“She could’ve done them herself, picked up the basics from him, just like he said. That would explain the misspellings, and the really bad attempt at forging Jones’s signature. That data came through from the analysis,” she added. “It’s way off from Nashville Jones’s signature.
“So . . .” Turning from the screen, she circled the board. “She’s learning, planning, and Bittmore drops the bountiful in The Sanctuary’s lap. Hey, kids, we’re moving to big, pretty new digs! Pack it up.”
“And she realized it’s just the right time.”
“Perfect time. Everybody’s going to be busy, running around, distracted. More, she’s smart enough to know what goes on, and what goes on is the old building’s going to be empty. At least for a bit while the bank gets its act together, and that’s already been hanging for months.”
“A lifetime at thirteen. Would she even think about that really?” Roarke wondered. “Opportunity’s there, grab it?”
“Yeah. Foreclosures, mortgages. Adult stuff. For her, it’s just perfect time, perfect place. She’ll get out, get in, set things up for her friends until she can get them out. Nice and tidy, with documentation so nobody comes hunting for them.”
“It worked for her—the getting out.”
“Yeah, it did. Did she have somebody inside, or outside? Did she use somebody? She’d have seen it that way, just another mark. And the mark turns. Maybe she lured him in, trading sex for whatever she needed or wanted. But that didn’t work out for her, because she was the mark all along.”
“Why kill her?”
“Need, desire, or a dozen more reasons. Iris had a secret, but I don’t see somebody like Shelby taking somebody like Iris into her confidence.”
“The killer?”
“Maybe, just maybe. She’s no leader, but can be led. Iris went to church, like Lupa, like Carlie. Lots of churchy talk with Jones and Jones. Where does that fit in? Does it?”
When she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, Roarke took her arm. “Let it sit for now. Get some sleep.”
“I feel like I’m circling it, like I’m close, but not close enough to see it clearly.”
“In the morning you might.”
She shot him a look when he led her out. “You could find Sebastian’s flops. You could,” she pressed when he said nothing.
“I imagine I could.”
“Just keep that on tap, okay? I won’t ask unless I have to ask.”
“Agreed, if I agree with the ‘have to ask.’”
That had to be swallowed, though it was hard going down. “Good enough.”
Again, all the pretty girls sat in a circle. More had faces of their own now, young and sad in contrast with their bright clothes, bright hair.
They didn’t chatter like the girls in Times Square, or giggle at jokes only they could understand. They sat, they watched.
Eve thought they waited.
“I’m getting close,” she insisted. “It takes time, and work—and maybe some luck. There are so many of you. I only need two more IDs.”
And the two wearing her face turned and looked away.
“There’s no point in being pissy about it.”
“They don’t like being dead,” Linh told her. “None of us do. It’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Neither’s death.”
“Easy for you to say.” The girl named Merry sneered at her. “Your life’s totally mag. You’re sleeping in a big warm bed with the frostiest guy on or off planet.”
“Her father beat and raped her when she was just a little girl,” Lupa told Merry. “Younger than us.”