by J. D. Robb
“You can serve me Mr. Jones, asap.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, yes, I gave him the message. I’m afraid Mr. Jones had to leave. Something came up and—”
“What the hell do you mean, he left?”
“He had something come up,” Lydia repeated. “He asked me to cancel the rest of his schedule for today. I’m sure it was very important. I’d be happy to leave him another message.”
“Because the first one worked so well.”
Eve clicked off before Lydia could wish her a positive day.
“Goddamn it.” She zipped between a Rapid Cab and a panel truck—incurring the ire of the truck driver, switching lanes so she could make the turn.
Peabody clamped a hand on the chicken stick as Eve punched into vertical to avoid a minor traffic snarl.
“I take it we’re going to HPCCA.”
“You bet your ass. Son of a bitch!” Eve threaded another needle. Peabody shut her eyes.
Eve barreled into HPPCY, and had Shivitz waving her hands, bouncing from foot to foot in distress.
“Please, please! You can’t just barge in! You can’t just push into Mr. Jones’s office.”
“I just did. Where is he?” she demanded of the wide-eyed Lydia.
“I-I-I—”
“Snap out of it! Where’s the boss?”
“He didn’t say. He just said he had to go and to cancel his book for the day. I was just—”
“You.” She rounded on Shivitz. “You know everything. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t presume to ask Mr. Jones where he intended to go. It’s not my place.”
“Where’s his sister?”
“Ms. Jones is leading a circle group. If you’d just—”
“Get her.”
“I most certainly will not interrupt her.”
“Fine. Get the key to their quarters.”
She audibly gasped. “I most certainly will not,” she began again, then chased Eve to the stairs. “Where are you going? Where are you going?”
“To Mr. Jones’s quarters. I have a master.”
“You can’t do that! It’s an invasion of privacy. It’s—it’s illegal. You haven’t got a warrant!”
Eve stopped on the stairs, caught a glimpse of Quilla from the corner of her eye before she froze Shivitz with one hard stare. “You want me to get a warrant? And while I’m doing that, I’ll contact some people I know in the media, let them know this institution, and its founders, are now under investigation for the murders of twelve young girls.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Peabody, can I do that?”
“Oh yes, sir, Lieutenant, you can do that. Should I tag up Nadine Furst for you?”
“No, no, no! Just wait! Just wait! I’m going to get Ms. Jones. You wait!”
“Fine by me.”
Eve leaned against the banister as Shivitz ran. She gave Quilla up to five seconds to slither out of her hole.
It only took three.
“Total drama. Completely better than a vid. You sure got Matron’s skirt blown up.”
“Specialty of mine.”
“Is Mr. Jones in the heat?”
“He is.”
“No way he killed anybody. He’s too do-unto-others and crap.”
“Killing’s doing unto others.”
“Yeah, but not that way,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Ms. Jones, she was steaming when she got back a while ago. Red in the face absolutely, and she told Mr. Jones he had to come into her office right now. And she never does like that. So, you know, then they’re in there and she’s carrying on about you making shit up to screw them over—only she said it in fancy words. And he’s, now, now, there, there, but not like the other day, after you left and they first found out about the murders and stuff. She was crying so he did the now, now bullshit. She was all—”
Quilla put the back of her hand to her forehead in the classic distress gesture. “Those poor children, those poor lost souls and all that, and he was, there, there, Philly, they’re at peace now. It’s not like our responsibility. We do our best, blah, blah, but she’s watering up all over.
“This time it was more now, now, I wish you’d shut the fuck up so I could think, but he didn’t say that. I just read between the words, like.”
“How about that.”
“And then—” She straightened like an arrow, glanced back. “Gotta blow.”
“Bat ears,” Eve murmured when Quilla blew seconds before Philadelphia came thundering down the second-floor corridor with Shivitz yapping at her heels like a corgi.
“This is outrageous.”
“It can get more outrageous,” Eve told her.
“You have no right to try to push your way into our private quarters. This is harassment, and I intend to contact our lawyers.”
“Go ahead. I’ll contact the PA, get the warrant, and while that’s coming through . . . Peabody, go ahead and tag up Nadine Furst. She’ll want to lead with this on the evening slot.”
“Just one minute!”
“That’s all you get,” Eve snapped back. “Your brother is a person of interest in a multiple homicide investigation, and no one seems to know where he is. In fact, Peabody, let’s get a BOLO out on Nashville Jones.”
“What does that mean?” Philadelphia demanded. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Be on the lookout,” Peabody said helpfully.
“As if he’s a criminal! Stop it.”
“Tell me where he is,” Eve suggested, “and I won’t have to have every cop in the city on the lookout.”
“I don’t know. For heaven’s sake, he doesn’t tell me his every move. He needed to go out, he went.”
“He went after you came back from Interview, after you told him what we discussed, after receiving a message that I wanted him to come into Interview. Smells, doesn’t it, Peabody?”
“Very fishy.”
“He’s upset. We’re upset. Please just go—” She actually made a shooing gesture. “All this is disrupting our classes, our sessions, our residents. Just go, and I’ll make sure he contacts you the minute he’s back.”
“Not good enough. I want to take a look at his quarters.”
“Why? What do you think? He’s hiding bodies in there?”
“Show me. Prove me wrong.”
“This is so insulting.” But she turned on her heel, strode to the next turn of the stairs, and clipped her way up.
A few doors were open a crack, and Eve imagined ears and/or eyes pressed close.
Total drama, as Quilla said.
Philadelphia produced a swipe card from her pocket, used it on a small security panel, then tapped in a code.
“Worried the residents will sneak in?”
“If they’re not tempted, then they can’t make a mistake.” She stepped inside.
“Here. We share this living area and kitchenette.”
Eve judged it modest, nicely appointed, but anything but fussy. She couldn’t claim, from the looks of it, they funneled donation money into elaborate living.
“I have a bath, bed, and sitting room on this side, and Nash has his on that side. Both close off with panel doors if more privacy is wanted. As you see, they’re open, as they usually are.”
“I see.” Eve started toward Nash’s part.
Philadelphia rushed after her. “I don’t want you touching his things.”
“Then stick around, make sure I don’t touch.”
Cheeks pink, eyes fired, Philadelphia fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m going to want an apology from you, both of you, and your immediate supervisor. In writing.”
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that.”
His sitting room held two chairs, a small desk with a minicomp, a couple inexp
ensive pictures on the wall, a carpet that showed considerable wear.
The bedroom mimicked the Spartan style. A simple bed, another small chair, one dresser with a photo of his sister—younger—flanked by him and their younger brother, standing outside the HPCCY building.
“Is that his ’link?” Eve asked, gesturing toward the dresser.
“What? I . . . oh. He left his ’link. That explains it. I tried to contact him when Matron told me you were here, but it went to his v-mail. He forgot his ’link.”
“Uh-huh.” Can’t trace ’link transmissions if you don’t make any, she thought. Can’t triangulate your location with it if it’s sitting on your bedroom dresser.
“Look in his closet.”
“I certainly won’t.”
“Look in his closet,” Eve repeated with more patience than she thought the woman deserved, “see if anything’s missing.”
“Of course nothing is missing. It’s ridiculous.” Incensed, Philadelphia pulled open the narrow closet. “You act as though he’s in flight or . . .”
“What did he pack?”
“I-I didn’t say he packed anything.”
“Your face did.”
“I never . . . Matron, would you go down, make sure the children are— Please, go downstairs.”
“I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.” Shivitz gave Eve the fish eye. “If you need anything.”
Philadelphia nodded, then walked over, sank into the little chair. “Something must have come up.”
“So everyone’s saying. What did he take?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not. It’s just . . . he kept a small suitcase in the closet, as I do in mine. For quick trips. It’s not there. He must have been called away, suddenly.”
“And took off without telling you, without telling his assistant, without his ’link?” As Roarke would say, she thought, bollocks to that. “You’re not a stupid woman. He’s running. Peabody, get that BOLO out.”
“He’s not. I swear to you. I swear on my life, he’s done nothing wrong. He couldn’t.”
“Where does he keep his cash?”
“What?”
“Everybody keeps a little cash hidden, for that rainy day. I say it’s raining. Where does he keep it?”
Pressing her lips together, Philadelphia rose, walked to his dresser, opened the top left drawer. Carefully, she lifted some folded socks, then simply stared.
“It’s gone.”
“He may have moved it. He generally keeps some cash here. I don’t understand. He’s a good man.” She turned back, her hands linked together as if in prayer. “I don’t say that just because I’m his sister. I work with him, every day. I know him. He’s a good man.”
“Where would he go?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Where do you go to relax, to get away for a few days?”
“Oh, Lieutenant, we haven’t had a vacation in five years. Or six. I’m not sure. We’ve both gone on short retreats but they’re work related. What you might consider a conference of peers and coworkers.”
“We’ll need a list of where you’ve retreated. And I want you to look through the quarters. I want to know what he took.”
“There’s an explanation for all of this. An innocent one.”
“Let’s start with the lists. And I want to see DeLonna’s old room.”
“DeLonna? DeLonna Jackson?”
“That’s right. I want to see the room she had when Shelby left.”
“I . . . God, my head. I can’t remember. Matron will. She’ll remember. I’m sorry, I have a raging headache. Just let me get a blocker. Nash has some.”
She walked slowly into the little bath—shower only—opened a little cabinet.
Then burst into tears.
“He took his toiletry kit. Oh sweet God, Nash, where are you?”
“Take care of her, Peabody. I’ll take Shivitz.”
“Got it. Let’s sit down a minute, Ms. Jones. I’ve got a blocker. Let’s sit down, and I’ll get you some water.”
“This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense.”
Wrong, Eve thought as she started out. It was making perfect sense.
She put out a BOLO, flipped the resentful Shivitz by suggesting she order a soother for her boss. With that humanitarian mission to distract her, Eve wandered to what had been DeLonna’s room.
It was tiny, held two narrow beds, two skinny dressers. But she noted the occupants had been allowed to add some touches to bring in a little personality. Posters of music groups, a couple colorful pillows, stuffed animals. Each of the girls had a wall platform by the bed for a minicomp or tablet, a lamp—some girl debris. One of them had switched out the plain white shade on the lamp for one with purple polka dots.
The window still only opened about nine inches. But a small, thin girl could have wiggled through. The climb down . . .
You’d have to be determined, she noted, to risk it with only bits of guttering and a few chancy toeholds in the decorative brick facade.
But she could see it, just as Lonna had described. The dark, the thudding heart, the fingers and toes gripping even as they trembled. Then that final drop, just long enough to make the knees and ankles sing on landing.
“What’s the what?”
Eve straightened from the window, shut it again, turned to Quilla. “What?”
And made the girl grin. “How come you’re in here? Randa and Choo share this room, and they’re chill. My roommate got fostered. She was a pain in the ass with that halo shining in my eyes all the time. I like having my own room, hope I can keep it. So what?”
“Do you actually ever go to class or session or whatever?”
“Sure. It’s all huh and whoa right now ’cause Ms. Jones is twisted, and Mr. Jones is wherever, and Matron’s completely whacked out. They all pretend everything’s just like always, but the vibes, man, they’re fucking bouncing. So what?”
“What is we want to find Mr. Jones.”
“You’re not going to find him in here. He mostly handles the boys’ side, and Ms. Jones handles us. They wouldn’t want to see anybody naked who didn’t have the same parts.”
She threw her arms up in the air, opened eyes and mouth wide. “Scandal!”
Eve figured the girl should give up the idea of being a writer and try acting. “The staff follow that line?”
“Abso-complete. Sometimes some of the older kids sneak in a bang, but it takes mad plans and mega luck. If Ms. Jones found out, she’d dump all kinds of shit work on them, figuring if they’re busy they won’t think about banging. As if. But if anybody from the staff tried anything, she’d rip ’em up like the lion ripped her bro. Fierce.”
“You know about the brother?”
“Everybody does. There’s like this plaque deal in the Quiet Room—you know, in his honor and all.”
“The Quiet Room?”
“They don’t call it a church or a chapel deal, but it is.” She wandered as she talked, poking into the occupants’ things. Since Eve would’ve done exactly the same in her place, she didn’t comment. “No talking, no e-stuff. You’re just supposed to sit and think or meditate or pray. Whatever.”
“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 kno
w? 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.”