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“Tell me.”
“There are twenty-four who work or serve at HPCCY, on either a staff or volunteer basis, either full- or part-time. Six of them worked or served when it opened fifteen years ago, and four of them came to HPCCY from The Sanctuary.”
“Smaller staff at The Sanctuary, not as many to pull from.”
“Yes, and the bulk of ‘staff’ at The Sanctuary were volunteers, not paid staff. Of those—staff and volunteers from The Sanctuary on through HPCCY, or who’ve left that employment—criminal records are clean for all but five for between eight and twenty-six years.”
“Give me the five.”
“I thought you’d say that. Three illegals busts, with rehabilitation. One drunk and disorderly, again with rehab, and one vandalism. Estranged wife spray-painted obscenities on her husband’s vehicle—charges dropped. None of them have anything that shows violence against children or young girls.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
“It doesn’t,” he agreed. “A good portion who worked at The Sanctuary and who work at HPCCY have a sheet. All involve illegals arrests or arrests stemming from use. Of that faction a few have assault charges as well, but nothing on children. There were a few petty larcenies, shopliftings, petty thefts—all again connecting to illegals. And all who were hired or accepted as volunteers had completed rehabilitation, had a minimum of two years clean, and passed physical and psychiatric evaluations.”
“Things slip through.”
“They do.” He sat on the corner of her desk. “What I’m saying is, on the surface at least, it appears the heads of the former organization and the current did exactly what should have been done in hiring. We’ll be doing much the same for An Didean.”
“Your screenings won’t be surface.”
“They won’t, no.” He looked at the back of her board. “And those?”
“Eighteen who aren’t recorded as alive and well or deceased. We’ve probably got some living with fake identification, dropping off the grid, and it’s likely at least one or more is dead and hasn’t been found or ID’d. That’s the probability.”
She picked up her coffee again. “Eleven out of the eighteen came from physically abusive homes. Three were chronic runaways. The others were doing rehab for illegals and/or alcohol use.”
Since the cat knocked his head against Roarke’s leg, Roarke hefted the not insubstantial cat up to stroke him.
“Eleven out of eighteen. That percentage is a poor testament to the state of the world.”
“Some people shouldn’t be allowed to procreate. At least some of our remaining nine victims are there. It’s logical. As for the other residents, I’m hitting a lot of bad boys. And a lot of those bad boys went on to be bad men. I’ve run twenty . . .” She checked. “Twenty-eight. Nineteen of the twenty-eight served time as adults. Seven of those nineteen are either still serving out that sentence, or are serving for a second offense—one is a three-time loser. Could be the other dozen out of that nineteen learned their lesson, or got smarter.”
“Such a cop.”
She only shrugged. “One of the dozen wrote a book on being bad, the pain of incarceration, and the joys of living a clean life, and what it takes to do so. He’s on the lecture circuit. Pulls in ridiculous fees. I don’t like him.”
“As the killer?”
“In general.”
When Roarke set the cat on her desk, Galahad sprawled across it as if it were a patch of green summer grass in the sunshine.
Eve let it go—for now.
“I skimmed some of the interviews he’s given,” she continued. “He’s got that pompous fucker vibe thinly covered with sticky humility. Lemont Frester. I’m going to track him down. He has a place in New York. His pied-à-terre he calls it, and that alone says pompous asshole to me.”
“I’ll be sure to refrain from using the term at any time.”
“Good. Of the nine who never served time. One’s a cop in Denver—he’s got a strong record, but I’m going to poke deeper. Two work in social services, another’s a lawyer, one’s an MT, one owns a bar in Tucson, and the others are in what you’d call your average mid-level job. The twenty-eight procreated . . .” She checked again. “Thirteen offspring—out of the twenty who so procreated. Of those, ten actually live in the same household as said offspring. And of the twenty-eight—whether or not they are currently incarcerated—nineteen have New York as their primary residence.”
“How many more do you have to go?”
“Triple it,” she said and pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“Put it on auto. No, it’s not that late,” he said before she could protest. “At least not in our world, but you can come back fresh to the new data in the morning. You’ve been at this more than twelve hours.”
“Without a single, solid lead.”
