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“Ah, wait a sec... Yeah, yeah. I got it. The Bathtub Lament. Slashed her wrists. Soaked about twenty-four, if I got it right, before one of the women she worked with—hospital work—talked the super into opening the door. Girl had missed two shifts, didn’t answer her ’link or her door. We caught it. Nothing hinky about it, Dallas. Straight up self-doing.”
“She leave a note?”
“Yeah. Something about not being able to face the demons—not illegals, as that came clean, and we didn’t find any in her place—and how she was sorry. ME ruled it right off, so there wasn’t much to do on it.”
“I need the book—everything you have.”
“Shit. What did we miss?”
“Nothing. I think she’s tied to what I’m on. Can you get me that report?”
“Sure thing. Just having a post-shift brew with my partner and a couple others. I’ll walk back to Central, send it to you.”
“Appreciate it.”
She continued to scan the article—more an obit, she supposed. Memorial to be held September twenty-first—vic’s hometown.
“Computer, search for travel on September twenty and twenty-one, 2060, on the following names.”
She reeled them off, pushed up—wanted coffee—paced, and drank Pepsi.
They did to Elsi Lee Adderman what they’d done to the woman on disc. Somewhere between the gang rape in April, like an anniversary, and September 2060, she’d remembered enough. She’d met the other women.
Support group. Just had to be.
Elsi couldn’t live with it, couldn’t handle it. She’d opted out.
Somewhere between September and now, the rest of them had plotted full payback.
It fit like one of the fur-lined gloves Roarke kept buying her.
But it didn’t help her find Betz, find Easterday.
Task complete. On September 20, 2060, Carlee MacKensie, Lydia Su, Charity Downing traveled from Laguardia Transportation Center to Columbus, Ohio, with a return flight on September 21, 2060.
“How far is Crawford, Ohio, from Columbus?”
Working... Crawford is nine-point-six miles from Columbus, and is a thriving bedroom community.
“Computer: Search manifest for that shuttle flight. Give me the names of the passengers, female, between the ages of forty and fifty. Start with passengers matching that criteria with seats behind, in front, or beside any of the three previous subjects. Coming and going.”
Working...
Sisterhood, she thought. They went to the memorial. They went to pay their respects to one of their own to mourn her, and to cement the vow to avenge her. They all went.
Initial task complete.
“On screen, one at a time, name and ID shot. Go.”
Working... Marcia Baumberg, age forty-two.
“No,” Eve said when the ID shot came up. “Next.”
Grace Carter Blake, age forty-four.
“Stop. There. Gotcha. Run this subject, full run. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”
The painting—and/or Yancy’s sketch from the wit’s memory—hadn’t been far off. The face was leaner, the mouth maybe a little wider. But this was the fifth woman.
