After a frustrating hour, she decided she’d need to contact whoever might be in charge of those kinds of records.
She got more coffee, a slice of cold pizza that went down just fine now, then sat to search for any connection between any of the women on the list.
Salons, banks, fitness centers, clubs, committees, doctors, churches, hobbies.
Nothing lined up, but she did uncover the fact that Carlee MacKensie had been in therapy with a Dr. Natalie Paulson from 2058 to early 2060. Su entered therapy in 2055, and stopped her sessions with Dr. Kim Ping four years later. And Downing hooked with a Felicia Fairburn for a six-week stretch in 2059. Fairburn billed herself as a body-mind-spirit therapist.
And Satan’s mouthpiece would say, rightfully, that scores of people went to shrinks.
But she’d look into it.
Yale. Shrinks. Edward Mira. Three lines that crossed for a percentage of the names.
Then there were negative connections.
No violent criminal on any. No sign of addictions that would lead to incarceration or a big dent in finances. At least no signs of current addictions. People went to shrinks to help them with drinking or illegals problems, with gambling problems, with sex problems (too much, not enough). Hell, people went to shrinks to help them figure out what to eat for breakfast, but still . . .
What if?
She started poking, picking at layers, tugging lines that led to another angle or dead ends.
Then she sat back, drummed her fingers on her thigh.
Interesting,
wasn’t it interesting that Carlee MacKensie moved back home after dropping out of Yale, moved out again within six months and into what was nothing more than a glorified flop with one Marlee Davis—who, yes, indeed had herself a very long, colorful sheet peppered with illegals busts, soliciting sex without a license, petty thievery, and assault.
Now, what was a nice, bright girl from New Rochelle doing palling around with an habitual small-time loser from Alphabet City (currently doing a nickel in the Tombs for yet another assault bust)?
Eve followed the line, found a pattern in the fabric of Carlee’s life. Wrote up a theory, questions, shot them to Mira with a copy for Peabody.
Then began to pick and scratch at Lydia Su.
By the time she’d switched to Charity Downing, she’d grabbed a second slice of cold pizza and indulged a craving for Pepsi.
She glanced up when Roarke came in.
“I see you’re onto something that’s boosted your appetite and put a cop’s smile on your face.”
“Carlee MacKensie. Smart, talented—go back and dig and you’ll find cheery little articles on her from a young age. Won various writing contests, some with cash prizes. Wrote her high school blog, did her stint of community service as a peer tutor, and volunteered with Teens for Literacy. Pretty much aced her way into Yale, with a partial scholarship. Solid, middle-class family, nice little house in the ’burbs. And check this. Computer, Image 1-C, on screen.”
Acknowledged.
The image flashed on, a pretty blonde in a bold red dress, hip to hip with a pretty guy in a black suit, bold red tie.
“Lovely young things.”
“Yeah, she’s got the looks. That’s her senior prom picture—the guy, according to her mother’s archived We Connect feed—”
“One moment.” He held up a finger. “You actually managed to access archived data from a now-defunct social media site?”
“I can do stuff. When I have to.”
“I may need to sit down, as my astonishment weighs heavy.”
“Bite me.”
“Darling, I fully intend to at the first opportunity.”