“Is Gloria Hess a supervisor?” I ask, spreading the pages out in front of me. “She’s the only name on every file until this week, when Nancy, Tate, and Derrick Lee went through.”
“She’s the senior clerk,” answers Cass. “It’s not technically a supervisory position, though.”
“So she might train others, but she’s not the one who should be going back through to make sure it’s done correctly?”
“Right. Every file?”
“Every one, and it goes back weeks. A lot of log ins, come to think of it, especially for someone too ill to work full-time anymore.”
Cass leans over the table to grab a folder from the stack at Eddison’s elbow. He’s too absorbed in what’s on his tablet screen to even snap at her. “Our analysts dug into Gloria.”
The picture on file, copied from the DMV, is precancer if the hair is any indication, ashy blonde and thick, bound into a long braid over one shoulder. Her face is fuller, her color better, and all in all she looks . . . happier. Less hollowed. “Her husband died a few weeks after her diagnosis,” I announce, trailing my finger under the words. “Dropped dead of a massive heart attack, absolutely no warning signs or obvious risk.”
“Who did she piss off upstairs?” Cass shakes her head, her chin digging into my shoulder so she can see rather than pull the file closer. “Advanced cancer, her husband dies, her sister and brother-in-law go to prison for abuse, she gets rejected for the care of their kids, her cancer isn’t responding to treatment . . . It’s like some wicked angel put their thumb down and started to squish.”
“But would she be healthy enough to manhandle the kids this way? Ronnie Wilkins was carried to and from the car. She had to half-carry Emilia Anders. She carried Mason. She half-carried Noah.”
“Not the others?”
“No. She used Sammy to keep Sarah and Ashley compliant, and Zoe for Caleb and Brayden. They weren’t going to fight her when she could hurt the youngest.”
“I feel like there’s something really important no one’s brought up yet, and I’m not sure there’s a good way to do it.”
“Why are the kids white?” Sterling offers, not looking away from her laptop.
“Okay, so it has been brought up.”
“Not really. It’s just the obvious question. All of the families, with the partial exception of the Wongs, have been white. Generally argues that the killer is white, as well.”
“This type of mission as a whole argues a white killer,” I remind her. “And you’re forgetting the racism inherent in the system.”
Sterling nods, but Cass looks between us in confusion. “Applying how?”
“Minority kids are significantly more likely to be taken from their families on less documented cause, and less likely to be given back to their families without more oversight on the parents. They take minority kids ‘for the good of the kids,’ but leave the white ones ‘for the good of the family.’ Minority kids are more likely to get treated poorly in foster homes but this killer is going after the parents, thus far, not the fosters, so they’re going after the white parents who get their kids back against evidence.” At the silence from my shoulder, I tilt my head to see Cass frowning. “What?”
“You didn’t even have to think about that one.”
“It’s well documented. We get taken faster and it’s harder to get us back.”
“Were any of the kids’ files accessed by Gloria the day of the murders?”
I lift Gloria’s file to check the papers below. “All of them.”
Cass pushes back from the table, phone already in her hand. “Burnside,” she says on her way out the door. “This is Kearney; I need to know what files Gloria Hess has accessed most recently. Check Derrick Lee as well, just in case.”
I wonder if there’s a way to borrow an administrator from a CPS office in another county to oversee a more detailed audit. After all, if Lee is in charge of the clerks, he might know their log ins. As much as we’re all thinking she, Lee hasn’t been eliminated as a possible suspect.
My cell goes off, but it’s a number on the Bureau exchange so the ringing doesn’t cause the same frisson of fear it’s come to impart recently. “Agent Ramirez.”
“Agent, this is the front desk; you have a visitor down here.”
“A visitor?”
Sterling and Eddison both look up, but I shrug.
“Her ID says Margarita Ramirez.”
“Cógeme.”
My phone buzzes with another call, and I pull away from the screen to see Holmes’s name. “I’ve got a call about a case coming in; tell her I’ll be down soon, have her sit tight.” Without waiting for an answer, I switch over. “Ramirez.”
“A pharmacist at Prince William took a smoke break and found twelve-year-old Ava Levine asleep on a bench. She had two angel bears.”
“Blood?”
“No.”
“I’ll grab Watts and Kearney and come down.” I really want to throw this fucking phone against the wall; it does not bring good things. Ending the call, I take a deep breath and consider my options. “I have to head to Manassas,” I tell my partners. “Girl was found sleeping outside the hospital.”
“Sleeping? Like she was drugged.”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell Vic.”
“What about your visitor?” Sterling asks.
“Also Vic.” Before I can be tempted into explaining, which is not something I have time for even if I did have the inclination (I don’t), I grab my purse and leave the conference room, hooking my elbow through Cass’s and walking her backward. “We’re off to Manassas. I have to give something to Vic to handle; grab Watts?”
“Why are we—but it’s midmorning, how is there just now a victim? Someone would see something.”
“I’ll tell you both in the car.” I twist her around to point her in the right direction and give her a swat on her ass to keep her moving.
And because we’ve been friends for ten years, she just shoots me the bird and flounces down the stairs to find Watts.
Vic is in his office. He gives me a distracted good morning, head down as he makes notes on a file, but the sound of the lock turning has his full attention on me. “Mercedes? What’s wrong?”
“Two things.” I tell him the very little I have regarding the newest child, and he nods gravely.
“What’s the second thing?” he asks when I struggle to continue.
Deep breath, Mercedes. “My mother is downstairs.”
That has him putting down his pen and leaning back in the well-padded chair. “Your mother.”
“Probably. I guess it could be one of the cousins. It’s a popular name in the family. But . . . yeah, it’s probably my mother.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She tracked down my foster home when I was thirteen. That’s when they transferred me out of their system to another city.” Nineteen years.
“And you have an idea about why she’s here.”
“My father was recently diagnosed with cancer,” I say and, at his raised eyebrow, add, “Pancreatic.”
“I’ll go speak with her. Do you want me to convince her to leave?”
My gut screams, Yes, but that part of me that will always, always feel guilty despite knowing my choices were mine and were right for me says, Wait.
And Vic reads that hesitation for what it is and comes around his desk to give me a long hug. “I’ll see if she’s got a hotel. If not, I’ll get her set up in one.”
“Not in Manassas, please.”
“Not in Manassas. I promise.”
I lean my head against his chest, feeling the ridges of the surgical scar even through his dress shirt and undershirt. That bullet changed his life, but it changed our lives too. Such a little thing to have so much weight. As he pulls back, he smooths the stray wisps of my hair that always fight the clips and ponytails, his hand warm on my scalp as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Go check on that little girl,” he murmurs. “I’ll get your mother settled somewhere, for when you’re ready.”
In twenty-seven years, I have never been ready for that conversation. I attempted it a few times, those first few years, but she always shut it down. And now . . .