Page 33 of Concealed in Death

“Yeah. Anytime one of your half a zillion employees puts a move on me, I’ll deck him. Don’t worry.”

“Not a worry in the world, about that.”

“Right now, I’m more interested in a former resident, current staff member, and granddaughter of the woman who donated the new building. Seraphim Brigham, granddaughter of Tiffany Brigham Bittmore.”

“I know of Tiffany Bittmore.” As she didn’t want him running a search, Roarke walked around her car to the driver’s seat. “Philanthropist, with particular interests in children and addictions. She worked as a general dogsbody for a political activist organization where she met and married Brigham when they were quite young I believe. Early twenties, and had two children with him before his death—a shuttle crash some fifteen or so years later. He was wealthy—family money—and political with a strong liberal leaning.”

He slid into a stream of north-bound traffic as he spoke.

“She married again some years after his death. The Bittmores were even wealthier. They had two more children—I believe—before he was killed during an earthquake in Indonesia, where he’d gone as an ambassador for a global health organization.”

“That’s knowing a lot about.”

“I supplemented my knowledge since this morning. She’s known for being generous with her time, money, and influence when the cause speaks to her. She lost a son—that would be this granddaughter’s father—to an overdose. Apparently his daughter was determined to follow in his footsteps before ending up at The Sanctuary. Bittmore showed her appreciation with the donation of the building and a trust for operating funds.”

“And now Seraphim works for Jones and Jones.”

“And is a respected therapist with a solid reputation. And is recently engaged.”

“Huh. I’m just thinking I have to make sure my next husband’s a rich bastard, too. But I’m not sure I can snap a richer bastard than you. The pool’s pretty shallow.”

“Maybe it’ll be deeper in eighty or ninety years.”

“Well, that’s something to consider. How do you know where we’re going?”

“You said you wanted to interview Seraphim Brigham. Anticipating that when you tagged me, I tugged a few lines and learned she’s scheduled for drinks and dinner at her grandmother’s home—her New York home. Not so far, really, from ours.”

“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You can be handy.”

He shot her a glance. “You should also consider your richer bastard, should you fish one out of the pool, needs to understand cop brains, and have the right connections.”

“Those are going on my list.” She shot him a glance in return. “Would you go for another cop in eighty or ninety years?”

“Absolutely not. The next time I’m after a nice, quiet woman, perhaps one who does watercolors and bakes scones.”

“My richer bastard bakes pies. I like pie.”

“I like pie, too. I’d like to meet him.”

“Wait a few decades. What’s he been doing for fifteen years?”

She wasn’t thinking of her fictional richer bastard now, Roarke mused. How her thought process fascinated.

“How did he stop killing? Did he? Did he find another way to dispose of the bodies? Did he die, end up in a cage, find God? He killed twelve. Probably within a few weeks or months. You don’t just stop cold. I keep asking myself, where is he? What’s he doing? I did a run on like crimes, and sure, you get a couple pops here and there for girls in that range, for the plastic wrap and other elements. But none that fit this, not this. Multiples, the time and effort to hide them, the lack of violence. How the hell did he kill them?”

“I think you need to give DeWinter a bit of time there.”

“Yeah, yeah. She and Morris have their heads together on it.”

Frustrated, Roarke concluded, that she didn’t have the data, couldn’t start using it to narrow her track toward the killer.

“We notified the parents of the first vic we ID’d. Solid upper middle-class—upper-upper. Both doctors, long-term first marriage, two other offspring—grown now. Nice home, stable, affluent. No signs of abuse on the remains, and every sign the victim had been well cared for, medically, physically.”

“Was she abducted?”

“No. At least not from home. Got pissy about a concert. Was going through a pissy stage, which apparently is pretty normal. Took off for the city—from Brooklyn—had money, so my best guess is she lived it up for a couple days, tried the walk on the wild side, liked it fine. She wasn’t like the girl he wrapped up with her though. If she’d stayed clean, she wouldn’t have stayed on that path. She’d have gone home. The other one? The last place she’d have gone was home because that’s where they hurt you.”

Roarke simply covered her hand with his. It’s all he had to do.

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