Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(46)

“And doesn’t it look like she wants to be what her father wants? That is part, a big part, of what drives her.”

“If the last part of that’s true, it means she’s turned her back on everything else she has. A mother, a brother. A good home from the looks of it.”

“Maybe, but looks don’t always mean dick. We’ll see about that. But perception’s truth, right? If nothing else, she perceived no one sees her, gets her, cares about her—not like her father. And she’s killing for him. Killing because he’s trained her, taught her to see that as her right, or at least as an answer.”

She shook it off, had to shake it off. “It only matters why right now if the why helps us find them, stop them. So yeah, you take a look. Given his age, they probably have parental controls on this unit, but she could have hidden her own files in there.”

“Easily enough.”

“If so, you’ll find them. I’m going to go back to her room.”

Eve checked in with Peabody—no movement—then stood in the center of Willow Mackie’s bedroom. A good space, fully triple the size she’d been able to claim at the same age. Nicely, comfortably furnished. The clothes all good quality.

No photographs, not of herself, her family and friends. Not even of her father. Maybe some on her computer, Eve thought, and she’d look there.

She searched through the three drawers in the desk, found a few school-type supplies. No junk. None of the weird junk teenage girls—and boys, for that matter—collected.

No discs, she realized. Data or music. No other electronics. No PC, no tablet.

Because she carted them with her, one week here, one week there?

Her gaze passed over the posters. Weaponry, violence. Would a teenager so focused on weapons live every other week without access to any?

She stepped back into the closet. A smallish space with that same sense of organization. The fussy clothes—obviously the mother’s pick—in the back. And there, still in their boxes, a pair of heels, a pair a boots—both clearly, even to her eye, meant to go with the dresses or more stylish pants.

And both, she determined, studying the soles, never worn.

In the toe of a well-worn boot she found a little stash of cash. Just a couple hundred, which made Eve feel as if it had been put there deliberately, something her mother could find.

In the pocket of a hoodie she found a notebook and, engaging it, heard a girl’s voice—a shock how young—complaining about her brother, her mother, her stepfather. How they didn’t understand her. And on and on.

Also so her mother could find it, Eve thought, bagging it for evidence. They’d listen to all the whines and complaints, but the last entry at least had been clearly designed to make her mother feel guilty if she searched and found it.

So she wouldn’t hide anything important in the closet, Eve determined.

Though she didn’t believe she’d find anything in usual places, she checked them anyway.

She went over the closet floor, the walls, even the ceiling, looked under the bed, between mattresses, checked the cushions of the desk and lounge chairs, under and behind the desk.

She judged the dresser too heavy to be moved out without showing scuffs on the floor, but tried it anyway, looked under it, pulled the drawers out, looked under them.

As she slid the bottom drawer back into place, the design beneath it caught her eye. A kind of braiding, about two inches high, ran along the base. And when she’d slid that drawer in, pulled it out, there’d been the slightest need to tug, and the faintest little click.

Nothing that out of the ordinary, but . . .

She took the bottom drawer out again. It was a well-made piece of furniture, sturdy, nicely crafted of engineered wood.

The bottom drawer rested on a slab of that wood.

Curious, she ran her fingers over the twisted braid of decoration along the base, pushing, prying. Felt one twist give, just the tiniest bit.

She tugged. Nothing.

She kept working along the braid, found another twist give, then a third.

She didn’t have to tug. The narrow hidden drawer slid out toward her.

Empty, she noted. Empty but for the cushioning foam with cutouts for two knives and two hand weapons. Blasters by her eye. Another cutout, a rectangle, would easily hold several IDs, maybe more cash, Eve thought.

“She’s not coming back here,” she murmured.

“I agree,” Roarke said from the doorway. “You’ll want to see this. You were right about using the younger brother’s unit. The file I found was cleverly hidden. And even then,” he continued as they walked back to the brother’s room, “she was careful. This isn’t a rash or impulsive young girl.”

“Not even close.” Eve studied the first document on screen. “It’s their hit list. Just initials, not full names, but there’s BM, KR—Michaelson, Russo—there’s MB—and I’m betting on Marta Beck, Michaelson’s office manager, there’s BF, that’s going to be Fine, the driver who hit the second wife. One of these others—AE, JR, and MJ—is likely the lawyer we haven’t identified. And two others. Two down, five to go.”

“There’s a second page to this document.” Roarke ordered it on screen.

“Zach Stuben—that’s her brother. Lincoln Stuben, her stepfather. Christ, her mother’s on here. Rene Hutchins, Thomas Greenburg, Lynda Track—we need to identify them. And this one with initials. HCHS.”