Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(29)

“It was nothing. No trouble at all.”

“I still have to … I haven’t set up my board, started my book here.”

“Then we’d best go up. I can set up your board if you like while you do the rest. You can adjust it as needed,” he added when she didn’t respond.

“That’d be great.”

When she stepped into the office, she glanced toward the sleep chair, but Galahad wasn’t sprawled over it.

“He’s likely with Summerset, as we deserted him for the evening.”

“Right. I have to generate the photos and data for the board.”

“I can do it on the auxiliary.”

Of course he could, she thought, and went to her command center, opened operations. And programmed a pot of coffee.

For a time they worked in silence. Such silence, she thought, and keenly missed the cat’s presence.

Roarke broke it as he arranged her board. “This Pru Truman, the Child Services caseworker. We didn’t get around to her at dinner.”

“Peabody’s report—copied to her supervisor—is there, too. Who also got a call from me. Stupid, careless, lazy bitch.”

The outrage ripped back, tearing her out of her chair to pace.

“It’s all the kid’s fault, as she sees it. So much the kid’s fault she doesn’t do a goddamn thing when the neighbors tell her the mother smacks the kid around. Or check the mother’s bullshit about home-schooling. Or do the least amount of work and demand to see and speak to the kid directly. Which she couldn’t have done because the kid took off last summer. And the pathetic excuse for a mother’s been collecting her professional parent stipend all along.”

“Where is she now, the mother?”

“Well, she didn’t make bail so she’s in a cage in Freehold, New Jersey, and facing fraud charges. Had illegals in the apartment—and the caseworker fuck never screened for them.”

“And where is she now, this caseworker fuck?”

“I can tell you where she won’t be tomorrow. She won’t be sitting at her desk collecting a paycheck for doing fuck-all. She ought to be in the cell next to the mother. I get the don’t-tell-me-how-to-do-my-job, and the watch-your-language, and the you-don’t-understand bullshit from her.”

Roarke just stood and watched her pace. “And she walked away on her own power? I suppose the sparring droid made a reasonable substitute.”

“Almost. I don’t know where to start with Dorian. We don’t know if she came to New York on her own, got grabbed up here last week, last month. If she got snatched a block from that crap apartment the night she took off. Anytime, anywhere between. Because nobody gave enough of a damn to look for her.”

Eve’s breath shuddered out. “Nobody cared.”

“Now someone does. You’ll find her.”

“She could be dead.”

“You don’t think so.” He crossed to her now, laid his hands on her shoulders. “Trust your instincts. I do.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.” He drew her in, held her close as she wrapped her arms tight around him. “I know. Just as I know Dennis was right.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.”

His lips curved against her hair. “That wasn’t top of my head.”

She sighed, then rested her head on his shoulder. “Can we both be right?”

“I think we are, this time in any case. Both right, both wrong. That makes it a wash, doesn’t it?”

“It hurts you, too. I can’t even wish it didn’t or it would mean you didn’t love me the way you do. And then I feel stupid and selfish, and—”

He cut her off, kissed her, soft and slow. “I didn’t fall in love with a stupid, selfish woman. It’s insulting to imply otherwise. Shutting me out would be stupid and selfish, but you’re not going to do that.”

“I’m not, even though it’ll be hard on you.” She stepped back but took his hands. “You didn’t like it when I talked about these girls as products. Like cars.”

“I didn’t, no, even understanding you looked at them through the eyes of the monsters. That’s a good word for them.”

“It’s the business—the profit angle. It doesn’t feel personal, like someone taking girls for personal reasons, personal perversions, right? Mina was still a virgin. Sure there are other things somebody could do, but no signs of physical abuse, restraints, drugs in her system. And they kept her polished up.”

“Polished up?”

“Manicure, pedicure, skin care, the expensive silk underwear, good nutrition. Harvo said her shirt was tailored to fit—and no label. I mean never a label, okay? What does that say? The shirt.”

“That it was made for her, and they have a source.”

“Right, and that costs, doesn’t it? It’s not—what do you call it?”

“Prêt-à-porter. Ready-to-wear,” he elaborated. “Off-the-rack.”

“Yeah, that. Why do that, go to that expense? Nothing elaborate, either, just a white, short-sleeved shirt. But what if it’s something like Mr. Mira said—you order a dozen, it’s less per? They had Mina for months, potentially had Dorian for months. If there are more? Plain, well-made white shirts.”