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medical, had a master’s degree in Nutrition and Health. She’d put it to use, prior to children, with a position on staff at a high-end city spa. After the first kid, she’d done the professional mother gig for a year, then gone back to the same employment. Repeated the routine with kid number two, but instead of going back as an employee, she’d opened her own business.
    Living Well, Eve mused. Didn’t sound much like Nutrition, but it must have worked. She tracked the business, shaky first year, middling second. But by the third year, Keelie Swisher had developed a solid clientele, and was cruising.
    She ran the boy. No criminal, no flag for sealed juvenile records. No flags on the medical to indicate violence or abuse—though there were some bumps, some breaks. Sports related, according to the medicals. And it fit.
    He had his own bank account with his parents listed on it. She pursed her lips over the regular monthly deposits, but the amounts weren’t enough to arrow toward illegals sales or criminal profits.
    She found the same pattern, with smaller amounts, in Nixie’s account.
    She was pondering it when Peabody came in carrying a white bag, stained with grease and smelling like glory. “Picked up a couple of gyros. Ate mine, so if you don’t want yours, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.”
    “I want it, and nobody should eat two gyros.”
    “Hey, I lost five pounds when I was on medical. Okay, I put three back on, but that’s still two by anybody’s math.” She dropped the bag on Eve’s desk. “Where’s Nixie?”
    “Summerset.” Eve dumped the nutribar she’d yet to open in her desk drawer and pulled out the gyro. She took a huge bite and mumbled something that sounded like “Slool ressa.”
    “Got the school records on both.” Translating, Peabody pulled out two discs. “Their school officials were pretty broken up when I notified. Nice schools. Coyle did well, no suspicious dips in grades or attendance. And Nixie? That kid’s a blade. Aces all the way. Both scored high on IQ tests, but she’s a level up from her brother, and makes the most of it. No disciplinary problems on either. A couple of warnings about talking in class or sneaking game vids, but no major. Coyle played softball and basketball. Nixie’s into school plays, does the school media flash, school band—plays the piccolo.”
    “What the hell is that?”
    “It’s a wind instrument. Kinda like a flute. These kids have a lot of extracurricular, good grades. Didn’t have time to get in trouble, from my view.”
    “They both have their own bank accounts, and make regular monthly deposits. Where do kids get up to a hundred bucks a month?”
    Peabody turned to the wall screen, scanned the data. “Allowance.”
    “Allowance for what?”
    She looked back, shook her head at Eve. “Their parents probably gave them a weekly allowance, spending money, saving money, that sort of thing.”
    Eve swallowed more gyro. “They get paid for being a kid?”
    “More or less.”
    “Nice work if you can get it.”
    “Household like that, the way this is shaping up, the kids probably had regular chores, even with a full-time domestic. Keeping their rooms clean, clearing the table, loading the recycler. Then you got your birthday or holiday money, your school report money. Being a Free-Ager, we did bartering more than pay, but it comes to the same.”
    “So if everybody stayed a kid, nobody’d have to get a job. They could have seen something at school,” she continued before Peabody could comment. “Heard something. Something off. We’ll take a look at teachers and staff. We can run the adults’ business associates and clients, fan out from there to friends, neighbors, social acquaintances. These people weren’t picked out of a hat.”
    “Doesn’t feel like it, but can we discount straight urban terrorism?”
    “It’s too clean.” Roarke had it right on that one, she thought. “You want to terrorize, you’re messy.