The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(68)

“I feel like there’s something really important no one’s brought up yet, and I’m not sure there’s a good way to do it.”

“Why are the kids white?” Sterling offers, not looking away from her laptop.

“Okay, so it has been brought up.”

“Not really. It’s just the obvious question. All of the families, with the partial exception of the Wongs, have been white. Generally argues that the killer is white, as well.”

“This type of mission as a whole argues a white killer,” I remind her. “And you’re forgetting the racism inherent in the system.”

Sterling nods, but Cass looks between us in confusion. “Applying how?”

“Minority kids are significantly more likely to be taken from their families on less documented cause, and less likely to be given back to their families without more oversight on the parents. They take minority kids ‘for the good of the kids,’ but leave the white ones ‘for the good of the family.’ Minority kids are more likely to get treated poorly in foster homes but this killer is going after the parents, thus far, not the fosters, so they’re going after the white parents who get their kids back against evidence.” At the silence from my shoulder, I tilt my head to see Cass frowning. “What?”

“You didn’t even have to think about that one.”

“It’s well documented. We get taken faster and it’s harder to get us back.”

“Were any of the kids’ files accessed by Gloria the day of the murders?”

I lift Gloria’s file to check the papers below. “All of them.”

Cass pushes back from the table, phone already in her hand. “Burnside,” she says on her way out the door. “This is Kearney; I need to know what files Gloria Hess has accessed most recently. Check Derrick Lee as well, just in case.”

I wonder if there’s a way to borrow an administrator from a CPS office in another county to oversee a more detailed audit. After all, if Lee is in charge of the clerks, he might know their log ins. As much as we’re all thinking she, Lee hasn’t been eliminated as a possible suspect.

My cell goes off, but it’s a number on the Bureau exchange so the ringing doesn’t cause the same frisson of fear it’s come to impart recently. “Agent Ramirez.”

“Agent, this is the front desk; you have a visitor down here.”

“A visitor?”

Sterling and Eddison both look up, but I shrug.

“Her ID says Margarita Ramirez.”

“Cógeme.”

My phone buzzes with another call, and I pull away from the screen to see Holmes’s name. “I’ve got a call about a case coming in; tell her I’ll be down soon, have her sit tight.” Without waiting for an answer, I switch over. “Ramirez.”

“A pharmacist at Prince William took a smoke break and found twelve-year-old Ava Levine asleep on a bench. She had two angel bears.”

“Blood?”

“No.”

“I’ll grab Watts and Kearney and come down.” I really want to throw this fucking phone against the wall; it does not bring good things. Ending the call, I take a deep breath and consider my options. “I have to head to Manassas,” I tell my partners. “Girl was found sleeping outside the hospital.”

“Sleeping? Like she was drugged.”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell Vic.”

“What about your visitor?” Sterling asks.

“Also Vic.” Before I can be tempted into explaining, which is not something I have time for even if I did have the inclination (I don’t), I grab my purse and leave the conference room, hooking my elbow through Cass’s and walking her backward. “We’re off to Manassas. I have to give something to Vic to handle; grab Watts?”

“Why are we—but it’s midmorning, how is there just now a victim? Someone would see something.”

“I’ll tell you both in the car.” I twist her around to point her in the right direction and give her a swat on her ass to keep her moving.

And because we’ve been friends for ten years, she just shoots me the bird and flounces down the stairs to find Watts.

Vic is in his office. He gives me a distracted good morning, head down as he makes notes on a file, but the sound of the lock turning has his full attention on me. “Mercedes? What’s wrong?”

“Two things.” I tell him the very little I have regarding the newest child, and he nods gravely.

“What’s the second thing?” he asks when I struggle to continue.

Deep breath, Mercedes. “My mother is downstairs.”

That has him putting down his pen and leaning back in the well-padded chair. “Your mother.”

“Probably. I guess it could be one of the cousins. It’s a popular name in the family. But . . . yeah, it’s probably my mother.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She tracked down my foster home when I was thirteen. That’s when they transferred me out of their system to another city.” Nineteen years.

“And you have an idea about why she’s here.”

“My father was recently diagnosed with cancer,” I say and, at his raised eyebrow, add, “Pancreatic.”