Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(76)

He’d never killed for gain.

Had Wilkey? Every instinct said yes, oh yes, he had. Maybe, just maybe, not with his own hands. But with words, with his deliberate, calculated, decades-long spread of intolerance, distrust, cool-blooded prejudice delivered behind the mask of faith.

He’d raised his flock by giving them not just excuses to hate the other, but the right. He’d certainly raised his children by the same methods.

Three sons, one daughter.

The daughter received her primary education in Natural Order schools—no surprise there. She’d earned an MBA from Unity University, Natural Order’s online college. Another degree, same place, in hospitality and a third in computer science.

Were those directives from the father, Eve wondered, or Mirium’s own interests and ambitions?

And even with those three degrees, she’d been relegated to serving her father and running his household.

According to her data, she owned no property in her own name, earned a salary considerably less than even her younger brother. Her job title: domestic manager.

“I bet that grates,” Eve muttered.

Would it grate to know she’d be expected to marry a man approved—maybe selected—by her father? Then produce a child every year or two?

Or would that suit her own ambitions?

After another thirty minutes of searching, scanning, absorbing, Eve got more coffee. She put her boots up on her command center and studied the board.

Studied Mirium Wilkey’s ID shot.

A young, not unattractive woman who presented herself as plain, wore clothes even Eve recognized as dowdy and unfashionable. An educated woman with three degrees and a substantial income, who owned nothing.

Her older brothers owned homes, vehicles, held important-sounding titles.

But not the daughter.

“It’s got to fucking grate. Peabody.”

“Yeah, I’m about to send you the highlights.”

“Tell me this. Where did Wilkey’s sons go to college?”

“Stanton Wilkey University.”

Eve turned her head from the board to look at Peabody. “Where?”

“He built a small, private college on Utopia Island. All three went there. The youngest just graduated. I took a closer look at it. It’s males only, and only accepts students who’ve graduated from approved schools.”

“They can do that?”

“Private island, private school. Ninety-six percent of the graduates go on to work in what they call the Natural Order Network.”

“Huh. Computer, search for any and all female-only universities and colleges connected to Stanton Wilkey or Natural Order. Global search.”

Acknowledged. Working …



“You’re doing the daughter. Where did she go?”

“Online. Two bachelor’s degrees and an MBA from his online college.”

Search results show no college or university on-planet with those parameters.



“Because women don’t need higher education,” Eve concluded.

“Plus, it might give them ideas. He let his daughter get those degrees—but not in a social or open setting—because he can use her. I found some photos of her online, with him. Sometimes her mother or her brothers are in them, too. Mirium’s always in the background. She looks like staff because that’s essentially what she is.”

Eve drank some coffee. “Wouldn’t that bug the shit right out of you?”

“Me, yeah. But it’s the way she was raised, it’s what she’s been taught.”

“Wouldn’t you say the woman we spoke to today on that veranda deal could think for herself? Even had a sense of power and authority?”

“Yeah, I would. Until her father joined us.”

Eve lifted a hand, shot a finger at Peabody. “Exactly. He masks bigotry with benevolence. She masks intelligence with subservience. I think they’re both liars.”

She looked over at Yancy. “Got anything interesting?”

“I think so, here and there.”

“Why don’t you come over here, bring a chair?”

He brought the one he’d been sitting on, and his portable.

“I’m going to let this other Wilkey stuff stew back here for a while.” She waved her hand at the back of her head. “Give me what you’ve got on Steenberg.”

“Okay, she and her husband didn’t join the order until they were in their late forties. She worked as a domestic, he had a small handyman business. This was outside of St. Paul. Financially they were underwater more than above. What I put together is Carl Steenberg did some work for a member, and over the course of the job, the member talked up the order. Steenberg already belonged to Freedom Warriors—that’s been taken down, but it was a white nationalist group in the Midwest back then—so it was preaching to the choir.”

“Are you still synched with the screen?”

“Yeah.”

“Put Carl Steenberg up there. I like the visual.”

When he had, Eve saw a hard-eyed man in his upper sixties, going jowly. Gravel gray hair in a severe buzz cut.

“Split screen Gayle Steenberg and keep going.”

“They look like the mean version of American Gothic,” Peabody commented, and Yancy laughed.

“They really do. I have to figure the member sponsored the Steenbergs, because that’s one way to get into meetings and seminars, and they couldn’t afford the orientation and screening fees required otherwise.”