Chapter 53
EIGHT HOURS LATER, after a long nap, a shower, and a change of clothes, Justine entered a large private suite directly across the street from the Beverly Center inside Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where the Harlow children were being kept overnight for further tests and observation. Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves had arranged it all.
Justine had not known such suites existed, but here was a common room occupied by Jack, Sci, Chief Fescoe, and a half-dozen others: two doctors, a private nurse, and government technicians linking cables to computer screens. Before joining Private, Justine had worked for the city and courts of Los Angeles as a child psychologist who interviewed and counseled victims of crime. Even though her horizons had broadened into investigations, she still felt confident that there wasn’t anyone on the West Coast better at this kind of thing.
Most of the people gathered in the common room evidently agreed with her assessment. Chief Fescoe had readily signed off on Justine’s involvement. So had District Attorney Blaze and Christine Townsend, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Los Angeles office. A tall redhead with a beaky nose, Townsend was familiar with Justine and openly valued her skills and judgment. The Harlow team had been the only ones to object. They had been summarily overruled.
“What’s their current status?” Justine asked.
“They’re up after a five-hour nap,” the nurse replied. “And Ms. Bronson just delivered them a large order from In-N-Out Burger.”
“Their favorite,” the publicist sniffed.
“Okay,” Justine said. “I need you to get me completely up to date on what we know before I go in there.”
She looked at Dr. Allen Parks, the pediatric specialist overseeing the Harlow children’s care.
“No sign of sexual or physical mistreatment,” Parks said. “They’ve been nourished, well hydrated, and generally well cared for, other than the fact that they lived in the same clothes for five days. Our blood work confirmed Dr. Kloppenberg’s findings.”
“I heard scopolamine and Percocet,” Justine said, looking to Sci.
Kloppenberg nodded. “A modern update on a nineteenth-century cocktail German doctors used to give women in labor. They called it twilight sleep. Don’t be surprised if they don’t remember much.”
“That’s the point of the stuff, isn’t it?” Townsend asked.
“Pretty much, Special Agent,” Parks replied. “Beyond that, Miguel has several bruises on his knees and shins. Malia suffered a sprained wrist. Jin appears untouched. And all three had puncture wounds that indicate someone had run IVs into them.”
Justine looked at Jack and Fescoe. “Beverly Center security tapes?”
Jack nodded. “Lots there. Men wearing dark hoodies brought them in off San Vicente Boulevard in the wheelchairs at ten fifteen a.m. They used elevators to get the children to level six. A camera outside the Apple Store showed the children were left there no more than three minutes before we arrived. The iPhones in their laps were junk knockoffs. No prints on the wheelchairs or the phones. Sci collected epithelial samples from their clothes.”
“No hits yet,” Kloppenberg said.
Justine looked at Townsend, who said, “Not surprisingly, the media is going insane over this. It’s gone viral and global. They’re giving it much more attention than the No Prisoners killings and the pier explosion.”
“What did you expect?” Camilla Bronson said snidely. “I’ve done nothing but field calls since Bobbie Newton went live.”
Justine said, “Those children just went from fishbowl life to circus life.”
“You’ll have to prepare them for that,” Townsend said.
“They won’t be exposed to any circus if I have anything to do with it,” said Terry Graves hotly. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Neither will I,” Sanders said.
“Absolutely not,” the Harlows’ publicist said.
Justine softened, said, “Well, good. That’s a start.”