“We appreciate the time.” Eve pushed to her feet. “If anything comes to mind, contact me.”
“I will—we will,” Brodie assured her. “I hate thinking about those girls.”
Eve figured she’d be doing little else but thinking about them, especially when the second reconstruction came through as they left the apartment building.
“Got another face.”
Roarke looked at her screen, studied the thin-cheeked, sad-eyed image. “Would you like me to run a search?”
“Peabody’s doing it on the preliminary we got earlier, now she’ll run it on this. But hold on. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She dashed back into the building, left him on the sidewalk. To pass the time, he took out his PPC, did some research of his own.
She was back inside five minutes.
“He recognized this one. He seemed pretty confident, even added an eyebrow hoop they didn’t have on the image. And said she had crazy hair—purple, pink, and green. She had tats—full sleeves—and he figured her for no more than about twelve or thirteen tops. He remembers all this because he was working right there when she jumped one of the other kids. He doesn’t remember why, just that it took several members of the staff to yank them apart.”
“Which tells you she was in the building, as a resident, had at least one physical altercation, and from the description wasn’t the quiet, retiring type.”
“You can’t get tats at that age without a legal guardian signing off, showing ID, and being in attendance. Her remains indicate she’d been knocked around regularly so I don’t see her legal guardian taking the time to do something that stupid with her. And that tells me she was likely on the street awhile, had connections. Maybe she’d been picked up a few times. We’ll get her ID’d. We’ll have her name.”
“Are we off to talk to the rarely sober asshole while Peabody finds her?”
“Not yet. I’ll get to him, but whoever did this probably wasn’t drunk. Probably isn’t a drunk as they tend to mouth off and make stupid mistakes, like hit on the boss’s wife.”
“Some bosses’ wives,” Roarke said, tapping the dent in her chin with his finger, “handle themselves.”
“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.”