“Seriously, it was a big moment for me. Sergeant Owusu talked to her uncle, her grandfather, a few others. She was actually writing up a report on it, so you’d have it all laid out. She’ll send it as soon as she’s done, and digs up some pictures.”
“Good.”
“Meanwhile the gist she gave me is everyone agreed Preacher Jones—that’s what they called him—was a lovely man of faith and goodwill. He spoke with respect, enjoyed trying their native dishes—even learned to prepare a couple. He also studied the language, and had humor when he made mistakes in speech. He was kind, and they believe his spirit has remained in Africa.”
“So they liked him. How’d he get eaten?”
“He had a curiosity about everything. And liked to take photos, small recordings, for himself, talked of compiling them one day into some sort of book or documentary. He was out, wandering farther than was wise, to take photos of a watering hole at dawn. The lion came to feed, and he was the main entrée.”
She’d read most of that in the incident report already. “Did they say if he habitually went on these photo shoots alone?”
“I didn’t ask that specifically, but Owusu strikes me as thorough. If she got anything, it’ll be in her report.”
“I don’t remember any interest in photography or animal life in Montclair Jones’s background.”
“Well, he’d never been to Africa before,” Peabody pointed out. “If I went there I’d live with a camera. Basically, it sounded like he’d decided to make the best of it, was enjoying it. It makes sense—he was off the tether for the first time, and somewhere exotic and new.”
Eve glanced at her computer when it signaled an incoming. “We have Iris Kirkwood confirmed as the tenth, and the ID on the reconstruct on the eleventh.”
Eve studied the image—mixed race, she judged. Thin face, wide, wide eyes, sharp cheekbones.
“I recognize that face.” Eve ordered the Missing Persons images, split screen. “There. There she is. Shashona Maddox, age fourteen. Went missing from the grandmother’s residence. Grandmother custodial guardian. Mother took off when the kid was three, father unknown. Grandmother had custody of Shashona’s half sister, same mother, father gave up parental rights, which wouldn’t have been hard for him, most likely, as he was serving twenty to life for murder two at the time.”
“We have another notification.”
She did a quick search. “Yeah. Grandmother’s still alive, still in New York. Half sister’s a doctor, surgical resident at Mount Sinai. Grandmother, Teesha Maddox, lives and has lived for twenty-five years in an apartment on Eighth Avenue. A professional nanny, currently working Upper West Side. When’s Philadelphia due in?”
Peabody glanced at her wrist unit. “We’ve got about an hour.”
“Let’s go see the grandmother. Tell the bullpen if we’re not back, have her wait in the lounge.”
As Peabody hurried out, Eve took the time to send a short, direct e-mail to DeWinter—copied to Whitney.
Appreciate the fast, efficient work. As per my reports, we’re pursuing several investigative lines. Until we have all the victims identified, all the notifications done, and have interviewed all relevant parties, any media release or conference remains on hold. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
“Keep a lid on it,” Eve muttered, then like Nadine, scooped up her coat, swinging it on as she walked out.
They found Teesha Maddox with a baby of indeterminate age and sex in a neat and attractive apartment. She took one look at Eve, at Peabody, nodded wordlessly. She pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead, just held them there a moment, then stepped back.
“Please come in. You’ve come to tell me my Shashona’s gone. One of those poor girls they talk about on screen.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry.”
“I knew when I heard the report. I’ve known all along, but that’s when I knew where she was. I was going to come in to the police station, but Miss Hilly—she’s my lady. Hilly McDonald? She said, now, Teesha, don’t put yourself through that. If they’ve found her, they’ll come to tell you. And here you are.
“I’m going to put the baby down. She’s all dry and fed and burped. I’m going to put her down in her crib awhile, with the monitor on in case she goes fussy. You have a seat here, and I’ll be back in just a minute. I don’t like to talk death with the baby. They take in more than some believe.”
“Nice place,” Peabody said quietly. “It has, I don’t know, a nice, settled, comfortable feel to it. Totally stylish, but homey at the same time.”
Decent view, Eve thought as she sat down, scanned the room.
A lot of photographs—baby, no, two babies, with one of them progressing to the small person a kid was. Maybe three, four? No way for her to know.
Pictures of a woman—Hilly, she supposed—and a guy who was likely the father. Together, with baby, baby, kid. And a shot of Hilly—a white-skinned redhead with Teesha, whose coloring made Eve think of Dennis Mira’s amazing hot chocolate.
“She doesn’t look old enough to be the grandmother of grown women,” Peabody commented.
“She’s sixty-four.”