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“My rights? Why—”
“So . . .” She mimicked him, then recited the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter, Mr. Frester?”
“Of course, of course. I assumed this had to do with Ingrid’s overprotectiveness. I’m told you had her arrested. Let me apologize. I feel responsible as she was only doing her job.”
“It’s her job to draw her weapon on a police officer?”
“Of course not! No, indeed.” Very subtly, he slanted a look toward his companions. One of them slid soundlessly from the room. “I’m sure there was just a misunderstanding.”
“The security feed will make it very clear as your boy—the one you just sent to review it—will find out. You’re free to post her bond, should bond be granted. In the meantime, I’m here to talk to you about The Sanctuary.”
“Ah, my crossroads.”
He folded his hands, pinky ring glinting, leaned forward just a little—just enough to communicate earnest connection.
Oh yeah, he practiced.
“It was there I began to see there was another path open to me, to everyone. That I had only to accept a power, an entity, a hand in all things bigger—and certainly wiser—than myself, to accept that and take the first steps on the path.”
“Good for you.” Eve opened the file bag, took out photos. “Do you recognize any of these girls?”
“I can’t say I do.” He pulled at his bottom lip as he scanned the photos. “Should I?”
“Some of them were residents at The Sanctuary when you were.”
“Oh. Well, let me look again with that in mind. So long ago,” he murmured. “But such an important part of my life, I should . . . This girl. Yes, yes.” He tapped a finger on Shelby Stubacker’s photo. “I remember her. Tough exterior, and clever—though not in a positive way—but those of us there, at least most of us there were at first so troubled, so angry. Shelly, was it?”
“Shelby.”
“Shelby. Yes, I remember her, and I think this girl. She sticks in my memory. A quiet girl, I think, studious, which was rare as hen’s teeth, so I remember her. I don’t know if I ever knew her name, but I’m fairly certain she was there only a short time. Then the facility moved to its new and current location. Is that helpful at all? I don’t see why . . .” He paused again, then sat back with his face dropping from curiosity to concern.
“I heard bodies were found in the empty building, the old building. I never connected it to us, to The Sanctuary. Are these girls . . . were they the bodies found?”
“Remains,” Eve corrected. “We’ve established these girls who’ve been officially identified and seven others who have not yet been identified were murdered approximately fifteen years ago, and their bodies hidden in the building where The Sanctuary was based.”
“But that’s—that’s just not possible. Murdered? Hidden? Lieutenant Dallas, I can promise you the girls would have been missed. Philadelphia and Nashville Jones were dedicated, diligent. They’d have been missed, and searched for. It was a fairly large building considering, but it simply wouldn’t have been possible to hide twelve bodies.”
“The facility moved, the building was empty.”
“I don’t—oh. Oh, dear God.” Clasping his hands together, he bowed his head a moment, as if in prayer. “There was some confusion in the move, of course, but if any of us had been unaccounted for, there would be a record. You’ve spoken to Philadelphia and Nashville, I assume.”
She ignored that. “Did you ever go back to the old building?”
“Yes. When I was writing my first book I wanted to walk through, stir up memories, try to bring it all back clearly so I could mine all that for the work. About eight—no, nine—years ago, I believe. I contacted the owners. I’ll admit I prevaricated a bit, let them think I might be interested in purchasing the building or leasing the space. I walked through with their representative, though she let me have plenty of space and time. It did stir up the memories.”
“Anything strike you different?”
“It seemed bigger without all of us in it, without all the furnishings, the equipment, supplies. And yet it seemed smaller at the time. It had been let go, if you understand me. They’d had break-ins—the rep gave full disclosure. The bathrooms had been gutted of anything useful or sellable. You could see there’d been some squatting.”
He pressed his lips together. “A terrible, stale smell to the place that would never have been permitted with Philadelphia in charge. I heard mice in the walls. Or it might’ve been rats. I went from bottom to top and back again. I wouldn’t, couldn’t have missed bodies. They must have been put there later.”
“Do you ever do any handiwork around the place? Any repairs.”
He laughed again, wiggled his fingers. “All thumbs. I remember being on painting detail once, and hating it. I bribed another boy to take my duty. We were required to do work around the building. Cleaning, painting as I said—and were encouraged to work with the handyman—what was his name? Brady—no, Brodie—and with Montclair.”
“The brother who died in Africa.”
“Yes, a terrible and tragic end to a quiet and simple life.”
