him. See if you can find out where he is. I need a conversation with Mira. She may have some insight that’ll condense some of the ifs and maybes. And I want one with Billingsly,” she decided. “College Chad may remember somebody she palled around with. And he deserves to know he was set up, even if I can’t give him all the details.”
She pulled into the garage at Central.
“Let’s get started on the cross-checks,” she decided. “And see if Feeney can spare Callendar or any geek to take some of the list. I’ll see if Mira can squeeze me in.”
Peabody continued to work her PPC as they got into the elevator. “Wilkey’s heading and hosting a ten-day retreat—that’s for members in good standing—at his HQ in Connecticut. So he should be there. They’re only on day four.”
“Good. We’ll work some of the ifs and maybes, then pay him a visit.”
Eve pulled out her own PPC. “I’m sending you the search results. I’ll take the first twenty, you take the next twenty. See if EDD can split the rest. If not, we’ll keep going.”
When she switched to the glides, Peabody trotted with her.
“Any matches,” Eve continued, “they’re flagged for interview. Set up a broad-based search for any stories on Wilkey—you’re good at that. I’ll do a deep run, but we’ll see what’s in the gossip and society areas.”
And, Eve thought, she’d contact Nadine Furst. If the hotshot reporter didn’t have some details on Wilkey, she’d dig them up. And fast.
As she swung into Homicide, Jenkinson called out, “Yo, LT.”
Instinctively, she glanced toward him, then slapped her hand over her eyes. “Jesus Christ!”
The tie, from knot to tail, showcased a bug-eyed, pee-yellow-beaked, wildly pink flamingo.
“Can’t blame me for this one. My wife gave it to me.”
“You’ve infected her.”
“Anyways, Mira’s in your office.”
“Good. I need medical attention.”
She turned, blinked her abused eyes clear, then walked to her office.
Mira stood by Eve’s desk with a memo cube in her hand.
She wore pink, thankfully not flamingo pink, but a pale, sort of dreamy hue. The suit looked soft and springy, the heels—tiny checkerboards of pink and cream—looked painfully uncomfortable.
The cream-colored purse looked big enough to hold a potted plant.
Mira smiled, replaced the cube in her bag.
“I was just leaving you a memo. I’ve been reading your reports and notes. I find the case fascinating, and hoped to catch you in. Do you have a few minutes now?”
“I was going to contact your office, see if you could fit me in for a consult this morning.”
“This is perfect then. I had some outside appointments, and my first in-house needed to reschedule. I’ve got a block free right now.”
“Take the desk chair.”
Since Mira knew the discomfort of the single visitor’s chair, she didn’t argue. She set her bag aside, sat, crossed her excellent legs.
“Let me fill you in on this morning. You want tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
Eve programmed the flowery tea Mira liked, and black coffee for herself.
As Eve ran through the interviews, Mira sipped her tea. Occasionally she glanced at the board with those soft blue eyes.
“I’ve met Merit Caine’s parents.” Mira brushed back a wave of her rich brown hair, currently sun-shot courtesy of Trina. “Friends of friends, that sort of thing. I know they’re both enormously proud of their children. I haven’t had any contact with the Huffmans, but from your reports, and what you’ve told me here, I agree with your conclusion. True believers.
“They’re medical professionals, educated scientists, but have chosen to discard science in favor of a fanatical, systemic bigotry. So much so they would subject their own teenage daughter to what is nothing less than torture. This, and being raised on those tenets, forced to hide or deny her own sexual identity, certainly helped mold her into what she is today.”
“What is she today?”
“A malignant narcissist with sociopathic tendencies. A sexual predator—not a violent one, but an opportunistic one. She doesn’t form or forge genuine relationships, she manipulates those who can further her needs and ambitions. They don’t matter to her beyond that use. She doesn’t love, isn’t capable.”
“Could she kill?” Eve asked, and Mira smiled, sipped her tea.
“Oh yes, absolutely.”
11
Eve rose from where she’d eased a hip on the corner of her desk. “Could she have killed Ariel Byrd?”
“She’s more capable of murder than most,” Mira began. “On impulse, in the moment, in temper. Physical violence wouldn’t be her initial impulse or choice. It’s messy—and she would worry about being hurt herself. But in an instant or moment of