Concealed in Death (9 page)

“I may take you up on that.”

Eve rolled it around as they rode down to the lobby. “She’s lucky she had someone to go home to. Not the money, the privilege, but somebody who didn’t give up on her, and wanted her.”

“Too many aren’t lucky.” He had been, Roarke thought. Summerset had taken him in—some bloodied street rat—and for reasons he didn’t understand to this day, had wanted him.

“Should I look for Leah Craine?”

Eve glanced at him. “I wouldn’t mind knowing where she is. We can hope she’s not in DeWinter’s lab.”

“She got away,” Roarke said, and because he could picture that terrible resignation too well, he wanted to believe she’d stayed away. And safe. “We’ll have some faith she made a life for herself.”

“Data’s better than faith.”

“Such a cop.”

“Yeah, and since I am I want to take a pass at Clipperton before we call it.”

Anticipating it, Roarke took her hand, gave her arm a playful little swing. “I do enjoy intimidating drunk gits in the evening.”

“If Brigham’s right, he scored booze for a minor, and maybe got sex in return with said minor. He might’ve done it more than once, might’ve developed a sick little relationship there.”

“Which leads to him murdering her and eleven others.”

Eve checked her notes, rattled off the address before she got into the car. “She was a fighter, a badass. Had a rep for it, and had what sounds like a little crew. But they tell me there’s no violence according to her bones, near TOD. All injuries well before that. You don’t kill a scrapper without leaving some marks.”

“Unless the scrapper trusts you.”

“That’s right. Maybe you get said scrapper drunk, take her out during her payment. Smother her maybe, or maybe you scored something more than some brew and she ends up ODing on you. Now what the fuck do you do?”

“Build a wall to hide the body?”

“Stupid, extreme, but . . . where’d the other kids come from? That’s a question.”

“Why kill all the others? If it did start with this Shelby, why kill eleven more?”

“Every serial killer has to start somewhere. There’s always going to be a first. He killed the one, thought, ‘Wow, that was fun, let’s do it again.”

She tapped her fingers on her thigh as Roarke drove. “He knew this victim, and had to know some of the others. He had to have access to this victim to get her the brew. He knew the building, he had the tools and know-how to build the walls. The Fines may say, Yeah, he’s a dick but he wouldn’t kill anybody. People who know killers rarely think they know a killer.”

She pulled out her PPC. “He’s had some bumps, mostly alcohol-related. D&D, disturbing the peace, vandalism, destruction of property. And two hits for sexual misconduct. Pleaded down on all, did a little soft time, some community service, some court-ordered therapy.”

“The rap sheet of a dick.”

“Dicks kill as much as anyone.”

“I do try to keep mine nonviolent.”

The smirk that crossed her face felt good. “It’s got some punch.”

“Thanks, darling. I’d love to punch you later.”

“You always want to punch me.”

“That’s love for you.”

Amused, she angled her head, studied him. “Maybe I’ll punch you back.”

“Here’s hoping.”

“And here’s something else on the dick—not yours, the carpenter’s helper dick. His listed address is less than three blocks from my crime scene. Which leads me to ask what in the hell are you planning to do with that dump?”

“It won’t be a dump when it’s done.”

“Okay, what are you planning to do with what won’t be a dump?”

“I thought we’d create something to connect with Dochas.”

The abuse shelter he’d built, she thought. And the place he’d first learned about his mother.

“Connect how?”

“It’s a cycle, isn’t it, very often a cycle. The young, lost, or abused, ending up with someone who hurts them. Or becoming an abuser themselves. I’ve talked of it with the staff at Dochas, and a bit with Dr. Mira.”

“Is that so?”

“I like to know what I’m about. The plans are to build a proper facility for children, those who get sucked into the system through no fault of their own, but are mistreated or neglected by those who should tend to them.”

As she had been, Eve thought.

“And the others—the lost, you could say—who end up on the street trying to find a way just to survive.”

As he had.

“We’ll work with CPS, educators, therapists, and the like. Not that different, I suppose, from what it was when Seraphim was there. Maybe it’s the building’s fate to house the troubled and lost, to give them a refuge, a chance. We didn’t have one, you and I.”

“No, we didn’t have one.”

“They’ll have a safe place, but with boundaries, with structure. Rules, as you’re so fond of rules. They’ll have therapy, medical treatment, recreation—as I think fun’s important and too often left out. Education, of course, with the opportunity to learn practical skills as well. Summerset gave me that.”

“He taught you to steal, too.”

“He didn’t, as I already knew how. Though he may have polished a few rough edges there.” He grinned at her. “Still, they were practical skills of a sort. We won’t have classes in lifting locks or wallets, Lieutenant.”

“Good to know.” She thought a moment. “It’s a lot to take on.”

“Well now, I’ll have those trained in all those areas to do the taking on once we’re up and running.”

But your hand will be in it, Eve thought. You won’t just dump the money, then walk away.

“Do you have a name for it?”

“Not yet, no.”

“You should call it Refuge, since that’s how you think of it. And you should stick with the Irish, like Dochas. What’s Irish for Refuge?”

“An Didean.”

“That’s what you should call it.”

He took a hand off the wheel to lay it on hers. “Then we will.”

She turned her hand under his, linked fingers. “I guess I’m definitely punching you back later.”

“Praise Jesus.”

He found a spot, street level, within a half block of Clipperton’s building. Eve deduced not many people parked their vehicles along this block or two if they wanted to come back and find it in one piece.

She wasn’t worried, not with the shielding and theft deterrents on her DLE.

“You ought to buy this building,” she said as they approached it. “It’s more of a dump than the other one.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Just don’t . . . Okay, we got lucky. That’s him, coming out of a dive to head to his dump.”

Roarke saw the man in a padded canvas work jacket stumble out of the door of a place called Bud’s, make a weaving turn in their direction.

“Apparently he’s made good use of the dive,” Roarke commented.

He was obviously impaired, his balance iffy, but apparently his vision and cop radar wasn’t affected. He spotted them halfway between dive and dump, did a flash take, a fast, wobbling one-eighty. Then beat feet.

“Seriously?” Eve shook her head and sprinted after him.

He shoved through pedestrians, succeeded in knocking a woman and her bag of groceries to the sidewalk. A trio of anemic oranges rolled out. Eve jumped over them.

“Take care of her,” she shouted to Roarke. “I’ve got this.”

Her target opted to veer right at the corner, or his upper half made the turn while his bottom half tried to catch up.

He tripped over his own feet and skidded along the sidewalk, taking out another pedestrian.

Eve pressed her boot to the back of Clipperton’s neck, glanced over at the stunned pedestrian sitting on his ass clutching a tattered briefcase.

“You okay?” She pulled out her badge. “Are you hurt?”

“I . . . don’t think so.”

“I can get medical assistance if you want it.”

“I’m hurt!” Clipperton shouted.

“Shut up. Sir?”

“I’m okay.” The man pushed to his feet, shoved a gloved hand through his hair. “Do I have to give a statement? Honestly, I’m not sure what happened. I think he more or less fell into me, and I was off balance.”

“That’s fine. Here.” She managed to pull out a card and increase pressure with her boot when Clipperton wiggled under it like a snake. “If you need to contact me regarding this incident, you can reach me here.”

“Oh, thanks. Okay. Um. Then I can go?”

“Yes, sir.” She unclipped her restraints, bent down, and clapped them on Clipperton.

“Was he running away from you?”

“He was more stumbling away from me.”

“Is he a criminal?”

Eve gave the bystander a last glance. “We’re going to find out. Up you go, Clip.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

His breath was cheap brew and ancient beer nuts. To avoid at least the worst of it, Eve shifted slightly to the side. “Why did you run?”

“Wasn’t running. Just . . . walking quick. Gotta ’pointment.”

“You’ve got an appointment with me now. At Central.”

“Whafor? Get off me.”

“You knocked down two people, and are even now attempting to immobilize an officer with your incredible breath.”

“Huh?”

“Drunk and disorderly, pal. You’ve been here before.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s him!” The woman with the oranges pointed an accusing finger. “He knocked me down.”

“Did not.”

“Do you want to press charges, ma’am?”

“Oh, come on!”

The women eyed Clipperton balefully. “I guess not. This nice gentleman helped me up, helped me get my groceries. And said you’d make this one apologize.”

Eve flicked a glance at Roarke, then poked an elbow into Clipperton’s ribs. “Apologize. Apologize,” she said in darker tones, “or we add assault.”

“Jesus, okay. Sorry, lady. I didn’t see you, that’s all.”

“You’re drunk,” the woman said severely. “And you’re stupid and rude. You’re a gentleman,” she said to Roarke. “Thank you very much for helping me.”

“You’re very welcome. I’d be happy to walk you home.”

“See, a gentleman.” She gave Clipperton the evil eye, then turned to sunshine when she looked back at Roarke. “Thanks, but I’m just in the next block.” She beamed a last smile over Roarke, then carried her bag, anemic oranges and all, up the block.

“Let’s go, Clip.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Ain’t that a shame?” She quick-walked him to the car, maneuvered him into the back. “If you puke in this vehicle, I’ll make you eat it.”

He didn’t puke—lucky for him—but he whined a lot, and bitterly muttered about someone named Mook. The whining spurted up toward panic when Roarke pulled into Central’s garage.

“Listen, listen, it’s all bogus, man. Her tits were right out there.”

“Is that a fact?” Eve muscled him out of the car.

“Fucking A,” he assured her, wobbling his way as she dragged him to the elevator. “And she’s got some big-ass cha-chas, you know? They were right in my face.”

Eve pulled him into the elevator, called for her floor and sector.

“Come on, man.” He turned, appealing to Roarke. “A bitch has her major tits in your face, you’re not going to grab a taste?”

“I take the Fifth.”

“I’d take a fifth, I had the scratch for one. Come on.”

“And Mook objected to you taking a taste of her major tits?” Eve suggested.

“Got real pissy, started carrying on, said it was like rape or something. I never had my dick out. I got witnesses. I never took the slugger out of the dugout, but she says she’s going to call the cops. Next thing I know, you’re coming for me. How’d you get there so fast?”

“I’m like the wind.”

More cops, more Clip types piled on as the elevator climbed, but Eve stayed on, taking the time to work out her game plan.

She’d settle for a conference room if the interviews were booked, but when she hauled him along the corridor, she found A empty. She pulled him in, pushed him into a chair.

“Sit there,” she ordered, and went out again.

“That’s your prime suspect?” Roarke asked.

“He fits some of the bill, and yeah, he seems pretty stupid. But he’s drunk. Either way, I need to go a round with him.”

“I’ll occupy myself and arrange to have your vehicle fumigated.”

“You always do—and good idea. He’s too drunk for this to take long.”

“Understood. Just let me know when you’re done.”

“Before you occupy yourself, how about getting me a tube of Pepsi. And yeah, I’m still boycotting Vending. Those machines hold a grudge, but they’ve got nothing on me.”

He obliged, handed over the soft drink tube. “If you’re reasonable with them, they’re reasonable with you.”

“Not in my experience.” She pulled out her comm, officially booked Interview A as Roarke wandered off.

Clipperton could sit and sweat a few minutes, she decided, and went to her office, put together a file.

By the time she walked back into Interview, Clipperton had his head on the table. His snores pulled the ugly paint from the walls.

“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Clipperton, Jon. Wake up!” She sat across from him, set her files down, gave his arm a brisk shake. “Wake up, Clipperton.”

“Huh?” He lifted his head, stared at her with droopy, blood-shot eyes.

“Do you need or wish the assistance of Sober-Up before we begin the interview?” She rattled the small tin she’d brought in with her.

“I’m not drunk.” He attempted to poke out his chest in outrage. “I’m just tired. A guy works all day like me, he gets tired.”

“Yeah. Do you understand refusal of this aid, as offered, negates any future claim that this interview was conducted while you were impaired?”

“I’m not impaired, okay? Can’t a guy take a quick nap after a hard day?”

“Your choice.” She set the tin aside. “I’m going to read you your rights, for your protection. You’ve been down this road before. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.

“I didn’t do anything!” Clipperton claimed.

“We’ll talk about that. Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

“Yeah, yeah, but—”

“Were you employed as a carpenter’s helper by Brodie Fine fifteen years ago?”

“Done some work for Brodie, sure. Did some a couple weeks ago.”

“And did this work—fifteen years ago—include a building on Ninth Avenue, then known as The Sanctuary?”