Page 132 of Concealed in Death

“That’s what I said. God, this is a snack? Ginger-flavored rice cakes. Cakes of rice are not a snack. I suspect them of evil deeds for this alone. Basement,” she repeated.

They found nothing in the private quarters. Eve learned Philadelphia was slightly looser in her reading and personal music choices, mixing in more pure entertainment, with a lot of current options.

On which she made notes in her memo book.

So she could discuss what the kids watched, listened to, talked about, with some practical knowledge, Eve concluded.

She used birth control, skin-care products—a lot of those—and minimal enhancers. A couple of lip dyes, some hair gunk, some eye gunk.

It occurred to Eve, with some embarrassment, that she had more herself.

Not her fault, she thought. It got dumped on her.

They worked their way down to the main level where she saw Quilla—the kid was everywhere—giggling over McNab’s shoulder as he conducted what she assumed was a standard search on Shivitz’s comp.

“Ah, she’s crushing,” Peabody said quietly. “Who can blame her? He’s so cute.”

Eve frowned, studied the little tableau. Quilla in her house uniform—but yeah, she’d slicked something shiny on her lips. McNab, his long blond hair in a straight, streaming ponytail down the back of his screaming pink shirt with a purple elephant emblazoned on the front. He wore his usual complement of silver ear hoops. She caught a glimpse of purple airboots under the desk.

Next to Quilla’s dull and simple uniform, he looked like the opening act of the circus.

Next to anything, Eve corrected.

They continued down; Quilla Bat-ears glanced up. And yeah, Eve concluded, she had that dewy, dopey, love-struck look in her eyes.

“McNab said I could watch.”

“McNab’s not in charge. If you get caught meddling in a police search, you’ll end up doing time in the Quiet Room.”

Though Quilla only shrugged, McNab caught Eve’s eye, nodded.“Hey, Quill, this is thirsty work. Any chance of getting a fizzy around here?”

“Zippo. Not allowed in the house.”

“Sad.”

“Totally sad. But I can ask if I can get some at the market. It’s right next door.”

“Ask,” Eve said, then dug in her pocket for the price of fizzies. “If it’s cleared, get a variety pack, and a tube of Pepsi.”

“Completely.” She took the money, rushed back to the kitchen area.

“That’ll keep her busy.”

“She’s cute and funny,” McNab commented. “Smart, too. What’s she doing in here?”

“The same as a lot of them. Shit for parents, kicked around, picked up repeatedly for truancy, shoplifting and so on. She’s better off here, which doesn’t say much for the shit parents. What have you got for me?”

“Not much. I went over the suspect’s e-stuff first. I’m taking it in to give it a deeper look, but honest, Dallas, it’s mostly for form. Nothing pops. It’s all work, work, work. Some correspondence, but nothing funny. Some pictures in files—some personal of him, his family, with some going back a ways. Pictures of some of the kids, but nothing perv-oriented. Some interoffice stuff, kinda jokey with his sister now and again, but mostly just straightforward.”

“No searches for transportation, tickets, accommodations?”

“No, not in the last ten weeks. Some of that prior, a booking for some deal in northern PA. He’s got all that in a file, too, with some speech he wrote for it, and some notes about a workshop.”

“A retreat.”

“I guess.” He flipped the notebook he had on the desk. “Yeah, the Reaching Inward Retreat. The list I got from the sister says he has the office comp, and they each have a mini upstairs. He has a PPC, a pocket ’link, a memo book. The office comp’s all that’s in the office.”

“He left the ’link.”