by J. D. Robb
“Connect how?”
“It’s a cycle, isn’t it, very often a cycle. The young, lost, or abused, ending up with someone who hurts them. Or becoming an abuser themselves. I’ve talked of it with the staff at Dochas, and a bit with Dr. Mira.”
“Is that so?”
“I like to know what I’m about. The plans are to build a proper facility for children, those who get sucked into the system through no fault of their own, but are mistreated or neglected by those who should tend to them.”
As she had been, Eve thought.
“And the others—the lost, you could say—who end up on the street trying to find a way just to survive.”
As he had.
“We’ll work with CPS, educators, therapists, and the like. Not that different, I suppose, from what it was when Seraphim was there. Maybe it’s the building’s fate to house the troubled and lost, to give them a refuge, a chance. We didn’t have one, you and I.”
“No, we didn’t have one.”
“They’ll have a safe place, but with boundaries, with structure. Rules, as you’re so fond of rules. They’ll have therapy, medical treatment, recreation—as I think fun’s important and too often left out. Education, of course, with the opportunity to learn practical skills as well. Summerset gave me that.”
“He taught you to steal, too.”
“He didn’t, as I already knew how. Though he may have polished a few rough edges there.” He grinned at her. “Still, they were practical skills of a sort. We won’t have classes in lifting locks or wallets, Lieutenant.”
“Good to know.” She thought a moment. “It’s a lot to take on.”
“Well now, I’ll have those trained in all those areas to do the taking on once we’re up and running.”
But your hand will be in it, Eve thought. You won’t just dump the money, then walk away.
“Do you have a name for it?”
“Not yet, no.”
“You should call it Refuge, since that’s how you think of it. And you should stick with the Irish, like Dochas. What’s Irish for Refuge?”
“An Didean.”
“That’s what you should call it.”
He took a hand off the wheel to lay it on hers. “Then we will.”
She turned her hand under his, linked fingers. “I guess I’m definitely punching you back later.”
“Praise Jesus.”
He found a spot, street level, within a half block of Clipperton’s building. Eve deduced not many people parked their vehicles along this block or two if they wanted to come back and find it in one piece.
She wasn’t worried, not with the shielding and theft deterrents on her DLE.
“You ought to buy this building,” she said as they approached it. “It’s more of a dump than the other one.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Just don’t . . . Okay, we got lucky. That’s him, coming out of a dive to head to his dump.”
Roarke saw the man in a padded canvas work jacket stumble out of the door of a place called Bud’s, make a weaving turn in their direction.
“Apparently he’s made good use of the dive,” Roarke commented.
He was obviously impaired, his balance iffy, but apparently his vision and cop radar wasn’t affected. He spotted them halfway between dive and dump, did a flash take, a fast, wobbling one-eighty. Then beat feet.
“Seriously?” Eve shook her head and sprinted after him.
He shoved through pedestrians, succeeded in knocking a woman and her bag of groceries to the sidewalk. A trio of anemic oranges rolled out. Eve jumped over them.
“Take care of her,” she shouted to Roarke. “I’ve got this.”
Her target opted to veer right at the corner, or his upper half made the turn while his bottom half tried to catch up.
He tripped over his own feet and skidded along the sidewalk, taking out another pedestrian.
Eve pressed her boot to the back of Clipperton’s neck, glanced over at the stunned pedestrian sitting on his ass clutching a tattered briefcase.
“You okay?” She pulled out her badge. “Are you hurt?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
“I can get medical assistance if you want it.”
“I’m hurt!” Clipperton shouted.
“Shut up. Sir?”
“I’m okay.” The man pushed to his feet, shoved a gloved hand through his hair. “Do I have to give a statement? Honestly, I’m not sure what happened. I think he more or less fell into me, and I was off balance.”
“That’s fine. Here.” She managed to pull out a card and increase pressure with her boot when Clipperton wiggled under it like a snake. “If you need to contact me regarding this incident, you can reach me here.”
“Oh, thanks. Okay. Um. Then I can go?”
“Yes, sir.” She unclipped her restraints, bent down, and clapped them on Clipperton.
“Was he running away from you?”
“He was more stumbling away from me.”
“Is he a criminal?”
Eve gave the bystander a last glance. “We’re going to find out. Up you go, Clip.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
His breath was cheap brew and ancient beer nuts. To avoid at least the worst of it, Eve shifted slightly to the side. “Why did you run?”
“Wasn’t running. Just . . . walking quick. Gotta ’pointment.”
“You’ve got an appointment with me now. At Central.”
“Whafor? Get off me.”
“You knocked down two people, and are even now attempting to immobilize an officer with your incredible breath.”
“Huh?”
“Drunk and disorderly, pal. You’ve been here before.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s him!” The woman with the oranges pointed an accusing finger. “He knocked me down.”
“Did not.”
“Do you want to press charges, ma’am?”
“Oh, come on!”
The women eyed Clipperton balefully. “I guess not. This nice gentleman helped me up, helped me get my groceries. And said you’d make this one apologize.”
Eve flicked a glance at Roarke, then poked an elbow into Clipperton’s ribs. “Apologize. Apologize,” she said in darker tones, “or we add assault.”
“Jesus, okay. Sorry, lady. I didn’t see you, that’s all.”
“You’re drunk,” the woman said severely. “And you’re stupid and rude. You’re a gentleman,” she said to Roarke. “Thank you very much for helping me.”
“You’re very welcome. I’d be happy to walk you home.”
“See, a gentleman.” She gave Clipperton the evil eye, then turned to sunshine when she looked back at Roarke. “Thanks, but I’m just in the next block.” She beamed a last smile over Roarke, then carried her bag, anemic oranges and all, up the block.
“Let’s go, Clip.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Ain’t that a shame?” She quick-walked him to the car, maneuvered him into the back. “If you puke in this vehicle, I’ll make you eat it.”
He didn’t puke—lucky for him—but he whined a lot, and bitterly muttered about someone named Mook. The whining spurted up toward panic when Roarke pulled into Central’s garage.
“Listen, listen, it’s all bogus, man. Her tits were right out there.”
“Is that a fact?” Eve muscled him out of the car.
“Fucking A,” he assured her, wobbling his way as she dragged him to the elevator. “And she’s got some big-ass cha-chas, you know? They were right in my face.”
Eve pulled him into the elevator, called for her floor and sector.
“Come on, man.” He turned, appealing to Roarke. “A bitch has her major tits in your face, you’re not go
ing to grab a taste?”
“I take the Fifth.”
“I’d take a fifth, I had the scratch for one. Come on.”
“And Mook objected to you taking a taste of her major tits?” Eve suggested.
“Got real pissy, started carrying on, said it was like rape or something. I never had my dick out. I got witnesses. I never took the slugger out of the dugout, but she says she’s going to call the cops. Next thing I know, you’re coming for me. How’d you get there so fast?”
“I’m like the wind.”
More cops, more Clip types piled on as the elevator climbed, but Eve stayed on, taking the time to work out her game plan.
She’d settle for a conference room if the interviews were booked, but when she hauled him along the corridor, she found A empty. She pulled him in, pushed him into a chair.
“Sit there,” she ordered, and went out again.
“That’s your prime suspect?” Roarke asked.
“He fits some of the bill, and yeah, he seems pretty stupid. But he’s drunk. Either way, I need to go a round with him.”
“I’ll occupy myself and arrange to have your vehicle fumigated.”
“You always do—and good idea. He’s too drunk for this to take long.”
“Understood. Just let me know when you’re done.”
“Before you occupy yourself, how about getting me a tube of Pepsi. And yeah, I’m still boycotting Vending. Those machines hold a grudge, but they’ve got nothing on me.”
He obliged, handed over the soft drink tube. “If you’re reasonable with them, they’re reasonable with you.”
“Not in my experience.” She pulled out her comm, officially booked Interview A as Roarke wandered off.
Clipperton could sit and sweat a few minutes, she decided, and went to her office, put together a file.
By the time she walked back into Interview, Clipperton had his head on the table. His snores pulled the ugly paint from the walls.
“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Clipperton, Jon. Wake up!” She sat across from him, set her files down, gave his arm a brisk shake. “Wake up, Clipperton.”
“Huh?” He lifted his head, stared at her with droopy, blood-shot eyes.
“Do you need or wish the assistance of Sober-Up before we begin the interview?” She rattled the small tin she’d brought in with her.
“I’m not drunk.” He attempted to poke out his chest in outrage. “I’m just tired. A guy works all day like me, he gets tired.”
“Yeah. Do you understand refusal of this aid, as offered, negates any future claim that this interview was conducted while you were impaired?”
“I’m not impaired, okay? Can’t a guy take a quick nap after a hard day?”
“Your choice.” She set the tin aside. “I’m going to read you your rights, for your protection. You’ve been down this road before. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.
“I didn’t do anything!” Clipperton claimed.
“We’ll talk about that. Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yeah, yeah, but—”
“Were you employed as a carpenter’s helper by Brodie Fine fifteen years ago?”
“Done some work for Brodie, sure. Did some a couple weeks ago.”
“And did this work—fifteen years ago—include a building on Ninth Avenue, then known as The Sanctuary?”
“Huh?”
“The Sanctuary, a shelter for youths in need.”
“Oh, the dump over on Ninth. Sure, we did some repairs and crap there. So what?”
“How many times did you go there without Mr. Fine?”
His face, sallow, soft—perhaps once reasonably attractive—pulled into really hard lines as he thought.
“Why would I do that?”
“To see the pretty young girls, Clip. Like Shelby, the thirteen-year-old you bartered brew for sex with?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If she said I did, she’s a liar.”
“Like Mook?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ A.”
Eve leaned forward. “I’ve got witnesses, on both counts, Clip. Lying to me isn’t going to help, and with your record, I can send you away for a good, long stretch.”
“Wait a minute. Just wait. I told you Mook had her tits right out there. That was just a misunderstanding. That’s it.”
“And Shelby?”
“I don’t remember her name.”
“So there was more than one minor you traded brew for sex with.”
“No. Jesus. And it wasn’t sex. It was a bj. That’s not sex.”
“You’re stating that a minor female in residence at The Sanctuary fifteen years ago preformed fellatio on you in exchange for alcohol?”
“It was a blow job.” He looked momentarily and sincerely horrified. “We didn’t do nothing weird like that thing you said. It was a straight bj.”
“In exchange for alcohol.”
“It wasn’t alcohol. It was just a couple brews.”
She wondered why this go-round half amused her, but tried to shortcut it to the point. “Let’s put it this way. The minor female gave you a blow job in payment for a couple brews.”
“Yeah. That’s all it was.” He sat back, obviously relieved all was clear. Then jerked up again. “And wait. It was like all that time ago, right? So there’s like a statue of limits on that, yeah?”
“That would be statute of limitations.” She slid the ID shot of Shelby Stubacker across the table. “Is this the minor female?”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to remember—oh yeah! Yeah, this one. She was a steamer. And she asked me about the bj and brew.”
“She was thirteen.”
“Said she was fifteen.” Folding his arms over his thin chest, he nodded in satisfaction. “Told you she was a liar.”
“And that makes such a difference, that you solicited oral sex from a girl you assumed was fifteen.”
“She already had a nice little rack on her.”
Eve simply stared at him until he blinked.
“How many times did you trade her a couple brews for a blow job?”
“A couple. Maybe three.”
The way he cut his eyes away had Eve leaning in again. “How many other girls, Clip? She wasn’t the only one.”
“There was just the one more, and this one here brought her into it. Plus she wasn’t any good at it. Kinda fat girl—the hefty kind. Kept giggling, you know. I barely got off.”
“Where did these famous blow jobs take place?”
“Right there. I mean right outside the place. Kid knew how to get in and out, how to get around security. She was a steamer, like I said. And if she’s trying to come back at me for it now, that’s bullshit. She asked me, and there’s the statue.”
“Some things have no statue, Clip. Like being a revolting shit, such as yourself.”
“Hey!”
“And things like this.”
She shoved the photo of Shelby’s remains across the table.
“What the hell is that?”
“That’s Shelby Stubacker.”
“Uh-uh. This is.” He nodded toward the first photo. “That looks like some old skeleton, like for Halloween or something.”
“This is what Shelby looks like now, after being murdered, then rolled up in plastic, and hidden for fifteen years behind the wall you built.”
“You’re fucking with me, ’cause we didn’t build no walls in that place. Patched a few, painted some, but we didn’t build none. And if we did, and we didn’t, we sure as hell woulda seen that. You ask Brodie. We didn’t see nothing like that. Just ask him.”
“I didn’t say you and Brodie built the wall. I said you built it, after you killed this girl and eleven others.”
“How many times did you go back to that building, meet this girl after they shut down that location?”
“I never went back there, not after Brodie pulled me offa the job. No reason to go back there. You can get a bj lots of places. Sometimes for free even.”
God, she thought, a genuine moron. But she pushed through. “It’s convenient though, just a couple blocks away.”
“I couldn’ta gotten in if I’da wanted. The kid’s the one came out to me. I didn’t even know they left that place, not for months until I went by it one night. It was all boarded up, and dark, and I thought, ‘Hell, the bj girl’s gone.’ I never went in, hand to God. I never saw that kid again after Brodie pulled me offa the job. I never killed nobody.”
Eve found Roarke in her office. She dumped the files on her desk, went straight to the AutoChef for coffee, then dropped down in her chair.
Waiting until she had, Roarke slid his PPC into his pocket. “Well then?”
“The best I could do was dump him in the tank on the D&D. He deserves a hell of a lot more, but I don’t think he killed those girls. He’s too damn stupid for one thing. I’m talking deeply and sincerely stupid.”
Roarke merely nodded. “Are you done here? At Central,” he continued. “Is there anything left to do you can’t do at home?”
“I guess not.”
“Then we’ll go home, and you can fill me in on the way.”
• • •
He listened. She’d grown used to having someone who listened and, even better, understood without every i dotted.
“Sick fuck. He actually believes there’s nothing wrong with getting his dick sucked by a goddamn child. Nothing wrong with paying a thirteen-year-old kid a couple of brews for going down on him—and, hey, her idea.”
“But you don’t believe the sick fuck killed her, or any of them?”
“No. He deserves to have his dick tied in a knot, covered with acid, then set on fire while thousands cheer, but—”
“You do have a way with imagery.”
“But he didn’t kill them. He’s a sucking boil on the ass of mankind, but he doesn’t have killer in him. And he’s a complete moron. A moron didn’t do this. I took him over, under, back, forth, pushed, shoved. He doesn’t know a damn thing. We’re going to keep an eye on him, not only in case I’m wrong on this, but eventually he’s going to put hands on someone else, potentially another minor. Then he can whine in a cage for a few years.”