The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [61]
“Pop.” Eve turned back to her wall screen with a thin, satisfied grin. “Guess who got her entire education at those institutions.”
“It rings,” Peabody agreed. “But it could be argued he sent his ward there because he believed in the school and put his money in it. Or he put his money in it because his ward went there.”
“Check it out now. When was it established, by whom? Lists of faculty, directors, whatever the hell. Find me a list of the current students. And the names of female students who took the tour with Avril Hannson.”
“Yes, sir.” Peabody hurried to Eve’s desk unit and set to work.
“This feels hot,” Eve said, then looked over at Roarke. “It’s a good lead.”
“My pleasure.” He tipped her chin up with his finger, touched his lips to hers before she could object. “On a personal front, would you like me to contact Mavis about Thanksgiving? We’re getting close to the mark, and it appears your plate’s more full than mine at the moment.”
“That’d be good.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t know.” She shifted, uncomfortable. “I guess Nadine, maybe. Feeney’ll probably be doing a family deal, but I’ll run it by him.”
“What about Louise and Charles?”
“Sure. Fine. Are we really doing this?”
“Too late to turn back.” He kissed her again. “Keep in touch, will you? I’m caught up now.” He strolled back into his office, shut the door.
“I love McNab.”
Even as she turned toward Peabody, Eve could feel the muscle under her right eye vibrating toward a twitch. “Oh man. Do you have to do this?”
“Yeah. I love McNab,” Peabody repeated. “It took me a while to realize it, or get there, however it works. But he’s the one. If you were to drop down dead, and Roarke decided I could comfort him with wild sex, I probably wouldn’t do it. Probably. But even if I did, I’d still love McNab.”
“At least I’m dead in your sexual fantasy.”
“It’s only fair. I wouldn’t cheat on my partner. So I probably wouldn’t have sex with Roarke, should the opportunity arise, unless both you and McNab were killed in a freak accident.”
“Thanks, Peabody. I feel a lot better now.”
“And we’d probably wait a decent interval. Like two weeks. If we could control ourselves.”
“It just gets better and better,” Eve remarked.
“In a way, we’d really be celebrating your lives, and our love for you both.”
“Maybe you’re the ones who die in a freak accident,” Eve tossed back. “Then me and McNab . . . No, Jesus. No.” She visibly shuddered. “I don’t love you that much.”
“Aw, that’s not very nice. Too bad for you, because McNab’s an airjack in the sack.”
“Shut up now. Save yourself.”
“Brookhollow Academy,” Peabody said in dignified tones. “Established 2022.”
“Just a couple years before Avril was born? Who’s the founder? Put the data on-screen.”
“On screen one.”
“Private educational institution,” Eve read, scanning. “For girls. Just girls. Founded by Jonah Delecourt Wilson—secondary run on him, Peabody.”
“On that.”
“Grades one through twelve, full boarding. Accredited by the International Association of Independent Schools. Ranked third in U.S., fifteenth worldwide. An eighty-acre campus. That’s a lot of ground. Six-to-one student-to-instructor ratio.”
“Serious individual attention.”
“College preparatory, full housing for students and staff. An Intentional Community. Huh, some phrase. A challenging, yet supportive, environment. Blah, blah. Foundation for Brookhollow College, and blah about that. Tuition . . . Holy Mother of God.”
“Wowzer!” Peabody’s eyes widened. “That’s a semester. That’s a semester for a six-year-old.”
“Get me a comparison to another top-level boarding school.”
“Coming up. What are we chasing here, Dallas?”
“I don’t know. But we’re gaining. Double,” she replied. “Brookhollow’s priced double a comparative facility.”
“Got the founder. Jonah Delecourt Wilson, born August 12, 1964. Died May 6, 2056. That’s Dr. Wilson,” Peabody added. “M.D. as well as Ph.D. Known for his research and work with genetics.”
“Really? Hmm.”
“Married Eva Hannson Samuels, June of 1999. No children. Samuels—also doctor—predeceased her husband by three years. Private