“Disturb her with my name, see what she says.”
“One moment, please.”
It took barely more than that for Knight to come on—making Eve think of the personal assistant again.
“Lieutenant.”
“I thought you’d want to know, I received and reviewed the case files from St. Louis.”
“Oh. I see.”
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
“I—what?” Knight lifted a hand and pressed it to her mouth. “I’m sorry?”
“Sarvino might have died from the throat wound you inflicted if he hadn’t sought medical assistance. But, in point of fact, that didn’t cause his death. They killed each other, sloppily and stupidly, because, in my opinion, they were high and pissed off. Carly Ellison died because she dragged a thirteen-year-old girl into an alley so she could make some money by allowing a junkie to rape her. You didn’t kill anyone, so put it away. Tell your mother to put it away.”
“I…”
“This is what I do for a living, Ms. Knight. I’m telling you, you weren’t responsible for what happened in that alley. I’m telling you that as an investigator. Mars had to know you weren’t responsible. If she dug deep enough, she knew, but she exploited you anyway.”
Tears glittered in Knight’s eyes. “We didn’t go to the police.”
“I’m the police,” Eve said. “Better late than never.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I’m doing my job. Put it away.”
“I think I can at least start to. I think I finally can. Thank you. Good night, Lieutenant.”
Eve clicked off, began her deeper runs on connecting names she felt were low probability. Get them out of the way, she thought.
From there, she moved on to what she thought of as the next tier. Unlikely, but more possible.
She programmed coffee, gathered data, added notes to her murder book.
Then she went back to Guy and Iris Durante. Missy Lee’s parents—father leading—were most probable of her current crop to her mind. But she’d added Wylee Stamford’s sports agent and his two other friends from back in his old neighborhood who fit the pattern of victims of the abuser.
If Stamford’s story had come out, theirs might, too.
When Roarke came in, she noted his warning look when she reached for more coffee. Instantly annoyed, she started to snap something, then noted the time.
Okay, he had a point.
“It’ll continue to run on auto,” he told her. “Nothing substantial as yet. I did find a Starr—that’s two r’s—Venus with a flat downtown, but she’s actually an over-the-’link psychic, born Karen Leibowitz. Did some time under that name for fraud. And how about you?”
“I’ve moved the bulk of connections to the bottom of the list. No one there has a probability over ten percent. I’ve got a couple who hit low twenties. Guy Durante’s at sixty-five and change with current data, so he bears more study. And I’ve got a couple of possibles connected to Wylee Stamford. Very likely victims of the same fucking pedophile. If I keep on them, I’m going to find who killed the fucking pedophile. I lean toward the father of one of them.”
He read the conflict on her face. “Will you push on that?”
She stood, paced. “Rock, hard place. It’s my job. But I can tell myself it’s not my case. I can take the straight-arrow line and start peeling things back. And the man I’d peel things back on has two more kids, has worked at the same company for thirty years, volunteers at a youth crisis center—he started there six months after the fuck’s death. He also coaches a Little League team.”
“He, if you’re right, would have been protecting his son.”
“He should have gone to the cops.”
“Who knows how the boy would have reacted? Who knows if he’d have been believed? What would it serve, after all these years? We both know what it is to be abused as a child. For me, it was neglect or beatings, but you and that boy have more in common. Summerset saved me,” Roarke continued, more passionately than he’d intended. “And someone did me the favor of putting a knife in Patrick Roarke, as he’d have found me and likely done for me sooner or later.”