Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(91)

“Psych eval. You’re right because they have to know they’re hiring sadists and sociopaths.”

“Maybe—probably—monitor them for the first few months, more likely a year. Spot check after that. You’d need to be careful to avoid addicts, people with spouses or close family ties. Someone like Williamson? No close relationships, organized, routine-bound, punctual, just greedy enough? I’m betting she was a model employee until she screwed up.”

“I could start a search for people with that employment background who transferred to Red Swan.”

“Do that,” Eve said as they stepped off the elevator. “A five-year spread. We only need one, goddamn it. One live one.”

She headed straight to the lab, and through the glass walls saw the e-team at work. Feeney in his industrial beige shirtsleeves, dung-colored tie loose and crooked. McNab, bony hips twitching in red baggies paired with a T-shirt swirled with atomic colors. And Roarke, pale gray dress shirt somehow still crisp, with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his hair tied back.

They’d added Callendar, she noted, who completed the lineup with blue-and-green-striped baggies, a sunshine-yellow tank, with the new feature of hair ink black at the crown falling into a short, multicolored rainbow of tufts and spikes.

Eve pushed in; the noise level rose from library quiet to a night at the club.

Music didn’t blast, but it sure as hell pumped. Snatches of conversation—that might as well have been Ferengi—cut through it as the e-team communicated.

Machines beeped, buzzed, clacked.

And the air smelled ripe with coffee and sugar from mugs and fizzies and a not-quite-depleted box of doughnuts.

“Jesus, how can anybody think?” Eve demanded.

Callendar glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh, Mom’s home. Kill music. It can actually help you think,” she claimed when it dropped away. “Like the sugar rush.”

“Pulled her in,” Feeney said as he worked. “Lotta data to crack, and we want it fast.”

“I’m for that. What have you got?”

“Layered it good and proper, she did.” Roarke spoke, and as it often did when he dived deep in the work, his accent clicked up a few degrees. “And bloody buggering hell, there’s another. I’ve got it. Are you seeing this, Ian? She’s sandwiched a cross jab with a roll-down and two-step.”

“Overkill, total. Need assist?”

“No, I have it. Ah, the roll-down’s counterfeit, cozied with a triple slash and inverted ampersand. It’s clever enough, but easily … And there. I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” Eve demanded as her brain just swirled like McNab’s shirt. “What in holy hell have you got?”

“I took the files on the girls—or two and a half years of them, going back from the now. She changed the code, so Callendar’s on the next two. Feeney and McNab are dealing with her personal files.”

“Show me, show me one of them.”

He brought the first on-screen.

“I know that face. She’s on the board. Show—no, send all you’ve got to the conference room.”

“Which room?”

“We’re in one. Peabody.”

“I’m with you.”

“I need an address,” Eve snapped as she headed out. “I need a location. Run that search,” she told Peabody. “Get that started. We only need fucking one.”

“I can use McNab’s unit up here. They’re a lot juicier than what we have in Homicide. And I can have the results sent down to the conference room.”

“Do that.”

She went down alone, jogging down the glides. She swiped into the conference room, eyes on the board as she detoured to the AutoChef. The scent of her own coffee relieved her as she located the girl.

“Jaci Collinsworth, age twelve, Detroit.” She ordered the data Roarke transferred on-screen, saw the same face, the same data. Then more.

Williamson kept records on when the girl had been “admitted,” wrote up a sketchy report on physical condition, and what she called repairs. Dental work, skin and hair regimen, exercise and nutrition.

She deemed Jaci spoiled, difficult, defiant, with poor language skills that relied on swearing. Physically aggressive and requiring discipline and chemical modifications.

Also noted were the times and dates of the discipline, the method, the times and dates and doses of the drugs.

Improvement in attitude and behavior noted at seven weeks.

She’d noted down skill levels—her scale, Eve assumed—as training continued. The trainee required small, daily doses of a personalized chemical cocktail to reach her potential. She got an eight out of ten.

Williamson estimated her value at auction at six million, with a bonus for herself as matron/disciplinarian of six hundred. Her notes indicated this as a disappointment.

She read on, girl by girl, including three she added to the board.

And Mina Cabot.

“You learned fast, didn’t you?” Eve mumbled as she read Williamson’s data. “Play along and look for a way out. You went from spoiled and willful, according to this bitch, to cooperative, compliant, and eager to learn. Got a ten out of ten, and an estimated value between twelve and fifteen million. So up to fifteen hundred for your night guard, who rates you as a success.”