Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(12)

“No, HPCCY has always been housed here. You must mean The Sanctuary. That’s what we called our original home. Oh, we struggled there,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “In every way. Not enough funding, not enough staff, and the building itself a maintenance nightmare. We weren’t able to keep up the payments—we rushed into buying that building, I’m afraid, without clearly thinking it through. It housed war orphans during the Urbans.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It seemed like a sign, so Nash and I rushed in. We found out there’s a reason angels fear to tread,” she said with that wispy smile again. “But we learned quite a bit, and with that, God’s grace, and the generosity of our benefactor, we were able to create this home, and offer the children who need us much more than a sanctuary.”

Peabody slipped back in. “Tea will be right along.”

“Thank you so much. Please sit. I was just explaining to Lieutenant Dallas how Nash and I—my brother—were able to expand our horizons when we relocated here. Fifteen years ago last September. Time goes quickly, sometimes much too quickly.”

“What do you do here, exactly?” Eve asked her.

“We offer children between the ages of ten and eighteen a clean, safe environment along with the necessary mental, spiritual, and physical aids to help them conquer addictions, to help them learn to make good choices, and build strong character. We’re a route for the children, and their guardians toward a protective and contented life.”

“How do you get them—the kids?”

“Most are enrolled by their guardians—either as day residents or full-time—some through the court system. Our children come to us troubled, many addicted to a variety of substances, all certainly with poor self-control, self-image, a plethora of bad habits. We give them structure, boundaries, group and individual therapy, and spiritual guidance.”

“Is that what you did in the other location?”

“We weren’t able to as effectively assist in addiction rehabilitation as we didn’t have the proper staff. At The Sanctuary we were, I fear, little more than a holding pattern for most of the children. A place to come in out of the cold. Many were on the street—runaways or abandoned. Lost children. We tried to give them a safe place, a warm bed, healthy food, and guidance, but we were hampered by lack of funding until Ms. Bittmore, our benefactor, stepped in. She donated this building to us, and a financial trust to help us with the considerable expenses.

“Oh, thank you, Matron.”

“I’m happy to help.” Shivitz carted in a tray with a simple white teapot, three white cups. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Not right now, but please, send Mr. Jones in as soon as he’s able.”

“Of course.” Shivitz backed out, quietly closed the door.

“I’m happy to talk about HPCCY.” Philadelphia poured the tea as she spoke. “And I’d love to give you a personal tour if you have the time. But I’m puzzled by your interest.”

“This morning, the demolition stage of rehab on the building on Ninth began. Your old building.”

“They’re finally going to do something with it. That’s good news. I have fond memories, as well as nightmares about that building.” She laughed a little, lifted her tea. “The plumbing couldn’t be trusted, the doors jammed, and the power would go out without explanation. I hope whoever owns it now has deep pockets. I suspect a true rehabilitation of that property will cost a great deal.”

She looked over as her door opened. “Nash, come meet Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

“My pleasure.” He strode in, a striking man with a mane of white-streaked black hair, a prominent nose, his sister’s sharp chin. He wore a suit and tie and shoes polished to mirror gleams.

“I’m aware of you, Lieutenant,” he said with a firm handshake, “due to your connection with Roarke. And of both of you,” he continued, giving Peabody the same businesslike shake, “through your reputations as police officers—and the Icove case particularly.”

“Let me ask Matron to get another cup.”

“Don’t bother on my account.” Nash waved his sister’s offer away, joined her on the couch. “I’m a coffee man, and Philly won’t allow caffeine in the house, even the faux sort.”

“Especially the faux sort. All those chemicals.” She made a disapproving face with a shake of her head. “You might as well drink poison.”

“But such satisfying poison. So what brings two of New York’s finest to HPCCY?”

“The lieutenant was just telling me that rehabilitation’s begun on our old building, Nash. The Sanctuary.”

“Rehabilitation’s a byword around here, but that old place was, and would be still, beyond our limits. It was a happy day when we moved here.”

“And lucky,” Eve added. “It’s not every day someone donates a building to you.”

“Ms. Bittmore is our angel.”

He sat back, a man at ease, with his eyes—a shade or two sharper than his sister’s—direct on Eve’s. “It’s well known she lost her husband during the Urban Wars, then years later, lost her youngest son to addiction, to the streets. She nearly lost her granddaughter as well, generation following generation down that dark path. But Seraphim came to us—came to The Sanctuary.”