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The Internet Crimes Against Children department dealt with sick bastards day in and day out. “I don’t think I could do that job,” she murmured.
“Me either,” Navarro agreed, his voice heavy. “Ryland says they still have a few hard drives to go. I’ll text you when I know more. Good luck with Orion.”
“Thanks.” Kit ended the call. “Let’s review the files for the people we’re going to meet.”
The Orion School, San Diego, California
Wednesday, April 20, 1:00 p.m.
Kit studied the stony faces around the table in the lavishly decorated conference room at the Orion School. The carpet was thick under her boots and the paintings on the walls looked like museum pieces. The table itself was a solid piece of wood that appeared to be mahogany.
Forty thousand dollars a year tuition.
Right.
There were ten people at the table, not counting her and Connor. Just one of the ties the men wore cost more than the monthly rent on her boat slip.
Kit had expected wealth but had honestly expected a more laid-back, creative vibe. It was an art school, for heaven’s sake. Where were the kids dancing in the hallways singing show tunes?
She felt betrayed by Glee and Fame. This place was like an ice castle.
Kit met each of the gazes currently glaring at her. Lawyer with a blue tie; lawyer with a red tie; lawyer with a rainbow tie, so at least he had some personality. The principal—wait, so sorry, she was the headmaster—looked very stern. More lawyers. And one IT guy who looked only slightly posh.
He must be the misfit of the Orion School staff.
The admissions director was noticeably absent. She and Connor would need to find out why that was.
Two of the attorneys had the same body type as the killer on the videos, and Kit noted their names. They’d do more in-depth background checks on them later.
“So,” Kit began. “I’m Detective McKittrick and this is my partner, Detective Robinson. I tried to call yesterday. Gave the woman at the front desk my name and badge number. Told her it was urgent that I speak with the headmaster.”
“I’ve spoken with the receptionist,” the headmaster said. She was Headmaster Worthington, because of course she was. Her suit was clearly designer and very expensive, because of course it was. “She is being reprimanded. Had I known you’d called, I would have answered immediately.”
That might even have been true. It didn’t really matter now.
“The department regrets that this story made it to the media,” Connor said sincerely, just as they’d agreed as they were en route. He was to be the good cop today, which was fine because Kit rather enjoyed the bad cop role. “But the reporter didn’t cross-check her facts. She was incorrect.”
“We’ll be dealing with the media outlet,” one of the lawyers said grimly. “This is unacceptable. The very idea that someone in our school was involved.”
The very idea.
“Someone is hunting and killing teenage girls, sir. We’ve identified twelve victims and are confident there are more that we don’t yet know about.” Kit let the statement hover for a moment, waiting until their expressions began to change from stony to something more human. “It is unfortunate that a reporter included your school in her article without fact-checking, but your reputation, while important, is by far the least of our concerns. We need to stop this man before he kills again.”
It was Kit’s fear that their killer would soon feel cornered and kill again to throw suspicion back on Sam Reeves.
It was just a matter of time.
The lawyer had the good sense to look chagrined, but it was the headmaster who spoke. “Of course, Detective. You’re quite right. Justice for the lives of these young women is the most important thing. How can we help you?”
“Thank you.” Kit opened the folder she’d brought and selected a photo of Naomi. “One of our victims, a fifteen-year-old named Naomi Beckham, told a classmate that she was coming here for a scholarship audition. That her benefactor was an older man with a black Mercedes.”
“None of us drive a black Mercedes,” another lawyer said. “Other colors, yes, but not black.”
Kit’s smile was tight. “We know. We checked before we came. The young woman who thought she was getting an audition disappeared that night. We now know that she’s dead. She likely died that same night.”
We saw him kill her. The killer’s living room had been lit by lamps when Naomi was killed. She hadn’t lived to see the sunrise.
“Many of our victims,” she continued, “participated in drama club or expressed an interest in acting. Along with basic physical characteristics, it is the only commonality.”
