“Come sit on my lap.”
She tried a severe look, but couldn’t come close to Roberta Gable’s expression. “There’ll be no hanky or panky during a work session.”
“As there was hanky on the kitchen floor followed by panky in the shower, I think we can shelve that activity. Come sit on my lap.” He sent her a persuasive smile. “I’m lonely.”
She did it, and tried not to soften too much when his lips brushed her hair.
“Carmichael Smith,” he said, but he was still thinking of the child she’d been, at the mercy of the system she now stood for. And wanted, more than anything, to lavish her with everything she’d done without. Especially love.
“Thirty-one, my ass. I bet he greased some palms to have that stat adjusted. Born in Savannah, but spent part of his childhood in England. No sibs, and his mother opted for professional parent status, right up until his eighteenth birthday. Sealed juvie record, here and abroad, which might be worth the hassle of breaking. Not rolling in as much dough as he should be, considering. Must have himself some high expenses or habits.
“Parents divorced, father remarried and moved permanently to Devon. England, right?”
“The last I checked, yes.”
“No adult criminal, but I bet there’s something. Something paid off or expunged. Looks like he’s done some time in a couple of snazzy rehab facilities. Let’s have a closer look at the mother.”
“Suzanne Smith. Age fifty-two. Young when he was born,” Roarke commented. “And the marriage took place nearly two years later. Attractive woman.”
“Yeah, he looks like her some. Well, lookie here. Mommy had an LC license for a while. Street level. And she’s got herself a sheet.”
Intrigued, Eve started to rise, but Roarke clamped his arms around her waist. “If you can’t see the screen from here, I can put the data on audio.”
“Nothing wrong with my eyes. Looks like she did some grifting, and got caught with illegals, tried a little minor fraud. Pleaded them all down,” she added. “Never served time. Rolled on somebody, I bet. Held on to the license after she applied for PP status, but claimed no income. Just kept it off the books, that’s all. She was still turning. Why pay the fee if you’re not going to turn tricks? So, little Carmichael’s sex education was likely early and hands on.”
She considered, put herself in the scenario. “Let me see his medicals,” she asked. “As far back as you can find.”
“Am I smudging now?”
She hesitated, but her instincts were humming. “Keep it to a minimum.”
He gave her hip a little pat, signaling her up so he could work. While he did, she poured the last of the coffee.
“Standard exams and inoculations as an infant,” Roarke said. “He appeared to become accident-prone at about two.”
“Yeah, I see.” She scanned the various reports, from various doctors, different health centers. Stitches, minor fractures, one fairly serious burn. Dislocated shoulder, a broken finger.
“She knocked him around,” Eve noted. “The abuse continued after the divorce, and right up until he hit the teen years and probably got too big for her to risk it. So it was the mother, the female authority figure. She moved around enough to get away with it. Relocating here and there in the States, doing some time in England. And look at her earned income, Roarke, as opposed to her assets.”
“The first is all but nil, while the second is very comfortable.”
“Yeah. I’d say she’s still sucking on her little boy. Guy’s bound to resent that sort of thing. Maybe enough to kill.”
Chapter 13
Eve had very rational reasons for starting her shift in her home office. It was quiet. Of course anything compared to the division at Central—including an Arena Ball match—was quiet.
She needed more thinking time. She wanted to set up a murder board here as well, so she could stare at it and study it whenever she was in the room.
And, the number-one reason for loitering there rather than heading straight downtown was the expected arrival of Summerset. She intended to be well away before noon, but she wanted to brood, just awhile, over the fact that once she left the house today, he would have reclaimed the field upon her return.
So she set up her board, sat, put her feet up on her desk. And drinking coffee, studied it.
There were crime-scene photos—the Chinatown alley, the Gregg bedroom. There were maps, and the notes left on-scene. Victim photos, before and after. With them, she pinned copies of the original crime scenes these were based on. Whitechapel and Boston, and two of those victims that most closely matched hers.
He’d studied those, too, she thought. Stared at those old photographs, read those old reports.
He’d be studying others now. Refreshing himself, preparing for the next act.