Following the line, she toggled back to check where Charity Downing had studied art. NYU, she noted, not Yale.
It nagged at her enough to have her checking the education data on every name on the list.
No other Yale connection.
Until she scraped off a few more layers.
Coincidence equals bollocks, she thought and, shoving up from her desk, strode into Roarke’s office.
“I believe your instincts on your victim’s children are on target,” he began. Then glanced up, saw her face. “And you have something.”
“Yale.”
“An honorable and prestigious institution.”
“The vic went there.”
“Yes, I recall. It would have been nearly a half century ago.”
“That’s a long time, but I have two connections to Yale through my sidepiece list. Downing’s alibi did her undergraduate work there—she’s a biophysicist, whatever the hell that is. Mixed race Asian, from a smart, successful family.”
“I have to mention that a considerable number of people from smart, successful families have attended Yale in the past half century.”
“Yeah, and another one of them’s Carlee MacKensie. Partial scholarship, did one semester and dropped out.”
“Which also happens quite a bit, but—” He sat back. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that with all the universities out there, you’d cross the same one three times in such a small group.”
“A numbers geek like you could probably run the odds, but let’s just say interesting for now. I went a little deeper.”
She eased a hip onto his workstation. “All that crap about your permanent record’s pretty serious. Her grades were stellar.” Eve held a hand, palm down, over her head. “She’d had two short stories published in literary venues before she turned twenty. And after two months into Yale, the grades?” Eve dropped her hand. “Totally tanked it. And, yeah, that happens, too. She managed, over the next five years, to get a degree from an online college, and she’s eked out a living freelancing. But no more high-class literary venues.”
Considering, Roarke picked up the bottle of water on his desk, gestured with it. “Devil’s advocate must point out, this also happens far too often—that early peak and fall. And she would have attended Yale, however briefly, some four decades after your victim.”
“Maybe, but coincidence is bollocks, and it’s more bollocks it doesn’t pertain. Another big scoop of bollocks that one name on the list has another Yale attendee as her alibi. And how does an artist who works in a SoHo gallery get to be pals with a scientist who’s on staff in a fancy uptown R&D center? Where’s the common ground?”
He offered her the water, got a head shake, drank some himself. “Some might ask the same about you and Mavis.”
“She was on the grift. I arrested her. Cop, criminal, common ground.” She held up two fingers as she spoke, tapped them together. Then pointed them at him. “Just like you and me, ace.”
“I feel obliged to point out you never arrested me—nor did any other cop.”
“Being slick doesn’t negate the common ground. Is it thin?” She swiveled to face him more directly. “I’ll give you it’s thin, but it’s there. Add on the fact that the vic went through sidepieces like Feeney goes through candied almonds, and those odds of paths crossing. Maybe you show Su’s ID shot to your people at the hotel. Maybe she’s another of his affairs. I link that, not so thin.”
“I can do that.”
“Can’t see the motive, not yet. These women chose to have sex with him. He didn’t hold a stunner to their throats. Every single one stated it was consensual, and I’m betting any others I turn up will say the same. Not a single one of them showed or expressed any genuine affection for him, so thwarted passion doesn’t click. And if any of them worked as partners, and that’s going to slide in when I figure it all out, jealousy doesn’t play.
“‘Justice is served,’” she murmured. “For what? What crime, what sin, what wrong? That’s the motive. So it’s back to the vic.”
“The women on your list wouldn’t have been born when Edward Mira was at Yale.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get that. But a big-deal guy from a big-deal school? Don’t they go back for stuff? For ceremonies or guest lectures, for important events. Maybe I can place him there when either Su or MacKensie were there. That would thicken things up. Thanks,” she said as she rose.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were Satan’s mouthpiece.”
“Devil’s advocate.”
“That is the same thing.”
She went back, nailed down the exact times Su and MacKensie attended Yale, then tried to wade through archived articles on alumni events, on appearances at the university by Edward Mira.
After a frustrating hour, she decided she’d need to contact whoever might be in charge of those kinds of records.
She got more coffee, a slice of cold pizza that went down just fine now, then sat to search for any connection between any of the women on the list.
Salons, banks, fitness centers, clubs, committees, doctors, churches, hobbies.
Nothing lined up, but she did uncover the fact that Carlee MacKensie had been in therapy with a Dr. Natalie Paulson from 2058 to early 2060. Su entered therapy in 2055, and stopped her sessions with Dr. Kim Ping four years later. And Downing hooked with a Felicia Fairburn for a six-week stretch in 2059. Fairburn billed herself as a body-mind-spirit therapist.
And Satan’s mouthpiece would say, rightfully, that scores of people went to shrinks.
But she’d look into it.
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 current addictions. People went to shrinks to help them with drinking or illegals problems, with gambling problems, with sex problems (too much, not enough). Hell, people went to shrinks to help them figure out what to eat for breakfast, but still . . .
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.”