“No forced entry. No alarms tripped. Either the Swishers neglected to set them—and I wouldn’t bet on that—or somebody had their codes or a good jammer. Girl should be down here.”
“Okay.” Peabody squared her shoulders. “It’s harder when it’s kids.”
“It’s supposed to be.” Eve stepped to the next room, called for lights, and studied the fluffy pink and white bed, the little girl with her blonde hair matted with blood. “Nine-year-old Nixie Swisher, according to the records.”
“Practically a baby.”
“Yeah.” Eve scanned the room, and her head cocked. “What do you see, Peabody?”
“Some poor kid who’ll never get the chance to grow up.”
“Two pair of shoes over there.”
“Kids, especially upper income, swim in shoes.”
“Two of those backpack deals kids haul their stuff in. You seal up yet?”
“No, I was just—”
“I have.” Eve walked into the crime scene, reached down with a sealed hand, and picked up the shoes. “Different sizes. Go get the first on scene.”
With the shoes still in her hand, Eve turned back to the bed, to the child, as Peabody hu
rried out. Then she set them aside, took an Identipad out of her field kit.
Yes, it was harder when it was a child. It was hard to take such a small hand in yours. Such a small, lifeless hand, to look down at the young who’d been robbed of so many years, and all the joys, all the pains that went in them.
She pressed the fingers to the pad, waited for the readout.
“Officer Grimes, Lieutenant,” Peabody said from the doorway. “First on scene.”
“Who called this in, Grimes?” Eve asked without turning around.
“Sir, unidentified female.”
“And where is this unidentified female?”
“I . . . Lieutenant, I assumed it was one of the vics.”
She glanced back now, and Grimes saw the tall, lean woman in mannish trousers, a battered leather jacket. The cool brown eyes, flat cop’s eyes, in a sharply featured face. Her hair was brown, like her eyes, short, choppy rather than sleek.
She had a rep, and when that icy gaze pinned him, he knew she’d earned it.
“So our nine-one-one calls in murder, then hops into bed so she can get her throat slashed?”
“Ah . . .” He was a beat cop, with two years under his belt. He wasn’t ranking Homicide. “The kid here might’ve called it, Lieutenant, then tried to hide in bed.”
“How long you had a badge, Grimes?”
“Two years—in January. Lieutenant.”
“I know civilians who’ve got a better sense of crime scene than you. Fifth victim, identified as Linnie Dyson, age nine, who is not a fucking resident of this fucking address. Who is not one Nixie Swisher. Peabody, start a search of the residence. We’re looking for another nine-year-old girl, living or dead. Grimes, you idiot, call in an Amber Alert. She may have been the reason for this. Possible abduction. Move!”
Peabody snagged a can of Seal-It out of her own kit, hurriedly sprayed her shoes and hands.
“She could be hiding. If the kid called it in, Dallas, she could be hiding. She could be afraid to come out, or she’s in shock. She could be alive.”
“Start downstairs.” Eve dropped on her hands and knees to look under the bed. “Find out what unit, what ’link placed the nine-one-one.”