Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(34)

"Not bad." And exactly what Eve had in mind to do next. "You can sniff the wrapper," she offered, and held it out.

Peabody grimaced, but she took it.

"And the results?"

"There's good news and bad news. Bad news is the city's full of criminals."

"My God. How could this be?"

"Which leads to the good news that our jobs are secure. Most of what I got was petty stuff, but I did get a couple of nice pops. An assault with illegals possession, and a multiple stalking."

"What's your pick?"

"Oh, well." Suddenly nervous, Peabody puffed out her cheeks. "We'd have to check out both, because... the assault doesn't ring so much since the kill was careful, and he didn't rough her up any. But the illegals does, because of the tranq used. But the stalking's more in line with the MO, so I guess I'd start with the stalker."

"You're coming right along, Peabody. Got the name and address?"

"Yes, sir. Dirk Hastings, Portography, on West 115th." "Dirk's a really stupid name. Let's take a ride."

***

With Dr. Louise Dimatto as his guide, Roarke took a tour of the newly completed common rooms of the abuse shelter. He approved the soothing colors, the simple furniture, and the privacy shields on the windows.

He'd wanted to establish this... sanctuary, he supposed, as a kind of symbol of what both he and Eve had ultimately escaped. And to provide a safe haven for the victims.

He wouldn't have taken advantage of such a place, he thought. No matter how hungry, bruised, battered, he wouldn't have bolted to a shelter.

Too proud, he supposed. Or too bloody mean.

He might have hated his father, but he hadn't trusted the social workers, the cops, the do-gooders, and had figured better the devil you know. There'd been no system for him, as there had been for Eve once she was found broken and bloody in that alley in Dallas.

She'd learned to work her way through the system, while he'd spent most of his life working around it. And somehow he'd become part of it and a do-gooder himself.

It was baffling.

He stood at the wide doorway leading to the recreation area. There were children playing a bit too quietly, but playing. Women with babies on their hips, and bruises on their faces. He caught the looks aimed his way-panic, suspicion, dislike, and outright fear.

Men were a rarity within these walls, and were usually the reason others huddled inside them.

"I'll only interrupt for a minute." Louise spoke in an easy tone as she looked around the room. "This is Roarke. There'd be no Dochas without him. We're pleased he could make the time today to visit, and see the results of his vision and generosity."

"As much your vision, Louise, if not more. It's a nice room, feels like a home." He, too, looked around, at the faces. He felt the weight of their waiting, and their discomfort.

"I hope you're finding what you need here," he said, and started to step out again.

"How come it's got such a funny name?"

"Livvy." A thin woman, no more than twenty-five, by Roarke's gauge, and with faded bruises covering most of her face rushed over. She scooped up the little girl who'd spoken. "I'm sorry. She didn't mean anything."

"It's a good question. It's always smart to ask a good question. Livvy, is it," he continued, addressing the child now.

"Uh-huh. It's really 'livia."

"Olivia. That's a lovely name. It's important, don't you think, what something's called? People, places. Your mum picked a special name for you, and see how well it fits you."

Livvy watched Roarke and leaned closer to whisper in her mother's ear, loud enough for half the room to hear. "He talks pretty."

"She's only three." The woman managed a nervous laugh. "I never know what she's going to say next."

"What an adventure that must be." As the tension lines around the woman's eyes relaxed, Roarke lifted a hand, smoothed a finger over Livvy's brown curls. "But you had a question about the name of this place. It's a Gaelic word, Dachas. That's an old, old language people spoke-and still do here and there-in the place I was born. In English it means hope"

"Like I hope we can have ice cream again tonight?"

He flashed a grin. They hadn't broken this child yet, he thought. And God willing, they never would. "Why not?" He looked back at the mother. "Are you finding what you need here?"

She nodded.

"That's good then. It was nice to meet you, Livvy."

He stepped out, and made certain they were out of earshot before he spoke again. "How long have they been here?" he asked Louise.

"I'd have to ask one of the staff. I don't remember seeing them when I was here earlier in the week.

"We're helping them, Roarke. Not every one, not every time, but enough. I know how hard it is, from my clinic, to have some slip away, and how hard it is not to get involved with every one, on a personal level." Though she'd been brought up in wealth and privilege Louise knew the needs, the fears, the despair of the disadvantaged. "I can't give more than a few hours a week here myself. I wish it could be more, but the clinic-"

"We're lucky to have you," Roarke interrupted. "For whatever time you can manage."