Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(112)

“We haven’t. Have you?”

“Not to spend any quality time, so to speak. There are, however, many exceptional channels for smuggling in Africa. But that was long ago.” He danced his fingers up her ribs. “We could go, take a safari.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not sure cows aren’t going to try some payback and stage a mass revolution, why would I risk going where there are lions just walking around loose, and really big snakes who’ll wrap around you and squeeze and swallow you whole? And, oh yeah, quicksand. I’ve seen the vids. Of course, now I know how to deal with quicksand if that ever happens.”

“Do you now?”

“Yeah, long story. I’ll give you some tips sometime. The river’s probably the thing.”

“Which river? I think Africa has several.”

“Not in Africa. Here. Jones could have weighed his brother down, dumped him in the river. Or taken him out to New Jersey, up to Connecticut, somewhere where there’s a lot of ground, woods, buried him. They’ve got a van now, which Jones didn’t take on his getaway. Maybe they had one then, too. Something to check.”

“While you do, I’m in my office.”

She went to her desk first, saw the incoming light blinking, ordered the messages up.

“Damn it!”

Roarke stopped in his doorway, turned around. “Bad news?”

“No, no, Zimbabwe sent me an e-mail with attachment a few hours ago. Stupid Earth, axis, revolving crap. It’s a picture. Two pictures.”

Curious now, Roarke walked over to study them with her. One showed a man wearing a safari-style hat, amber sunshades, a khaki shirt, and pants. He smiled out, a camera strapped around his neck, a little white building at his back.

“Supposed to be Montclair Jones. It could be him. Same coloring, same basic body type. Hat and sunshades make it tough to be sure. Same with the group shot here.”

In that one, the man, similarly dressed, stood with several others in front of the same building.

“I can enhance, sharpen it up. I can do that. I can run a match with his last ID shot. But . . . before I do.”

She turned to her ’link, ordered Philadelphia’s personal contact.

Philadelphia answered before the first beep had completed. “Lieutenant, you found Nash.”

“No. I’m sending you a picture. I want you to tell me who this person is.”

“Oh. I was so sure that . . . Whose picture? Sorry, you don’t know, otherwise why would you ask.”

“It’s coming your way now.”

“Yes, I see. Give me a moment. There it is. Oh, it’s—” Then she shook her head, sighed. “My brothers are so much on my mind, for a moment I thought it was Monty. But it’s . . . what was his name? He worked with us for a short time, though he rarely stayed in one place long as I recall. He’s actually a cousin, distant, which we discovered as he and Monty looked more like brothers than Nash and Monty. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Kyle! Yes, yes, Kyle Channing, a cousin on my mother’s side. Third or fourth or fifth.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Oh yes, that’s Kyle. But this had to have been taken years ago. He’d be in his forties now. How did you get this picture?”

“I’m coming to you,” Eve said, and broke connection, then slapped her hand on the desk.

“I knew it.”

“Plausible alternatives or not, it seems your theory is on the mark.”

“Jones sends the cousin in his brother’s name, with his brother’s ID, documentation. Maybe he paid him, blackmailed him, or just asked for a favor. But Montclair Jones didn’t go to Africa. He didn’t die in Africa. He killed twelve girls. His brother stopped him before he could make it thirteen. And he dealt with him. I’ve got to go.”

“Contact me, will you, if Jones reappears? I’d like to hear the whole story.”

“Me, too.”

She grabbed up her ’link, tagging Peabody as she dashed downstairs. “Meet me at HPCCY, now.”

“Okay, I’m just—”

“No. Zimbabwe sent pictures—and Philadelphia just identified a man named Kyle Channing, not her brother.”

“You were right.”

“Fucking A.”

She yanked her coat off the newel post. “Get there.” As she swung the coat on, she remembered taking it up to her office the evening before. So how did it . . . Summerset, she realized, and just decided not to think about it.

• • •

Philadelphia was pacing the halls when Eve came in.

“Lieutenant, I’m very confused, and I’m very worried. I’m worried something must have happened to Nash. I contacted hospitals, health centers, but . . . I think I should file a Missing Persons report.”

“We’ve got a BOLO out on him. He’s not missing. He’s just not here.”

“He could’ve become ill,” she insisted. “The stress of these last few days—”

“This goes back a lot longer.” She glanced around, watching kids come out of here, head to there, clomp out of there, slump their way elsewhere.

“What’s going on?”

“If I knew I’d . . . You mean the residents. Breakfast shifts, early classes, or personal sessions.” She wore her hair down today, and pulled nervously at the ends. “It’s important to keep the children on routine.”