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“Yeah, and since I am I want to take a pass at Clipperton before we call it.”
Anticipating it, Roarke took her hand, gave her arm a playful little swing. “I do enjoy intimidating drunk gits in the evening.”
“If Brigham’s right, he scored booze for a minor, and maybe got sex in return with said minor. He might’ve done it more than once, might’ve developed a sick little relationship there.”
“Which leads to him murdering her and eleven others.”
Eve checked her notes, rattled off the address before she got into the car. “She was a fighter, a badass. Had a rep for it, and had what sounds like a little crew. But they tell me there’s no violence according to her bones, near TOD. All injuries well before that. You don’t kill a scrapper without leaving some marks.”
“Unless the scrapper trusts you.”
“That’s right. Maybe you get said scrapper drunk, take her out during her payment. Smother her maybe, or maybe you scored something more than some brew and she ends up ODing on yo
u. Now what the fuck do you do?”
“Build a wall to hide the body?”
“Stupid, extreme, but . . . where’d the other kids come from? That’s a question.”
“Why kill all the others? If it did start with this Shelby, why kill eleven more?”
“Every serial killer has to start somewhere. There’s always going to be a first. He killed the one, thought, ‘Wow, that was fun, let’s do it again.”
She tapped her fingers on her thigh as Roarke drove. “He knew this victim, and had to know some of the others. He had to have access to this victim to get her the brew. He knew the building, he had the tools and know-how to build the walls. The Fines may say, Yeah, he’s a dick but he wouldn’t kill anybody. People who know killers rarely think they know a killer.”
She pulled out her PPC. “He’s had some bumps, mostly alcohol-related. D&D, disturbing the peace, vandalism, destruction of property. And two hits for sexual misconduct. Pleaded down on all, did a little soft time, some community service, some court-ordered therapy.”
“The rap sheet of a dick.”
“Dicks kill as much as anyone.”
“I do try to keep mine nonviolent.”
The smirk that crossed her face felt good. “It’s got some punch.”
“Thanks, darling. I’d love to punch you later.”
“You always want to punch me.”
“That’s love for you.”
Amused, she angled her head, studied him. “Maybe I’ll punch you back.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“And here’s something else on the dick—not yours, the carpenter’s helper dick. His listed address is less than three blocks from my crime scene. Which leads me to ask what in the hell are you planning to do with that dump?”
“It won’t be a dump when it’s done.”
“Okay, what are you planning to do with what won’t be a dump?”
“I thought we’d create something to connect with Dochas.”
The abuse shelter he’d built, she thought. And the place he’d first learned about his mother.
“Connect how?”
“It’s a cycle, isn’t it, very often a cycle. The young, lost, or abused, ending up with someone who hurts them. Or becoming an abuser themselves. I’ve talked of it with the staff at Dochas, and a bit with Dr. Mira.”
