Page 50 of Concealed in Death

“In general.”

When Roarke set the cat on her desk, Galahad sprawled across it as if it were a patch of green summer grass in the sunshine.

Eve let it go—for now.

“I skimmed some of the interviews he’s given,” she continued. “He’s got that pompous fucker vibe thinly covered with sticky humility. Lemont Frester. I’m going to track him down. He has a place in New York. His pied-à-terre he calls it, and that alone says pompous asshole to me.”

“I’ll be sure to refrain from using the term at any time.”

“Good. Of the nine who never served time. One’s a cop in Denver—he’s got a strong record, but I’m going to poke deeper. Two work in social services, another’s a lawyer, one’s an MT, one owns a bar in Tucson, and the others are in what you’d call your average mid-level job. The twenty-eight procreated...” She checked again. “Thirteen offspring—out of the twenty who so procreated. Of those, ten actually live in the same household as said offspring. And of the twenty-eight—whether or not they are currently incarcerated—nineteen have New York as their primary residence.”

“How many more do you have to go?”

“Triple it,” she said and pressed her fingers to her eyes.

“Put it on auto. No, it’s not that late,” he said before she could protest. “At least not in our world, but you can come back fresh to the new data in the morning. You’ve been at this more than twelve hours.”

“Without a single, solid lead.”

“But with reams of information, with three of the girls identified, with several eliminated either as victims or possible killer.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her face again. “It feels like nothing but data crunching at this point anyway.”

She needed to find more, eliminate more, she thought as she ordered her machine to continue the current tasks on auto. Talk to more people, look them in the eye, she told herself as she walked out with Roarke. Go back to the crime scene, go back to DeWinter’s sanctum, talk to Lupa’s aunt, track down the pompous fucker. And take a good, hard look at any male resident who was serving a long-term sentence that began after the murders.

You can’t keep killing young girls from a cage.

She started working the theory in her head while the cat streaked out of her office.

A boy, she speculated, a few years older—charismatic. Wouldn’t he have to be? Luring girls into that empty building. How?

Some, at least some, had to know him, trust him, maybe be attracted to him.

He gets them in there, subdues them.

How?

Drugs? So many of them had substance abuse problems, and the street smarts to score. Maybe he drugged them, then killed them.

How?

As much as she hated it, she had to wait for DeWinter to tell her.

Frustrated, she stepped into the bedroom.

The tree stood by the front window, as it had now for three holidays. The room smelled of pine, and the applewood that simmered in the fireplace.

The cat was curled up dead center of the bed—as if he’d been there for hours.

“We don’t have to do it tonight,” Roarke told her.

She looked at the stack of boxed decorations, shook her head. They’d done this tree together twice before. And they’d continue that tradition for a zillion years if she had her way.

“Tonight’s good. Tonight’s right.” She took his hand, squeezed it. “How about we pour some more wine and get that sucker dressed?”

“How about we pop champagne?”

“Even better.”

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