“Well. Let’s go talk to Pittsburgh and Tennessee.”
“Philadephia and Nashville.”
“Close enough.”
• • •
Higher Power Cleansing Center for Youths made its base in a tidy, four-story building just below the hip edge of the East Village. The short stretch on Delancey had rejected the Village’s artistic edge, and just missed the Bowery’s late twentieth-century facelift—and the bombings, pillaging, and vandalism that had infected its neighbors during the Urbans.
Most of the buildings here were old, some rehabbed, some gentrified, others defiantly clinging to their shabby urban shells.
The whitewashed brick building boasted a tiny courtyard where a scatter of short shrubs shivered in the cold. A couple of teenagers, impervious to that cold, sat on a stone bench playing with their PPCs.
Eve passed them on the way to the front entrance. Both wore HPCCY hooded sweatshirts, sported various face and ear piercings, and identical expressions of suspicious disapproval.
Street vets already, smelling cop, she concluded.
At her steady gaze, their expressions shifted to cocky smirks, but she noted the girl—or she assumed girl—slid her hand into her companion’s.
She heard the hoarse whispers, the quick giggle (definitely female) behind her as she and Peabody climbed the trio of steps to the front door.
Security there included cam, palm plate, and swipe unit. She pressed the buzzer, over which a sign helpfully advised: PLEASE PRESS THE BUZZER.
“A clean and healthy day to you. How can we help?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’re here to speak with Philadelphia and Nashville Jones.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t see your names on Ms. Jones’s or Mr. Jones’s appointment books today.”
Eve pulled out her badge. “This is my appointment.”
“Of course. Would you please put your palm to the plate for verification of ID?”
Eve complied, waited for the scan.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas. I’m happy to buzz you in.”
There was indeed a long buzz, followed by the clack of locks opening. Eve pushed the door open, entered a narrow lobby with an offshoot of rooms and hallways presumably to other rooms on either side, and a set of stairs jogging up.
A woman rose from a desk at the rear of the room, smiling as she crossed a buff-colored tile floor.
Matronly was the only description given her old-fashioned bubble of shoe-black hair, the dowdy pink sweater over a floral dress, the sensible shoes.
“Welcome to Higher Power Cleansing Center for Youths. I’m Matron Shivitz.”
Fits, Eve thought. “We need to speak with Jones and Jones.”
“Yes, yes, so you said. I’d love to be able to tell them what you’re here to speak to them about.”
“I bet,” Eve said and let the silence hang a moment. To the left the door held a plaque for Nashville Jones. The one to the right named his sister.
“It’s police business.”
“Of course! I’m afraid Mr. Jones is in session at this time, as is Ms. Jones. Ms. Jones should be free shortly. If you choose to wait, I’d love to bring you some tea.”
“We’ll wait. Hold the tea, thanks.”
Eve wandered deeper, looked through an open door where three kids worked comps.
“Our electronics area,” Shivitz explained. “Residents are allowed access to complete certain assignments, or research for assignments. Or if they’ve earned the privilege for free time.”
“How do they earn the privilege?”
“By completing tasks and assignments, participating in activities, earning merits through good work, kindness, generosity. And, of course, remaining clean in body and spirit.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Oh, fifteen years, since the home opened. I began as an assistant matron and lifestyle coach, part-time. I’d be happy to arrange for a tour of our home, if you like.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t we—”
Eve broke off when a door shoved open and a girl barreled out of Philadelphia Jones’s office. Flushed, teary-eyed, her hair a swirl of purple and orange, she bolted for the stairs.
“Quilla! Inside pace, please.”
The girl shot Shivitz a furious look fired out of molten brown eyes, added a defiant middle finger salute, and stomped up the stairs.
“I guess she’s not earning privileges today.”
Shivitz only sighed. “Some young spirits are more troubled than others. Time, patience, proper discipline, and reward eventually open all doors.”
So did a few hard kicks, Eve thought, but Shivitz was already hurrying to the still-open office door.
“Excuse me, Ms. Jones, but there are two police officers here to see you and Mr. Jones. Yes, of course, of course.” She turned back to Eve and Peabody. “Won’t you come right in? I’ll let Mr. Jones know you’re here as soon as his session is over.”
Eve stepped over. She scanned what she thought of as a simple, straightforward office with a sitting area. The sitting area, she concluded, would be used for “sessions,” and visitors.
Child Protective Services, guardians, and the occasional cop, maybe a donor or two.
At a U-shaped work area, a woman with glossy brown hair pulled back in combs sat working on a computer. Her profile showed a strong, sharp chin, a generous mouth pressed now in a hard line, and the glint of a green eye.
“Just one moment, Officers. Please, have a seat,” she added without looking up.
Since she didn’t want to sit, as yet, Eve just walked toward the workstation, leaned against one of the two low-back chairs facing it.
“I apologize,” Philadelphia continued. “A little difficulty with my last session. Now. What can I do for you today?”
She swiveled around, faced Eve, a polite smile on her face.
Then she shot up out of the chair, a tall, rail-thin woman with horror in her eyes. She clutched at her throat.
“Someone’s been murdered. Someone’s dead!”
Intrigued, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “More like a dozen. Let’s talk about that.”
Philadelphia Jones rocked back on her heels as if Eve had punched her.
“What? A dozen? My kids!” She zipped around the workstation, would have barreled straight through Eve for the door if Eve hadn’t thrown up a hand to stop her.
“Hold it!”
“I need to—”
“Sit down,” Eve interrupted. “First explain why you jumped straight to murder.”
“I know you. I know who you are, what you do. What’s happened? Is it one of our kids? Which one?”
The Icove case, Eve thought. When you had a bestselling book and a major vid based on one of your cases, people started recognizing you.
Well, that, and being married to Roarke.
“We’re here about murders, Ms. Jones, but not recent ones.”
“I don’t understand. I should sit down,” she decided, and worked her way over to the sitting area. “It’s not about my kids? I’m sorry. I apologize.” She took a couple steadying breaths. “I’m not usually so . . . reactionary.”
“Why don’t I get you some water,” Peabody began.
“Oh, thank you, but I’ll ask the matron to bring in some tea, and she should reschedule my next session.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“You’re so kind.”
“No problem.” Peabody slipped out.
“Please sit,” Philadelphia told Eve. “Again, I’m so sorry. I read the Icove book, of course—and slipped out just the other night with a friend to see the vid. It’s all very fresh in my mind, so when I saw you, I jumped to the worst possible conclusion.”
“Understood.” Eve took a chair, and Philadelphia’s measu
re. Calmer now, Eve thought, but still shaken.
Middle forties, she judged. Conservatively dressed, simple hair, small studs in the ears.
Like the room: neat, tidy, and nothing fancy.
“You and your brother once ran this organization out of another location.”
“No, HPCCY has always been housed here. You must mean The Sanctuary. That’s what we called our original home. Oh, we struggled there,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “In every way. Not enough funding, not enough staff, and the building itself a maintenance nightmare. We weren’t able to keep up the payments—we rushed into buying that building, I’m afraid, without clearly thinking it through. It housed war orphans during the Urbans.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It seemed like a sign, so Nash and I rushed in. We found out there’s a reason angels fear to tread,” she said with that wispy smile again. “But we learned quite a bit, and with that, God’s grace, and the generosity of our benefactor, we were able to create this home, and offer the children who need us much more than a sanctuary.”
Peabody slipped back in. “Tea will be right along.”
“Thank you so much. Please sit. I was just explaining to Lieutenant Dallas how Nash and I—my brother—were able to expand our horizons when we relocated here. Fifteen years ago last September. Time goes quickly, sometimes much too quickly.”
“What do you do here, exactly?” Eve asked her.
“We offer children between the ages of ten and eighteen a clean, safe environment along with the necessary mental, spiritual, and physical aids to help them conquer addictions, to help them learn to make good choices, and build strong character. We’re a route for the children, and their guardians toward a protective and contented life.”
“How do you get them—the kids?”
“Most are enrolled by their guardians—either as day residents or full-time—some through the court system. Our children come to us troubled, many addicted to a variety of substances, all certainly with poor self-control, self-image, a plethora of bad habits. We give them structure, boundaries, group and individual therapy, and spiritual guidance.”
“Is that what you did in the other location?”
“We weren’t able to as effectively assist in addiction rehabilitation as we didn’t have the proper staff. At The Sanctuary we were, I fear, little more than a holding pattern for most of the children. A place to come in out of the cold. Many were on the street—runaways or abandoned. Lost children. We tried to give them a safe place, a warm bed, healthy food, and guidance, but we were hampered by lack of funding until Ms. Bittmore, our benefactor, stepped in. She donated this building to us, and a financial trust to help us with the considerable expenses.
“Oh, thank you, Matron.”
“I’m happy to help.” Shivitz carted in a tray with a simple white teapot, three white cups. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Not right now, but please, send Mr. Jones in as soon as he’s able.”
“Of course.” Shivitz backed out, quietly closed the door.
“I’m happy to talk about HPCCY.” Philadelphia poured the tea as she spoke. “And I’d love to give you a personal tour if you have the time. But I’m puzzled by your interest.”
“This morning, the demolition stage of rehab on the building on Ninth began. Your old building.”
“They’re finally going to do something with it. That’s good news. I have fond memories, as well as nightmares about that building.” She laughed a little, lifted her tea. “The plumbing couldn’t be trusted, the doors jammed, and the power would go out without explanation. I hope whoever owns it now has deep pockets. I suspect a true rehabilitation of that property will cost a great deal.”
She looked over as her door opened. “Nash, come meet Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
“My pleasure.” He strode in, a striking man with a mane of white-streaked black hair, a prominent nose, his sister’s sharp chin. He wore a suit and tie and shoes polished to mirror gleams.
“I’m aware of you, Lieutenant,” he said with a firm handshake, “due to your connection with Roarke. And of both of you,” he continued, giving Peabody the same businesslike shake, “through your reputations as police officers—and the Icove case particularly.”
“Let me ask Matron to get another cup.”
“Don’t bother on my account.” Nash waved his sister’s offer away, joined her on the couch. “I’m a coffee man, and Philly won’t allow caffeine in the house, even the faux sort.”
“Especially the faux sort. All those chemicals.” She made a disapproving face with a shake of her head. “You might as well drink poison.”
“But such satisfying poison. So what brings two of New York’s finest to HPCCY?”
“The lieutenant was just telling me that rehabilitation’s begun on our old building, Nash. The Sanctuary.”
“Rehabilitation’s a byword around here, but that old place was, and would be still, beyond our limits. It was a happy day when we moved here.”
“And lucky,” Eve added. “It’s not every day someone donates a building to you.”
“Ms. Bittmore is our angel.”
He sat back, a man at ease, with his eyes—a shade or two sharper than his sister’s—direct on Eve’s. “It’s well known she lost her husband during the Urban Wars, then years later, lost her youngest son to addiction, to the streets. She nearly lost her granddaughter as well, generation following generation down that dark path. But Seraphim came to us—came to The Sanctuary.”
“We were able to reach her,” Philadelphia continued. “To help her turn off that dark path, back into the light, to reunite her with her family. Ms. Bittmore came to see us, saw what we were trying to do, and what we were up against. She gave us this building as a tribute to her granddaughter, who happens to be one of our counselors now. We’re very grateful to both of them, and to the higher power for bringing us all together.”
“Is Seraphim in-house today?”
“I’m not absolutely sure of her schedule, but I think this is her afternoon off. I’d be happy to check with Matron.”
“We’ll get to that. As I was saying, during demo on the building on Ninth, several false walls were discovered.”
“False walls?” Philadelphia’s brows drew together. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Walls constructed a short distance out from the originals, leaving a gap between the two.”
“Is that why it was so drafty?” She shook her head. “We could never afford much more than emergency repairs, and even then we had to jury-rig more than we should have. I suppose someone might have built out the wall as the original was in such poor shape.”
“I don’t think so, but concealment was the purpose.”
“We painted, tried some minor—very minor,” Nash emphasized, “updating in the baths and kitchen, but we never put up walls. Concealment, you said? Hiding valuables—ill-gotten valuables? I can assure you if we’d had anything valuable we’d have spent it to keep The Sanctuary above water rather than hiding it away. What did you find? Cash, jewels, illegals?”
“Bodies,” Eve said flatly, and watched both for reaction. “Twelve.”
The teacup slipped out of Philadelphia’s fingers so the cup bounced on the rug and pale amber liquid ran out in a thin river. Nash simply stared, his face going pale and absolutely blank.
“Twelve.” Philadelphia choked it out. “You said—when I thought—you said a dozen. Do you mean, oh, merciful Jesus, did you mean twelve bodies?”
“What are you talking about?” Nash demanded.
“Twelve bodies,” Eve said, “found between the original wall and the one constructed to conceal them. More accurately, twelve skeletal remains, preliminarily identified as females between the ages of twelve and sixteen.”
“Girls?” As the kid on the bench had
done, Philadelphia slid her hand into her brother’s. “But how? When? Who could do something like that? Why?”
“All good questions. I’m working on getting the answers. Again, preliminarily, we calculate the victims were placed in that concealment, all wrapped in plastic, approximately fifteen years ago. About the time you left the building and moved into this one.”
“You think that we—” Philadelphia leaned forward now, eyes intense. “Lieutenant, Detective, we’ve dedicated our life to saving young people. From themselves, from their environment, from destructive influences. We could never . . . we could never.”
“It couldn’t have been done while we were in there.” Still pale, Nash picked up a teacup he’d refused, gulped down the cold contents. “We’d have seen. And if that isn’t enough, there were residents, staff. It couldn’t have been while we were in there. No.”
“How did you leave it?”
“We just walked away on the advice of our attorney. We took what was ours. Furniture, equipment—what little we had. The extra clothes we kept on hand for those who came to us with little to nothing. That sort of thing. We just packed up, and moved everything we could here.
“You cried,” he said to his sister. “Even though the place became a disaster, a stone around our necks, you cried leaving it.”
“I did. It felt like a failure. It wasn’t. We did good work there, with what we had. People would say we lost our investment, and we could ill afford it. But I believe we gained more than we lost. And then we were given this amazing gift. This terrible thing had to have been done after we left.”
“Who had access, after you moved out the residents?”
“We did, for a short time.” Nash rubbed his hand over his face as a man might when waking from a strange dream. “I suppose some of the staff or even some of the kids could’ve gotten in if they’d wanted to. Our security there wasn’t very good. Another reason we needed to relocate.”
“Again, on legal advice we didn’t surrender it immediately to the bank.” As she spoke, Philadelphia rose, took some napkins from a drawer. She blotted up the spilled tea, set the teacup aside. “We had to file papers, and we were told to simply let the bank foreclose. That it generally took some time to do so. We were actually still there for nearly six months after we stopped paying the mortgage. We could’ve stayed longer, but it felt like . . .”