“Your enthusiasm and support sings in my writer’s soul. Meanwhile, since I’m getting an early start, I think I’ll visit a couple journalism departments, start dealing with getting myself an intern.”
“I’ve got a candidate for that.”
“So you mentioned before,” Nadine remembered. “Where does he or she go to school?”
“She. I’d call it The School of Hard Knocks. She’s smart, annoying, relentless—relentless and sly. She’s like you, basically.”
“How old is she?”
>
“I don’t know. About fifteen.”
“I’m looking for a college student.”
Eve just shrugged. “It’s your deal. If you decide to take a look at her, it’s Quilla Magnum. She’s at Harbor House now, but she’ll be transitioning to Roarke’s An Didean when it’s ready in the spring.”
“She’s in a shelter? I’m not looking to take on a troubled youth. I’m after an intern, someone I can mentor.”
“Your deal,” Eve said easily. She gathered up the file, got to her feet.
“Did she know any of the dead girls you found in the building Roarke’s rehabbing?”
“Ask her. I’ve got a fresh dead girl to deal with.” Opening the door, Eve jerked her thumb in a get-out gesture.
Nadine narrowed those feline eyes. “You threw that at me on purpose, but I’m not taking on a teenager.”
“Whatever.”
Satisfied, Eve turned toward Homicide, and went straight to Jenkinson’s desk. She curled a come-ahead finger at Reineke.
“What’s shaking, boss?” Jenkinson shifted in his seat. “You’ve got something fresh on the Kent case?”
“Might. I’ve got the file, and I’ve got a consult coming up, but run it through.”
“Reineke took primary.”
“Yep,” Reineke agreed. “Eighteen-year-old Caucasian female. Rosie Kent. Kid had barely started in the life. Her family didn’t like it—parents divorced, both remarried, had a civil but distant deal going. Kent had one full sib—older sister—two younger half sibs, one from each parent. Older sib, high achiever, going to Florida State on scholarship.”
“Vic’s a little bit of a screwup,” Jenkinson continued. “Got through high school, flunked out of community college the first semester. Started the LC training. She figured it was an easy way to make money, and kind of a middle finger to her family.”
“They couldn’t stop her,” Reineke put in, “so decided to wait it out, figuring she’d get tired of trolling the streets to make a score, get tired of being pawed for a fee, and dealing with all the restrictions, the regular testing, and all that.”
“She didn’t have a chance to get tired of it.” With a head shake, Jenkinson’s chair squeaked when he leaned back. “She was just a couple months in when she bought it.”
“Nobody saw the john. It’s frigging cold, right?” Reineke eased a hip onto his partner’s desk. “It’s dark. She hasn’t been around long enough to make friends with the other LCs, and it comes out she’s standoffish anyhow. Acts superior, so nobody hangs with her. The way it plays is she comes out of the SRO where she’s living and gets picked up straight off. That’s how the timing played. She used one of those flops where the LCs check themselves in if the desk guy isn’t on duty, which he ain’t most of the time. It’s like a time clock, and it auto-charges by the quarter hour. John or Jane pays upfront. LC takes the key to the room on the tab, does the job, tosses the key back after, and the room goes back in rotation.”
“No security?”
“Nada,” Jenkinson confirmed. “As low-rent as low gets. So she ran up three hours before the clerk—who was watching porn in the back room—saw it on his tote board. He went up to haul her out, figuring she was using it to sleep in the warm, found her.”
“No sex, no DNA, no trace.” Reineke lifted empty hands. “Vic had an OTC sedative mixed with cheap wine in her system. No sign of restraints or struggle. She logged in for thirty minutes. TOD came in about ten minutes after the log-in. The murder weapon more of a sash than a scarf. White, tied in a fancy bow.”
Reineke tapped the left side of his throat.
“We ran like crimes, followed a few similar to nowhere.” Jenkinson shrugged. “Nothing special about the sash, the sedative, the wine. The vic didn’t have a regular boyfriend or fuck buddy. You had to figure the killer intended to do what he did, maybe targeted her because she was new at it, and that made her an easier mark.”
“Was she registered for men and women?”