Page 12 of Concealed in Death

“You didn’t run.”

“No.” There were few Eve felt comfortable speaking to about her past. Mira was one. “Not from Troy.” Not from the father who’d beaten her, raped her, tormented her. “It never occurred to me I could. Maybe if I’d had exposure to other kids, to the outside, it would have.”

“They kept you confined, separated, Richard Troy, Stella, so the confinement, the abuse, all of it was your normal. How could you know, especially at eight, it was anything but?”

“Are you worried about me, with them?” Eve gestured to the board.

“Only a little. It’s always harder when it’s children, for anyone who works with death. It will be harder on you considering they’re young girls—a few years older than you were, and some of them abused, most likely by parents or guardians. Then someone ended their lives. Perhaps more than one person.”

“It’s a consideration.”

“You escaped and survived, they didn’t. So yes, it’ll be hard on you. But I can’t think of anyone more suited to stand for them. With only gender and approximate age, it’s not possible to give you a solid profile. The fact that there was no clothing found may indicate sexual assault, or an attempt to humiliate, or trophies. Any number of reasons. Cause of death will help, as could the victims’ histories once identified. Anything you’re able to give me will help.”

Mira paused a moment. “He had skills, and he planned. He had to access both the building and the material, and find the girls. That takes planning. These weren’t impulse kills, even if the first might have been. The remains show no physical signs of torture or violence, though there may have been emotional torture. None of them were hidden alone?”

“No.”

“Not alone, but in pairs or small groups. It might be he didn’t want them to be alone. He wrapped them, a kind of shroud. And built them a kind of crypt. It shows respect.”

“Twisted.”

“Oh yes, but a respect for them. Runaways, abused girls, buried—in his way—in a building with a history of offering shelter to orphans. That’s an interesting connection.”

Mira rose. “I’ll let you get back to work.” She glanced back to the board again. “They’ve waited a long time to be found, to have some hope of justice.”

“There might be others. Did the killer stop with these twelve, or even begin with them? Why stop? We’ll look at known predators who were killed, died, or incarcerated around the time of the last victim—once we have that. But, too many aren’t known. Still, we’ll look for like crimes, known predators. A lot of times girls this age run in packs, right?”

Mira smiled. “They do.”

“So it’s likely one or more of the vics had friends, maybe were friends. It’s possible we’ll find someone who was friends with a vic, and saw or heard something. We don’t have names, yet, but we have lines to tug.”

She sat again when Mira left, looked at the list of missing girls.

And began to tug.

She’d eliminated a handful—too tall to match the recovered remains—when Peabody poked in.

“I’ve got a couple names.”

“I’ve got hundreds.”

Confused, Peabody looked at the screen. “Oh, missing girls. Man, that’s just sad. But I’ve got a couple of names associated with the building during the time in question. Philadelphia Jones, Nashville Jones—siblings. They ran a youth halfway house/rehab center in the building, according to what Roarke dug up, from May of 2041 to September of 2045. They moved to another facility, one donated to them by a Tiffany Brigham Bittmore. They’re still there, heading up the Higher Power Cleansing Center for Youths.”

“First, who names somebody after a city?”

“They have a sister, Selma—I’m thinking Alabama—who lives in Australia, and had a brother, Montclair, who died shortly after they switched buildings. He was on a missionary trip to Africa, and got mostly eaten by a lion.”

“Huh. That’s something you don’t hear every day.”

“I’ve decided being eaten alive by anything is my last choice of causes of death.”

“What’s first choice?”

“Kicking it at two hundred and twenty, minutes after being sexually satisfied by my thirty-five-year-old Spanish lover, and his twin brother.”

“There’s something to be said for that,” Eve decided. “Who owned the building during the Joneses’ time?”

“They did, sort of. In that they struggled to pay a mortgage on it, and the bills that come with a decrepit building in New York. They defaulted, and the bank took it over, eventually. Then the bank eventually sold it. I’ve got that name, too, but it’s looking like this little company bought it with the idea of pulling in investors so they could rehab it into a handful of fancy apartments. That fell through, and they eventually sold it at a loss to the group Roarke bought it from, who also lost money on the deal.”