Page 44 of Concealed in Death

“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.”

She sat back, hissed. “I’ve got nothing.”

“You know that’s not true, you’re just disappointed you couldn’t set this one’s dick on fire. You’ve eliminated, or certainly bumped down several people on your suspect list. And more, you have the names of two girls.”

“I didn’t have a hell of a lot to do with that part.”

“Is that it?” He glanced at her as he turned through the gates that opened to home.

“I don’t know.” She shoved her fingers through her hair. “It’s not going to be,” she said. “It’s just not going to be. I’m not a scientist. I can’t look at bones and figure out who they were. It’s stupid to resent getting that data from another source. An expert.”

“And you’re not stupid, even shallowly and insincerely.”

That made her laugh a little. “I’m not stupid, and those girls deserve having every resource I can tap on this.”

She looked at the house, the wonderful sweep of it, the towers and turrets, the countless windows. And thought of young girls—herself among them—who lived or had lived in cramped dorms, shared dingy bathrooms, who yearned for freedom and dreamed of somehow making their own.

Too many never made it.

“Too many never made it,” she said out loud.

“Let me tell you about one who did.”

When he pulled to a stop, she looked over at him. “What? Who?”

“Leah Craine. Leah Lorenzo now. She married nineteen months ago—a firefighter with a large Italian family. They’re expecting their first child in the spring. She’s a teacher—elementary school level. They live in Queens.”

“You found her while I was dealing with the moron.”

“I did. She made it, and from all appearances, has built a solid and happy life. Will you interview her?”

She sat for a moment, just sat. “If I have to. Otherwise I’d like to leave her alone. But... you might send her information to Seraphim Brigham.”

“I already did.”

“Okay.” He’d waited, she realized, waited to tell her the good until after she’d finished her frustrated rant. Points for him. Big ones.

“Are you going to show me your plans for that dump you bought? How you’re going to turn it around?”

“I can, of course.”

When they got out of the car, he took her hand. “I asked myself today what might have happened if I hadn’t bought that place. Those girls might have been there years yet. Then I thought, no, not at all. It was meant to be now, and me, and you.”

“You’re awfully damn Irish sometimes.”

“Meant to be,” he said with a shrug. “We know those children, and aren’t so far from being them once. So we’ll neither of us stop until we find who they are, what happened to them, and who took the rest of their lives from them.”

“Whoever did it walked away from it for fifteen years.”

“And now?”

“We’re going to take the rest of his life away from him by putting him in a cage.”

She stepped inside where Summerset, the scarecrow in a black suit, and their fat cat, Galahad, waited.