She stepped into the bullpen and the clashing scents of really bad coffee, processed sugar, and industrial-strength cleaner. The smells of home.
Detectives manned ’links and comps at their desks, uniforms did the same in their cubes. She noted the empty desks of Detective Baxter and his trainee, Officer Trueheart. Remembered after a quick mental search that they’d both be in court.
She split off from Peabody, shrugging out of her coat as she made the short jog into her office. There, in her small space with its single narrow window, sat her AutoChef with the perk of real coffee, most excellent coffee, thanks to Roarke.
She tossed her coat on her excuse of a visitor’s chair. The ass-numbing chair, plus coat, should discourage visitors. Then she programmed coffee, dropped down at her desk.
She wrote her report first, copying her commander and Dr. Mira, adding a request for a consult to Mira’s copy.
Then she tagged crime scene photos to her board. Twelve remains, she thought.
Young girls, who if DeWinter’s gauge was accurate, would be adult women now, close to her own age. Women with jobs, careers, families, histories, lovers, friends.
Who’d stolen all that from them? And why?
“Computer, search and list any and all Missing Persons reports, New York area, for females between twelve and sixteen years. Subjects not found. Search parameters 2045 through 2050.”
Acknowledge. Searching . . .
That would take a while, she thought.
And it took time to kill a dozen girls, barring group slaughter, mass poisoning, or the like. She didn’t see that here. A mass killing would have resulted, most logically, in a mass grave, not scattered hiding places.
So one or two, possibly three at a time, with the added burden of concealment.
A closed or abandoned building would afford the time, the privacy needed. Nail down the TODs, then find who had opportunity and access—and the necessary skills to build the walls.
It grated a little, she could admit it, to depend on someone else to determine TOD—someone not within her usual team. But she studied the board, and reminded herself those girls, who would never have jobs, lovers, families, demanded she work with anyone who could provide answers.
But that didn’t mean she shouldn’t find out just who that anyone was.
She did a quick run on DeWinter.
Age thirty-seven, single, no marriage, one offspring—female, age ten. No official cohab on record. Born Arlington, Virginia, both parents living, both long-term cohabs, both scientists. No siblings.
The educations listing ran endlessly, and okay, Eve thought, were pretty damn impressive. She had doctorates in both physical and biological anthropology, both from Boston University of Medicine—where she sometimes served as a guest lecturer—master’s degrees in a handful of other related areas like forensic DNA, toxicology. She’d worked in a number of facilities, most recently The Foundry in East Washington where she’d headed a nine-person department of lab rats.
Earned the price of her fancy coat and boots on the lecture circuit, Eve deduced, after scann
ing the list—and consulting on digs and projects all over the world. That list ran from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.
Arrested twice, Eve noted. Once at a protest rally against rain forest development, and once for . . . stealing a dog.
Who stole a dog?
Both times she pleaded guilty, paid a fine, and did the required community service.
Interesting.
She’d started to look more deeply into the criminal charges when Mira knocked on her doorjamb.
“That was fast.” Automatically, Eve rose.
“I was on an outside consult and read your report on the way in. I thought I’d come by before I went to my office.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Those are your victims.”