Page 45 of Concealed in Death

She’d walked out of the big, airy foyer that morning. Now she walked into Christmas. The scent of pine and cinnamon, the pretty dazzle of little lights roping up the banister, the clever arrangement of those big plants—what were they?—poinsettias into a pretty white tree.

And the twinkle, now that she paid attention, from the front parlor where a quick peek showed her the massive tree stood fully dressed in lights and sparkle.

“Where are the elves?”

“Gone for the day, I expect,” Roarke told her. “They’ll be back tomorrow to do the exterior.”

“You might have seen some of them if you’d arrived home in anywhere near a timely fashion.”

Eve gave Summerset a stony stare. “We’ve been out sledding and drinking brandy and discussing what not to get you for Christmas. Nothing but fun for us.”

“Yet all that fun has done little to improve your mood or manner.”

“Ah, the warmth of homecomings.” Roarke shook his head, started to shrug out of his coat as the cat pranced over to rub against his legs and Eve’s. “Always such a pleasure.”

“I didn’t start—” Eve broke off, yanked out her signaling ’link. “They have another face,” she said, dashing up the stairs as she called for the image.

“Twelve, the media said.”

Roarke nodded at Summerset. “Yes. No more than children.”

“There are ugly pieces to the puzzle of the world.”

“She’ll find them, put them where they belong.”

“I’ve no doubt. It’s a cold night. There’s beef bourguignonne on the menu. Some red meat would do both of you more good than the pizza she’ll think of first.”

“I’ll see to it. Thanks.”

When he got to Eve’s office Roarke found she already had the reconstruction image on screen.

Younger, he thought. This girl seemed younger than the other two.

“I’m going to run her against the list I have from Higher Power. If she was registered there, it’ll be quicker than a broad Missing Persons search.”

“Go ahead. I can set up your board for you. I know how you prefer it,” he said before she could object.

“Okay, thanks. It’ll save time.”

He went to work as did she. Dinner, he thought, would wait a bit longer.

They’d put the little tree by her window, he noted. The one he’d ordered as it was simple and traditional, and his wife often thought herself both. Though she was far from either on most levels.

A simple, traditional woman wouldn’t spend her evening searching for the names of dead girls. She wouldn’t work herself to exhaustion—body, mind, heart—to find who’d killed them.

As difficult, as frustrating, as painful as it sometimes was, he thanked God he hadn’t fallen for a simple, traditional woman.

“I’ve got her.”

He stopped what he was doing to look at the wall screen. She’d split it, putting the images of the reconstruction and the ID photo of a minor female side by side.

“Yes, you found her. Only twelve years old?”

“That’s according to her ID. I’m checking background and Missing Persons.”

Lupa Dison, he read. It listed a New York address several blocks north of the building where she’d been found, and her guardian as her aunt, Rosetta Vega.

Tragic eyes, he thought. How did someone so young earn such tragic eyes?

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