Yale. Shrinks. Edward Mira. Three lines that crossed for a percentage of the names.
Then there were negative connections.
No violent criminal on any. No sign of addictions that would lead to incarceration or a big dent in finances. At least no signs of
What if?
She started poking, picking at layers, tugging lines that led to another angle or dead ends.
Then she sat back, drummed her fingers on her thigh.
Interesting, wasn’t it interesting that Carlee MacKensie moved back home after dropping out of Yale, moved out again within six months and into what was nothing more than a glorified flop with one Marlee Davis—who, yes, indeed had herself a very long, colorful sheet peppered with illegals busts, soliciting sex without a license, petty thievery, and assault.
Now, what was a nice, bright girl from New Rochelle doing palling around with an habitual small-time loser from Alphabet City (currently doing a nickel in the Tombs for yet another assault bust)?
Eve followed the line, found a pattern in the fabric of Carlee’s life. Wrote up a theory, questions, shot them to Mira with a copy for Peabody.
Then began to pick and scratch at Lydia Su.
By the time she’d switched to Charity Downing, she’d grabbed a second slice of cold pizza and indulged a craving for Pepsi.
She glanced up when Roarke came in.
“I see you’re onto something that’s boosted your appetite and put a cop’s smile on your face.”
“Carlee MacKensie. Smart, talented—go back and dig and you’ll find cheery little articles on her from a young age. Won various writing contests, some with cash prizes. Wrote her high school blog, did her stint of community service as a peer tutor, and volunteered with Teens for Literacy. Pretty much aced her way into Yale, with a partial scholarship. Solid, middle-class family, nice little house in the ’burbs. And check this. Computer, Image 1-C, on screen.”
Acknowledged.
The image flashed on, a pretty blonde in a bold red dress, hip to hip with a pretty guy in a black suit, bold red tie.
“Lovely young things.”
“Yeah, she’s got the looks. That’s her senior prom picture—the guy, according to her mother’s archived We Connect feed—”
“One moment.” He held up a finger. “You actually managed to access archived data from a now-defunct social media site?”
“I can do stuff. When I have to.”
“I may need to sit down, as my astonishment weighs heavy.”
“Bite me.”
“Darling, I fully intend to at the first opportunity.”
“I dug for it, and what I found was mother-type pride data on her kid. Pictures like this, which show she was a pretty young thing, with a pretty young boyfriend—also bright, went on to Harvard. And about seven months after this picture was taken, she’s all but flunked out of Yale and living back home.”
“All right. She’s pretty, and she didn’t realize her potential.”
“More. A couple months after moving home, she’s moving out, and into a flop on Avenue A with a skank. The word fits. Long sheet, even then, for illegals possession, for selling Bounce to an undercover, for soliciting sex—no license. Where’d they hook up? Where’s the common ground?”
“The pretty young thing was using.”
“Bet your fine Irish ass. No record of it, but an eighteen-year-old girl doesn’t jump from New Rochelle and proud mom to Alphabet City and the skank unless the skank was her connection. A few months later, she’s back home again.”
“Which is likely why she’s still alive or not in prison.”
“Skank’s in year three of five for agg assault. MacKensie lived back home for two years, and during that time did her own stint. Two three-month stints at Inner Peace. I had to dig, way down, as it’s billed as a lifestyle enhancement center, not rehab. Guess who else did some time at Inner Peace?”
“My money and the look in your eyes say either Su or Downing.”
“Su. Not at the same time, which is annoying, but they both went to Yale, both went to this lifestyle deal. Su took a sabbatical, three years ago, and did the lifestyle enhancement deal. Prior to that, I’ve got her in this program—this study on insomnia. And, what a coincidence! Charity Downing also took part in a program—again, not at the same time—on insomnia.”
“That’s too many connections even for a devil’s advocate.” Because it was the only thing there, Roarke picked the tube of Pepsi, took a swig. “It’s gone warm.”
“Still does the job. Here’s how I see it.”
She rose, gestured to the board as she paced. “These three women had some previous encounter with the victim. Sexual. That encounter was disturbing enough or intense enough to send MacKensie into a sharp downward spiral. The probability is each of them sought help for, we’ll say side effects of that encounter at some point. And through that, the three of them come together.”
