Page 78 of Concealed in Death

“Exactly.” She turned to the dash ’link when it signaled. “Dallas, on screen.”

The next girl smiled out at her.

“There’s a missing on her,” Eve said. “Cross-check it. I remember seeing her.”

“Cross-check going. Kim Terrance, age thirteen. Runaway from Jersey City, New Jersey. Filed by the mother. Father incarcerated at the time for assault.”

“Get the current data.”

“It’s coming up. Mother remarried, two years ago, relocated with spouse to Vermont where they run a small resort. Spouse has two grown offspring. Quick background shows pattern of abuse by first husband, and a restraining order. He’s doing another stretch now—assault and rape, second wife. She’s got a regular flag in her file for the Missing Persons, with comp-generated age enhancements.”

Peabody brought the latest one up, showing a woman in her late twenties.

“She’s still looking, Dallas.”

“I’ll make the notification. Let’s see if we can dig out any connection to The Sanctuary, HPCCY, any staff or residents.”

“This makes seven of them,” Peabody said as Eve pulled into Central’s garage. “Five more left. It doesn’t get easier.”

Eve added the new faces to her board. The last, Terrance, hadn’t had a chance to grow into the comp-generated face. She’d been stuck forever at that awkward between-stage when the teeth seemed too big, the eyes too wide.

She wasn’t on the resident list Philadelphia had given her. To be sure, she contacted CPS, then wheedled, browbeat, and nagged the overworked and unlucky social worker who answered to dig into the archives.

There’d been a file on Kim Terrance—some truancy, some shoplifting. Counseling for her and her mother both times the mother had run with the kid to a women’s shelter.

And both times the mother had gone back, dragging the kid into the hot hell their lives must have been. A pattern, Eve thought, too often repeated. At least the vic’s mother had finally broken the chain, but not until she’d lost her kid to the streets, scraped herself off the bottom of her personal barrel.

And all too late, Eve thought, too late for the kid to trust the woman who’d boomeranged back to the man who beat her, who took swipes at the child they’d made together. Too late for the kid to care about the fear and self-loathing that kept a woman tied to an abusive man, too late to care about breaking the pattern, turning the corner.

Too late for her to ever grow into her face.

She finished up her notes. Not a churchgoer like Lupa or Carlie. Not a girl taking a shot at rebellious independence like Linh. Not, from the accounts, as hardened or tough as Shelby.

More like Mikki, Eve supposed. Sick of it all.

She spent some time on the ’link, tugging some threads, snipping off others. Then, because it nagged at her, checked Peabody’s data on Montclair Jones.

The youngest of the four, he’d barely made it to twenty-three. Seven-year gap between him, Eve noted, and Philadelphia. Homeschooled like his siblings, but unlike Nash and Philadelphia he hadn’t taken a spin through the public sector for the certification in social work.

Unlike sister Selma, nearly thirteen years his senior, he hadn’t traveled, then planted himself far away, made a family.

She dug back, shoved forward, shoved sideways.

When Peabody came in, Eve held up a hold-on-a-minute finger, continued to talk on her ’link.

“I appreciate the help, Sergeant Owusu.”

“It is my pleasure to assist you in any way.”

Peabody angled her head to see the face that matched the crisp and musical voice. “I will speak with my grandfather and my uncle. If there is more information I will contact you. Good evening to you, Lieutenant.”

“And to you, Sergeant.”

“What was that? Who was that?”

“Sergeant Alika Owusu, of the Republic of Zimbabwe Police and Security Department.”

“No freaking shit! You were talking to Africa?”