Chapter 3

Philadelphia Jones rocked back on her heels as if Eve had punched her.

"What? A dozen? My kids!" She zipped around the workstation, would have barreled straight through Eve for the door if Eve hadn't thrown up a hand to stop her.

"Hold it!"

"I need to—"

"Sit down," Eve interrupted. "First explain why you jumped straight to murder."

"I know you. I know who you are, what you do. What's happened? Is it one of our kids? Which one?"

The Icove case, Eve thought. When you had a bestselling book and a major vid based on one of your cases, people started recognizing you.

Well, that, and being married to Roarke.

"We're here about murders, Ms. Jones, but not recent ones."

"I don't understand. I should sit down," she decided, and worked her way over to the sitting area. "It's not about my kids? I'm sorry. I apologize." She took a couple steadying breaths. "I'm not usually so... reactionary."

"Why don't I get you some water," Peabody began.

"Oh, thank you, but I'll ask the matron to bring in some tea, and she should reschedule my next session."

"I'll tell her."

"You're so kind."

"No problem." Peabody slipped out.

"Please sit," Philadelphia told Eve. "Again, I'm so sorry. I read the Icove book, of course—and slipped out just the other night with a friend to see the vid. It's all very fresh in my mind, so when I saw you, I jumped to the worst possible conclusion."

"Understood." Eve took a chair, and Philadelphia's measure. Calmer now, Eve thought, but still shaken.

Middle forties, she judged. Conservatively dressed, simple hair, small studs in the ears.

Like the room: neat, tidy, and nothing fancy.

"You and your brother once ran this organization out of another location."

"No, HPCCY has always been housed here. You must mean The Sanctuary. That's what we called our original home. Oh, we struggled there," she said with a ghost of a smile. "In every way. Not enough funding, not enough staff, and the building itself a maintenance nightmare. We weren't able to keep up the payments—we rushed into buying that building, I'm afraid, without clearly thinking it through. It housed war orphans during the Urbans."

"Yeah, I know."

"It seemed like a sign, so Nash and I rushed in. We found out there's a reason angels fear to tread," she said with that wispy smile again. "But we learned quite a bit, and with that, God's grace, and the generosity of our benefactor, we were able to create this home, and offer the children who need us much more than a sanctuary."

Peabody slipped back in. "Tea will be right along."

"Thank you so much. Please sit. I was just explaining to Lieutenant Dallas how Nash and I—my brother—were able to expand our horizons when we relocated here. Fifteen years ago last September. Time goes quickly, sometimes much too quickly."

"What do you do here, exactly?" Eve asked her.

"We offer children between the ages of ten and eighteen a clean, safe environment along with the necessary mental, spiritual, and physical aids to help them conquer addictions, to help them learn to make good choices, and build strong character. We're a route for the children, and their guardians toward a protective and contented life."

"How do you get them—the kids?"

"Most are enrolled by their guardians—either as day residents or full-time—some through the court system. Our children come to us troubled, many addicted to a variety of substances, all certainly with poor self-control, self-image, a plethora of bad habits. We give them structure, boundaries, group and individual therapy, and spiritual guidance."

"Is that what you did in the other location?"

"We weren't able to as effectively assist in addiction rehabilitation as we didn't have the proper staff. At The Sanctuary we were, I fear, little more than a holding pattern for most of the children. A place to come in out of the cold. Many were on the street—runaways or abandoned. Lost children. We tried to give them a safe place, a warm bed, healthy food, and guidance, but we were hampered by lack of funding until Ms. Bittmore, our benefactor, stepped in. She donated this building to us, and a financial trust to help us with the considerable expenses.

"Oh, thank you, Matron."

"I'm happy to help." Shivitz carted in a tray with a simple white teapot, three white cups. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Not right now, but please, send Mr. Jones in as soon as he's able."

"Of course." Shivitz backed out, quietly closed the door.

"I'm happy to talk about HPCCY." Philadelphia poured the tea as she spoke. "And I'd love to give you a personal tour if you have the time. But I'm puzzled by your interest."

"This morning, the demolition stage of rehab on the building on Ninth began. Your old building."

"They're finally going to do something with it. That's good news. I have fond memories, as well as nightmares about that building." She laughed a little, lifted her tea. "The plumbing couldn't be trusted, the doors jammed, and the power would go out without explanation. I hope whoever owns it now has deep pockets. I suspect a true rehabilitation of that property will cost a great deal."

She looked over as her door opened. "Nash, come meet Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody."

"My pleasure." He strode in, a striking man with a mane of white-streaked black hair, a prominent nose, his sister's sharp chin. He wore a suit and tie and shoes polished to mirror gleams.

"I'm aware of you, Lieutenant," he said with a firm handshake, "due to your connection with Roarke. And of both of you," he continued, giving Peabody the same businesslike shake, "through your reputations as police officers—and the Icove case particularly."

"Let me ask Matron to get another cup."

"Don't bother on my account." Nash waved his sister's offer away, joined her on the couch. "I'm a coffee man, and Philly won't allow caffeine in the house, even the faux sort."

"Especially the faux sort. All those chemicals." She made a disapproving face with a shake of her head. "You might as well drink poison."

"But such satisfying poison. So what brings two of New York's finest to HPCCY?"

"The lieutenant was just telling me that rehabilitation's begun on our old building, Nash. The Sanctuary."

"Rehabilitation's a byword around here, but that old place was, and would be still, beyond our limits. It was a happy day when we moved here."

"And lucky," Eve added. "It's not every day someone donates a building to you."

"Ms. Bittmore is our angel."

He sat back, a man at ease, with his eyes—a shade or two sharper than his sister's—direct on Eve's. "It's well known she lost her husband during the Urban Wars, then years later, lost her youngest son to addiction, to the streets. She nearly lost her granddaughter as well, generation following generation down that dark path. But Seraphim came to us—came to The Sanctuary."

"We were able to reach her," Philadelphia continued. "To help her turn off that dark path, back into the light, to reunite her with her family. Ms. Bittmore came to see us, saw what we were trying to do, and what we were up against. She gave us this building as a tribute to her granddaughter, who happens to be one of our counselors now. We're very grateful to both of them, and to the higher power for bringing us all together."

"Is Seraphim in-house today?"

"I'm not absolutely sure of her schedule, but I think this is her afternoon off. I'd be happy to check with Matron."

"We'll get to that. As I was saying, during demo on the building on Ninth, several false walls were discovered."

"False walls?" Philadelphia's brows drew together. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Walls constructed a short distance out from the originals, leaving a gap between the two."

"Is that why it was so drafty?" She shook her head. "We could never afford much more than emergency repairs, and even then we had to jury-rig more than we should have. I suppose someone might have built out the wall as the original was in such poor shape."

"I don't think so, but concealment was the purpose."

"We painted, tried some minor—very minor," Nash emphasized, "updating in the baths and kitchen, but we never put up walls. Concealment, you said? Hiding valuables—ill-gotten valuables? I can assure you if we'd had anything valuable we'd have spent it to keep The Sanctuary above water rather than hiding it away. What did you find? Cash, jewels, illegals?"

"Bodies," Eve said flatly, and watched both for reaction. "Twelve."

The teacup slipped out of Philadelphia's fingers so the cup bounced on the rug and pale amber liquid ran out in a thin river. Nash simply stared, his face going pale and absolutely blank.

"Twelve." Philadelphia choked it out. "You said—when I thought—you said a dozen. Do you mean, oh, merciful Jesus, did you mean twelve bodies?"

"What are you talking about?" Nash demanded.

"Twelve bodies," Eve said, "found between the original wall and the one constructed to conceal them. More accurately, twelve skeletal remains, preliminarily identified as females between the ages of twelve and sixteen."

"Girls?" As the kid on the bench had done, Philadelphia slid her hand into her brother's. "But how? When? Who could do something like that? Why?"

"All good questions. I'm working on getting the answers. Again, preliminarily, we calculate the victims were placed in that concealment, all wrapped in plastic, approximately fifteen years ago. About the time you left the building and moved into this one."

"You think that we—" Philadelphia leaned forward now, eyes intense. "Lieutenant, Detective, we've dedicated our life to saving young people. From themselves, from their environment, from destructive influences. We could never... we could never."

"It couldn't have been done while we were in there." Still pale, Nash picked up a teacup he'd refused, gulped down the cold contents. "We'd have seen. And if that isn't enough, there were residents, staff. It couldn't have been while we were in there. No."

"How did you leave it?"

"We just walked away on the advice of our attorney. We took what was ours. Furniture, equipment—what little we had. The extra clothes we kept on hand for those who came to us with little to nothing. That sort of thing. We just packed up, and moved everything we could here.

"You cried," he said to his sister. "Even though the place became a disaster, a stone around our necks, you cried leaving it."

"I did. It felt like a failure. It wasn't. We did good work there, with what we had. People would say we lost our investment, and we could ill afford it. But I believe we gained more than we lost. And then we were given this amazing gift. This terrible thing had to have been done after we left."

"Who had access, after you moved out the residents?"

"We did, for a short time." Nash rubbed his hand over his face as a man might when waking from a strange dream. "I suppose some of the staff or even some of the kids could've gotten in if they'd wanted to. Our security there wasn't very good. Another reason we needed to relocate."

"Again, on legal advice we didn't surrender it immediately to the bank." As she spoke, Philadelphia rose, took some napkins from a drawer. She blotted up the spilled tea, set the teacup aside. "We had to file papers, and we were told to simply let the bank foreclose. That it generally took some time to do so. We were actually still there for nearly six months after we stopped paying the mortgage. We could've stayed longer, but it felt like..."

"Stealing," Nash murmured. "You said it was like stealing. We were preparing to close up, thinking we were finished with our mission, then Ms. Bittmore offered us this building. It was like a gift from God. We believe it was, God's work through her."

"How long before the bank shut the place up?"

"I think at least six or eight months after we left. At least," Philadelphia repeated. "We'd have the notification of foreclosure, all the paperwork on file."

"I'd like to have copies."

"I'll see that you do. Anything you need."

"A list of staff, handymen, repair and maintenance. All of them. And a list of residents. You have records?"

"Of staff, yes. Most of the repairmen, yes. Our brother, Monty, did some of the minor repairs. And I tried, Nash is hopeless with tools. Monty was killed in Africa several years ago. We'd have a list of the children, though our rules were less structured there. We were licensed, so we were given the responsibility of housing some children through court order. But we also took in what you could call strays. I'm afraid any number of them might have given fake names, and a great many were only there a night or two, or sporadically. But I'll see you have copies of everything we have."

"Twelve girls," Nash said under his breath. "How can this be?"

"And they may have been ours." Philadelphia's knuckles went white as she gripped her brother's hand. "They may have been girls who came to us, Nash, then came back looking for us. We weren't there, and someone... someone preyed on them."

"Are we responsible?" He shielded his face with his free hand. "Is this terrible thing on our souls?"

"I don't believe that." Philadelphia shifted closer, wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "I don't. Do you?" She lifted pleading eyes to Eve. "Do you?"

"The person responsible is the person who killed them."

"Are you sure they—of course you're sure." Nash dropped his hand, straightened his shoulders. "Wrapped in plastic, you said, hidden behind a wall. Of course this was murder. But how were they killed?"

"I can't give you that information at this time." Eve pushed to her feet. "I appreciate your cooperation in this matter. If I could have those copies, and speak to anyone on staff now who worked or lived in that building, it would be very helpful."

"I'll get Ollie started on that—Oliver Hill," Philadelphia explained. "Our office manager. He wasn't part of The Sanctuary. We could barely afford an office much less someone to manage it. Our matron—Brenda Shivitz—she worked part-time there, for the last year we were in that location, then came with us here, on a full-time basis. Seraphim, as I said. Oh, and Brodie Fine. He'd just started his business, and often did work for us. He's still our handyman. He's got his own company, a small service company. We call on Brodie for any number of things."

"I'd like his contact information."

"You'll have it. If you'll excuse me." Philadelphia pushed off the couch. "I'll take care of this right away."

"Anything you can add?" Eve asked Nash as his sister left the room.

He stared down at his hands. "There's nothing more I can tell you. I'm so very sorry. Will you tell us their names? I might remember them. I feel I should remember them."

"I will when it's cleared. If we could speak with the matron now, get that out of the way."

"Yes, I'll get her. Please use this office, for privacy." He started out, turned. "I hope their souls are long at peace. I'll pray they are."

"Quick take," Eve asked Peabody the minute they were alone.

"They come off dedicated, maybe a little pious, but not extreme, and really close-knit. On the other hand, either or both of them had the best access to the building, and likely to the victims, of anyone we currently know."

"Agreed, on both counts. They also don't seem stupid, and it would be stone stupid to hide bodies in a building you're giving up. They'd have been the first ones looked at if the bank had done any demo fifteen years ago. They're the first we're looking at now."

"Sometimes desperate equals stupid."

Eve nodded in approval. "Damn right it does. Let's find out more about the dead brother, and the sister. And we'll give a hard look to anybody who worked at The Sanctuary, even the occasional repair people."

"Her reaction especially came off as genuine. Real shock and horror."

"Yeah, but if I worked with teenagers every single day for years, I'd have developed exceptional acting skills just so nobody knew I often wanted to nail them to a wall and light fire to them."

"Ouch."

"I'm just saying." Eve turned as Shivitz stepped into the doorway.

"Mr. Jones said... He said you wanted to talk to me. He said—" She stopped there, her already streaming eyes flooding more tears.

Knowing her job meant taking point with emotional witnesses, Peabody walked over, put an arm around the woman's shoulder, led her to a chair.

"I know this is a terrible shock."

"It's—it's unspeakable! Someone killed twelve girls? And they might have been our girls? And then just left them alone in that terrible place? Who could do that?" Shivitz pounded her fist on her thigh. "What kind of godless monster did that? You find him. You must. God will punish him, I believe that. But the law of man must punish him first. You're the law."

"Can't argue with that." Since fiery anger burned off the tears, Eve moved closer. "Think back. Is there anyone you remember who concerned you, who maybe paid the wrong type of attention to the girls at The Sanctuary—or even here, especially in the early days?"

"It wouldn't have been allowed. We're responsible for the safety of the children who come to our home. We'd never allow anyone near them who would cause them harm."

Peabody sat in the chair beside Shivitz, leaned over conversationally. "Sometimes people do good work, appear to live good lives, but something about them gives you a little feeling. Just a feeling something may be off, somewhere."

"I know exactly what you mean." Nodding briskly, Shivitz poked a finger in the air. "I used to shop at this market, but the man who ran it gave me a bad feeling, so I switched to another. Then I heard the man who ran the first market was arrested. For"—she lowered her voice—"bookmaking! I knew there was something wrong with him. I had that feeling you mean."

"Okay then." Eve wondered just how high on the sin list bookmaking ranked in Shivitz's world. "So anyone from The Sanctuary give you that feeling?"

"Not really. I'm sorry, but—oh, wait." Her lips pouted and pooched as she concentrated. "Brodie Fine, our handyman. Oh, I don't mean Brodie himself. He's a lovely man, a good family man, and very reliable. He's even hired a couple of our kids after they graduated. But he did have an assistant—a helper, I think he called him, for a little while back when we were in the other building. And that one gave me a bit of that feeling. Twice I heard that man use coarse language, and there's no place for coarse language, most particularly around children. And I'm sure I smelled alcohol on his breath a time or two. He only came a few times, but I didn't like the feel of him, to tell the truth."

"Do you have a name?"

"Oh goodness, I don't remember. But he was a strong-looking young man, and, yes, when I think about it, there was a look in his eye. What I'd call feral."

"All right. We'll check it out. Anyone else?"

"We're so careful, and it was so long ago. Oh, those poor girls!"

The tears brimmed back, so Eve rushed through another question before the flood.

"What about visitors? Parents, guardians?"

"Back then, it was a rare thing to see hide or hair of a parent. The sad thing is most of the children had run away from home either because it was a bad place, or because they themselves had made bad choices. Now and again parents would come to take a child back home, and if the courts hadn't said otherwise, we couldn't stop them. And in truth there were some who were doing their very best, and the child was recalcitrant. I do remember, now that you mention it, one set of parents who came to take their girl home. The mother, she was quiet and weepy, but the father! He made a terrible scene. Stood there shouting, and accusing us of being a cult!"

She slapped a hand on her heart, patted it there as if the beat might stop at the shock of the accusation.

"Of encouraging his daughter to defy him, allowing her to run wild and so on when we were doing no such thing. Oh, I remember him—Jubal Craine—because I thought he might use his fists on Mr. Jones, or even Ms. Jones, and I'm sure as God's my witness he'd used them before on that girl, and probably his wife. From Nebraska they were. I'm sure I remember that right. Farm people, and the girl had run off, ended up here."

She hesitated.

"And?" Eve prompted.

"Well, I'm sorry to say she'd sold herself more than once for food, for a place to stay. Her name was Leah, and we did our best by her while we could. Oh, oh, and he came back, yes, he did, a month or so later, as Leah had taken off again. He wanted to tear through the place looking for her, even though she wasn't there and we told him so. We called for the police that time, and they took him away. And now that you mention it, that was right about the time we were packing up to make the move."

"That's really helpful, Matron Shivitz." Peabody boosted encouragement into her tone. "Is there anyone else?"

"Those are the ones that come to mind, but I promise I'll think more about it. Just to think I might have known who did this terrible thing, it's going to keep me up at night. But the fact is, Miss, we're—that is, Ms. Jones and Mr. Jones—are so careful about who works here, who comes into the home, has any interaction with the children, I just don't know how this could be."

"The children aren't always in the house, are they?" Eve put in. "They go out. You don't confine them twenty-four/seven."

"Of course not! It's important they have some sort of normal routine, a healthy balance, and learn to cope well with the outside world. It's vital to build up trust. And they have assignments, of course, that take them out. Marketing, field trips, free time. Oh! I see! Someone from the outside. It had to be someone from the outside who did this. Lured the girls back to the other building. From the outside," she repeated on a long breath of relief. "Not one of our own."

Maybe, Eve thought. And maybe not.

"We appreciate your help. If you think of anything or anyone else, contact us."

"I can promise you I will. You don't know their names." She rose. "Mr. Jones said they were only bones. Will you tell us when you know who they are? I try to build relationships with all the children. I try to know who they are, who they hope to be. I've always tried. When I know who they are, I can pray for them better."

"We'll let you know when we can. Is Seraphim Brigham in-house today?"

"Not this afternoon. She only had morning sessions and duties today. She doesn't know yet." Shivitz pressed a hand to her heart again. "This will be very hard for her. She was one of them, you see. One of the girls."

"I don't mean to interrupt." Philadelphia hesitated in the doorway. "I have what you asked for." She held out discs. "They're all labeled. It's everything we could think of."

"Thanks." Eve took them. "Would you know where we could find Seraphim?"

"I know she usually has lunch with her grandmother on her free afternoon. Sometimes they visit a museum, or go shopping. She's seeing someone, fairly seriously, so she may also have a date."

"You don't approve?"

"Oh, no, it's not that." Philadelphia flushed a little. "I didn't mean to sound critical. He's a very nice young man. An artist. He's offered to do sketches of the children, and that's very kind of him."

"But?"

"He's a Free-Ager."

Behind Eve, Free-Ager Peabody cleared her throat.

"It's only that we try very hard to instill clear boundaries about sex, and, of course, while we're open to all faiths, we do try to impress a more, well, traditional Judeo-Christian structure. Free-Agers are more..."

"Free?" Peabody suggested.

"Yes. Exactly. But as I said, he's a very nice man, and we want only the best for Seraphim. Lieutenant, I feel I should tell the rest of the staff, the children. Have some sort of gathering of respect. I know the children, with their attachment to their e-toys, will hear of this. I want to protect them, but I want to be open with them."

"That's up to you. We'll be in touch when we have more information to give you. Please contact us if you think of anything that might relate."

"I don't think any of us will be thinking about anything else. I hope what we've been able to give you helps."

She led Eve and Peabody toward the door. Feeling a little tingle, Eve glanced back, up the steps, and saw the girl—Quilla, she remembered—sitting on them, staring holes through her.

Once outside, she walked to the car, then just leaned on it. Waited.

"Do you want me to track down this Seraphim who has the bad taste to date a Free-Ager?"

"Untwist your panties, Peabody. A lot of people consider Free-Agers a little out in the weird."

"Because we believe in personal choice, in acceptance, in respecting the planet and everything, everyone on it?"

"There's that," Eve said easily, enjoying the moment. "And the weaving your own cloth, living in communes—or mostly—growing sheep and carrots and paying homage to the Goddess Moonglow for the harvest."

"There is no Goddess Moonglow."

"Well, it's an easy mistake since half of Free-Ager women are named Moonglow. Or Rainbow. Or Sundrop."

"I only have one cousin named Rainbow, and my cousins are legion." In a huff, Peabody leaned on the car as well. "You're fucking with me."

"Nice mouth, Free-Age Girl. And yeah, some. Philly in there? She's all about talking the inclusive talk, and might believe she means it. But her idea of what everybody should believe, God-wise, would fit in a pretty small box. With a very tight lid."

"Okay, yeah, that's true. And she strikes me as the type who doesn't mean to dismiss others' belief systems, or even their lack thereof. It's just she's so unshakably sure hers is right—and more, the only right one."

Peabody paused a moment. "What are we waiting for?"

Eve jerked a chin toward the building as the front door opened. "Her."

Quilla squeezed out the door. She paused at the palm plate, pulling something out of her pocket, shoving it underneath. Then she strolled very casually down the short steps, turned toward the bench, now empty, in the tiny courtyard.

Then suddenly veered off—cam blind spot, Eve guessed—jogged to the fence, vaulted over it.

And strutted up to Eve.

She said, "Hey."

"Back at you."

"You're completely the Icove cops."

"We're New York cops," Eve corrected, and got a big eye roll.

"You get me."

"What did you put on the plate, the security, to get clear?"

Quilla shrugged. "It's a jammer. We've got a couple of e-geeks in group. I paid one of them to make me one. You came because of all the dead girls they found this morning, right?"

"What dead girls?"

"Shit, get off. The ones that were all dead to the bone up in Midtown. In the fuck same building Ms. Jones used to have. So you're here about all that."

"Let's start here. How do you know all this?"

"I can see cops, can't I? And I recognized your faces from all the hoo-rah-rah about the vid. So after Ms. J's latest bitch-fest I did some research. I know how to research. I'm a writer."

"Is that what you are?"

"And I'm going to be a good one, once I shake out of this place. How'd they get dead?"

"Why would I tell you?"

Quilla shrugged. "I could write about it. You don't have to tell me, I'll find out. Like I said, I can research. But if you figure Ms. J or Mr. J killed them, you're not much of a fucking cop."

"Why is that?"

"They're too holy. And sure, some people play like they're holy, and they'll stick a hand down your pants first chance they get." Now Quilla stuck her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. "But they're not playing at it."

"How old are you?" Peabody wondered.

"Sixteen."

Eve cocked her head. "Maybe you will be. In a couple years."

The girl tossed her colorful hair in a kind of head shrug. "A year and a half, so what? Doesn't mean I don't know what I know. Writers gotta observe, a lot. Those two are complete PITAs, but they couldn't kill a bunch of girls. That's what I'm saying. All you gotta do is squint, and you can see the halos." She circled her finger over her head.

"Didn't notice that myself. Why do you care what we think about the Joneses?"

"No skin off my ass. I'm just saying. I gotta get back." Another eye roll. "I don't get outdoor privileges until I complete my ‘educational assignments and domestic tasks.'" She parroted the words, giving them a prissy edge. "But I'll be watching, so you should ask me when you want to know something."

She took a couple running steps, vaulted back over the fence. "I can write it up," she said again. "I can write it as good as the reporter wrote up the Icove shit, but with a different angle. Because I'm like them. I'm like the dead girls."

She cut toward the bench, veered back, disappeared back inside.

"What do you think?" Peabody asked.

"A lot, but first I think most every group of kids has at least one decent geek. If they've got one skilled enough to jam reasonably good security, it's a good bet the group at The Sanctuary had one who could get in and out of the crappy security there. Food for thought."

She started to walk around to the driver's side. "And what the hell does that mean? Why would you serve food for thoughts, and what kind of food? If you serve spinach, do you get healthy thoughts? If it's ice cream and candy, is it fun thoughts? Why do we say stupid sayings?"

"They're in our idiom?"

"Idioms for idiots," Eve muttered, and slid behind the wheel. "Let's go harass DeWinter."

"I'm game, but can I have some food for my thoughts? They're pretty hungry, and I know this deli that's not too far from here."

"Of course you do."

Peabody narrowed her eyes. "Is that a dig on my appetite?"

Eve only smiled. "Consider it food for thought."