there?"

"No. Arrange for the sister to come in. Play it nice, but firm. I want her in my space. Then we'll take her brother. While I'm with Mira, contact Owusu in Zimbabwe. I want—"

"I get to talk to Africa? Major score!"

"Glad I could start your day off with a bang. See if she's talked to her people yet about the younger Jones. And ask if she can—if she hasn't—get a sense of him. Did he put in the work? Was he good at the work? And get those details of the lion mauling. And if she can find anyone who has a picture of him from back then."

"I'm all over it, like a hyena. No crazy and mean. Like a howler monkey."

"Hold the howling and get a clear picture of him over there. I want specific details I can use in the interviews with the siblings."

"I'll get what's to get. Then you've got to give me the deep deets on this Sebastian. I can't believe Mavis knew—"

"Basics are in the notes. We'll get deeper later. Get me something from Africa."

Eve shut off, and began to hunt for parking.

She took the block-and-a-half walk in stride. Fast strides as the air froze her fingers and cheeks. Too early for the off-to-school brigade, she noted, but not for the domestics. Nannies, maids, cooks poured off maxibuses, streamed up from the subway, hoofed it over the sidewalk toward the day's work.

Owners, or those owners paid, walked a variety of dogs. She smelled fresh bread, chestnuts roasting, coffee, sugar-dusted pastries.

Not a bad place to call home, she thought as she walked up to the Miras' front door. Even before she rang the bell, the door opened.

As always when she saw the kind and dreamy eyes of Dennis Mira, her heart gave a little tug. Just something about him, she thought, with his cardigans and mussed hair, bemused smile.

"Eve. Come in out of the cold." He took her hand to draw her inside. "Where are your gloves? Your hands are freezing. Charlie! Find Eve some gloves."

"Oh, no, I have them. I just forget to—"

"And a hat! You should always wear a hat in the cold," he said to Eve. "It keeps the heat in." He winked at her. "Warms the brain. Who can think with a cold brain?"

In her life he was the only person she actively wanted to hug the minute she saw him. Just press up against him, rest her head on his sloping shoulder and just... be there.

"You can sit by the fire," he said, nudging her into the living area with its sparkling Christmas tree, its family photos, and lovely, lovely sense of home. "I'll make you hot chocolate. It'll do the trick."

"You don't—" Hot chocolate? "Really?"

"It's my secret recipe, and the best. Charlie will tell you."

"It's incredible," Mira confirmed as she came in—looking nothing like a Charlie in an icy blue suit and heeled boots in metallic sapphire. "We'd love some, Dennis." Then she tugged on the frayed sleeve of his cardigan. "Didn't I put this sweater in the donation box?"

"Did you?" He smiled in that absent way he had. "Isn't that strange? I'll make the chocolate. Where did I put the..."

"First cupboard, left of the stove, second shelf."

"Of course."

He walked off, little shuffling sounds in his house scuffs.

"I can't get him to let go of that sweater. It'll probably unravel on him one day."

"It looks good on him."

Mira smiled. "It does, doesn't it? Have a seat, and tell me what you're thinking."

Eve sat near the simmering fire to talk of the business of murder.