The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(28)

II





The girl—strange to call her Inara, when he knows it isn’t her real name—is still asleep, her face buried in the collar of his jacket, when Victor arrives and checks in with the yawning night-shift tech analysts. One of the techs hands him a stack of messages: reports from the hospital throughout the night, from the agents out at the property, background on as many of the players as possible. He sorts through them as he drinks his cafeteria coffee—marginally better than the questionable swill left standing in the pot in the team kitchen—trying to match the pictures to the names in the girl’s stories.

It’s barely six o’clock when Yvonne enters, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. “Good morning, Agent Hanoverian.”

“Your shift doesn’t start till eight; why aren’t you sleeping?”

The tech analyst just shakes her head. “Couldn’t sleep. I sat up all night in my daughter’s room, rocking in the chair and staring at her. If someone ever . . .” She shakes her head again, more sharply this time, as if sloughing off the bad thoughts. “I left as soon as my mother-in-law was awake enough to deal with the baby.”

He considers telling her to find an office and take a nap, but then, he doubts anyone on the team slept well last night. He certainly didn’t, plagued by the hallway photos and the distant memories of his daughters running around the yard wearing costume butterfly wings. It’s easier for the horrors to catch up once you have nothing to do.

Victor hefts the canvas bag at his feet. “I have a fresh-made cinnamon roll for you if you do me a favor,” he says, and watches her stand straight with sudden energy. “Holly gave me clothes for Inara; think you could walk her down to the lockers and let her shower?”

“Your daughter is an angel.” She glances through the glass at the sleeping girl. “I hate to wake her up, though.”

“Better you than Eddison.”

She walks out of the tech room without another word, and a moment later the door to the interview room opens with the slightest squeak.

It’s enough; the girl sits up in a tangle of hair and blanket, her back against the wall until she identifies Yvonne, standing in the doorway with her hands out and open. They stare at each other until Yvonne tries a small smile. “Good reflexes.”

“He used to stand in the doorways sometimes; he always seemed disappointed if you didn’t realize he was there.” She yawns and stretches, joints popping and cracking from the uncomfortable cot.

“We thought you might appreciate a shower,” says Yvonne, holding out the canvas bag. “We’ve got some clothing that should fit well enough, and some soaps.”

“I could kiss you if I were into that sort of thing.” On her way to the door, she taps against the glass. “Thank you, FBI Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian.”

He laughs but doesn’t try to answer.

While she’s gone, he moves into the interview room to continue parsing through the new information. Another of the girls has died in the night, but the rest are expected to live. Counting Inara, that makes for a total of thirteen. Thirteen survivors. Perhaps fourteen, depending on what she can tell them of the boy. If he’s the Gardener’s son, is he part of what his father and brother did?

She’s still in the locker room when Eddison comes in, cleanly shaven and wearing a suit this time. He drops a box of Danishes on the table. “Where is she?”

“Yvonne has her down at the showers.”

“Think she’ll tell us anything today?”

“In her own way.”

A snort tells him what his partner thinks of that idea.

“Yes, well.” He hands him the stack of papers he’s already gone through, and for a time the only sounds are the shuffling of pages and the occasional slurp of coffee.

“Ramirez says Senator Kingsley has set up camp in the hospital lobby,” Eddison says a few minutes later.

“Saw that.”

“She says the daughter didn’t want to see the senator; claimed she wasn’t ready.”

“Saw that too.” Victor drops his papers to the table and rubs his eyes. “Can you blame her? She grew up on camera, with everything she did reflecting on her mother. She knows—probably better than any of the others—the media blitz waiting for them. Seeing her mother is the start of that.”

“Ever wonder if we’re really the good guys?”

“Don’t let her get to you.” He grins at his partner’s startled look. “Do we have a perfect job? No. Do we do a perfect job? No. It isn’t possible. But we do our job, and at the end of the day, we do a hell of a lot more good than harm. Inara’s good at deflecting; you can’t let her get under your skin.”

Eddison reads another report before saying anything. “Patrice Kingsley—Ravenna—told Ramirez she wants to talk to Maya before making a decision about her mother.”

“Wanting advice? Or someone to make the decision for her?”

“Didn’t say. Vic . . .”

Victor waits him out.

“How do we know she isn’t like Lorraine? She took care of these girls. How do we know it wasn’t to please the Gardener?”

“We don’t,” admits Vic. “Yet. One way or the other, we’ll find out.”