Free Concealed in Death by J. D. Robb

stunned, Peabody stopped in her tracks. “That’s the totally, absolutely nicest thing you’ve ever said about me and McNab.”
    Eve just shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to you. Mostly. Get in the damn car.”
    With her cheeks flushed with pleasure, Peabody obeyed. “Do you really think we look right together?”
    “You’re stuck together at the erogenous zones every chance you get, so why wouldn’t you? Now, just for the hell of it, maybe we can focus on solving twelve murders.”
    “The facial reconstructing is really going to help. Elsie is totally iced at it. Oooh, and twin baby girls. How adorable is that? You should’ve felt the . . .” Hunching at the hard gleam in Eve’s eyes, Peabody yanked out her PPC. “I’ll start the search for the first reconstruction now.”
    “Really? What a fine idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
    Wisely Peabody said nothing until she had the search under way. “Where are we heading?”
    “To talk to the handyman. I want a sense of him, and I want to run down this helper type the matron had that
feeling
about. Then maybe we can run down Brigham and her grandmother. We’re going to need to run all the staff at Higher Power, have a chat with anybody who overlaps with the other building. We can’t—”
    “Holy shit! Holy shit, Dallas! I’ve got her. I’ve already got a hit.”
    “Vic One?”
    “I’ve got her. Look—wait—I’ll put it up on the dash screen.”
    And there she was, Eve thought. The dark, almond-shaped eyes, the curve of chin, the full lips, the ebony hair glossed to a sheen. Not a wedge, but a long fall.
    A professional and posed shot, Eve decided. A studio photo taken for official ID where the thirteen-year-old Linh Carol Penbroke stared soberly—with a touch of defiance—at the camera.
    Missing since September twelfth, 2045.
    The report gave her height, which matched Victim One, and a weight of ninety-seven pounds—so DeWinter hit on that as well, Eve calculated. Small girl, petite frame, pretty face with those glimmers of unrealized beauty.
    “It lists both parents,” Peabody said. “Two older sibs, one male, one female, and a Park Slope address. Affluent.”
    “Run it. See if the parents, or either of them, have the same address or another one.”
    “Searching now. Same address, for both of them.”
    Eve made the next turn, then the next, and headed toward Brooklyn.
    “We’re going to do a notification.”
    “I think they’ve waited long enough,” Eve answered. “And I think they’ll give us DNA samples. Like Morris said, we’ll verify quicker with a parental swab to compare.”
    “Yeah. I’ve never done a notification on a long-term missing. Have you?”
    “A couple of them. They’re no easier.”
    “I didn’t think so. Both parents are doctors. She’s an OB, he’s a pediatrician. They have a joint practice; it’s attached to the home,” Peabody read, “which I guess makes sense. Two sibs. The brother’s also a doctor. Cardiologist, also in Brooklyn. The sister’s a musician, first violin for the New York Symphony. I’m not finding any dings here on the criminal side. Finances are—whoa—doctors make a sweet living. They also have homes in Trinidad and the Hamptons. First and only marriage for each, into the thirty-fifth year.
    “Everything says affluent, stable, and successful.”
    “If you don’t count the dead daughter.”
    “Yeah.” Peabody blew out a breath. “If you don’t count that.”
    The house said affluent, stable, and successful as well. It took up a corner of a line of old and elegant townhomes. Eve assumed the Penbrokes had expanded the property at some point, incorporating the neighboring house into one large unit to accommodate two professionals and three children.
    She spotted a Christmas tree in the tall trio of front windows, gave a fleeting thought to the fact Thanksgiving was in the rearview mirror, and they were barreling straight into the next holiday.
    Shit. She had