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Memory in Death |
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| eBook: Adobe reader | 352 pages | ISBN 9780786564521 | 24 Jan 2006 | Putnam Adult |
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The #1 New York Times-bestselling author of Survivor in Death has Lieutenant Eve Dallas walking a tightrope between her professional duties and her private demons
Eve Dallas is one tough cop. She's got no problem dealing with a holiday reveler in a red suit who plunges thirty-seven stories and gives new meaning to the term "sidewalk Santa." But when she gets back to the station and Trudy Lombard shows up, it's all Eve can do to hold it together. Instantly, she's thrown back into the past, to the days when she was a vulnerable, traumatized girl-trapped in foster care with the twisted woman who now sits in front of her, smiling.
Trudy claims she just wanted to see how Eve was doing. But Eve's husband, Roarke, suspects otherwise-and his suspicions prove correct when Trudy arrives at his office, demanding money in exchange for keeping the ugly details of his wife's childhood a secret. Barely restraining himself, Roarke shows her the door-and makes it clear that she'd be wise to get out of New York and never bother him or his wife again.
But just a few days later, Trudy's found on the floor of her hotel room, a mess of bruises and blood. A cop to the core, Eve is determined to solve the case, if only for the sake of Trudy's bereaved son. Unfortunately, Eve is not the only one to have suffered at this woman's hands, and she and Roarke will follow a circuitous, dangerous path to find out who turned this victimizer into a victim.
Memory in Death
J. D. Robb
I.
death was not taking a holiday. new york
may have been decked out in its glitter and glamour,
madly festooned in December of 2059, but Santa Claus
was dead. And a couple of his elves weren’t looking so good.
Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood on the sidewalk with the insanity
of Times Square screaming around her and studied what was left of
St. Nick. A couple of kids, still young enough to believe that a fat guy
in a red suit would wiggle down the chimney to bring them presents
instead of murdering them in their sleep, were shrieking at a decibel
designed to puncture eardrums. She wondered why whoever was in
charge of them didn’t haul them away.
Not her job, she thought. Thank God. She preferred the bloody
mess at her feet.
She looked up, way up. Dropped down from the thirty-sixth floor of
the Broadway View Hotel. So the first officer on-scene had reported.
Shouting, “Ho, ho, ho”—according to witnesses—until he’d gone
splat, and had taken out some hapless son of a bitch who’d been
strolling through the endless party.
The task of separating the two smashed bodies would be an unpleasant
one, she imagined.
Two other victims had escaped with minor injuries—one had simply
dropped like a tree and cracked her head on the sidewalk in shock
when the nasty spatter of blood, gore, and brain matter had splashed all
over her. Dallas would leave them to the medical techs for the moment,
and get statements when, hopefully, they were more coherent.
She already knew what had happened here. She could see it in the
glassy eyes of Santa’s little helpers.
She started toward them in a boot-length black leather coat that
swirled in the chilly air. Her hair was short and brown around a lean
face. Her eyes were the color of good, aged whiskey and were long like
the rest of her. And like the rest of her, they were all cop.
“Guy in the Santa gig’s your buddy?”
“Oh, man. Tubbs. Oh, man.”
One was black, one was white, but they were both faintly green at
the moment. She couldn’t much blame them. She gauged them as late
twenties, and their upscale partywear indicated they were probably junior
execs at the firm that had had its holiday bash rudely interrupted.
“I’m going to arrange to have you both escorted downtown where
you’ll give your statements. I’d like you to voluntarily agree to illegals
testing. If you don’t . . .” She waited a beat, smiled thinly. “We’ll do it
the hard way.”
“Oh, man, oh, shit. Tubbs. He’s dead. He’s dead, right?”
“That’s official,” Eve said and turned to signal to her partner.
Detective Peabody, her dark hair currently worn in sporty waves,
straightened from her crouch by the tangle of body parts. She was
mildly green herself, Eve noted, but holding steady.
“Got ID on both victims,” she announced. “Santa’s Lawrence, Max,
age twenty-eight, Midtown address. Guy who—ha-ha—broke his
fall’s Jacobs, Leo, age thirty-three. Queens.”
“I’m going to arrange to have these two taken into holding, get a test
for illegals, get their statements when we finish here. I assume you
want to go up, look at the scene, speak with the other witnesses.”
“I . . .”
“You’re primary on this one.”
“Right.” Peabody took a deep breath. “Did you talk to them at all?”
“Leaving that for you. You want to take a poke at them here?”
“Well . . .” Peabody searched Eve’s face, obviously looking for the
right answer. Eve didn’t give it to her. “They’re pretty shaken up, and
it’s chaos out here, but . . .We might get more out of them here and
now, before they settle down and start thinking about how much trouble
they might be in.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Um. I’ll take the black guy.”
Eve nodded, walked back. “You.” She pointed. “Name?”
“Steiner. Ron Steiner.”
“We’re going to take a little walk, Mr. Steiner.”
“I feel sick.”
“I bet.” She gestured for him to rise, took his arm, and walked a few
paces away. “You and Tubbs worked together?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Tyro Communications. We—we hung out.”
“Big guy, huh?”
“Who, Tubbs? Yeah, yeah.” Steiner wiped sweat from his brow.
“Came in about two-fifty, I guess. So we figured it’d be a gag to have
him rent the Santa suit for the party.”
“What kind of toys and goodies did Tubbs have in his sack today,
Ron?”
“Oh, man.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Jesus.”
“We’re not on record yet, Ron. We will be, but right now just tell me
what went down. Your friend’s dead, and so is some poor schmuck
who was just walking on the sidewalk.”
He spoke through his hands. “Bosses set up this lunch buffet deal for
the office party. Wouldn’t even spring for some brew, you know?” Ron
MEMORY IN DEATH 3
shivered twice, hard, then dropped his arms to his sides. “So a bunch of
us got together, and we pooled to rent the suite for the whole day. After
the brass left, we brought out the booze and the . . . the recreational
chemicals. So to speak.”
“Such as?”
He swallowed, then finally met her eyes. “You know, a little Exotica,
some Push and Jazz.”
“Zeus?”
“I don’t mess with that. I’ll take the test, you’ll see. All I did was a
few tokes of Jazz.” When Eve said nothing, merely stared into his eyes,
he welled up. “He never used heavy stuff. Not Tubbs, man, I swear.
I’d’ve known. But I think he had some today, maybe laced some of the
Push with it, or somebody did. Asshole,” he said as tears spilled down
his cheeks. “He was juiced up, I can tell you that. But man, it was a
party. We were just having fun. People were laughing and dancing.
Then Tubbs, he opens the window.”
His hands were everywhere now. His face, his throat, his hair. “Oh,
God, oh, God. I figured it was because it was getting smokey. Next
thing you know, he’s climbing up, he’s got this big, stupid grin on his
face. He shouts, ‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.’ Then
he fucking dived out. Head first. Jesus Christ, he was just gone. Nobody
even thought to grab for him. It happened so fast, so damn fast. People
started screaming and running, and I ran to the window and looked.”
He mopped at his face with his hands, shuddered again. “And I
yelled for somebody to call nine-one-one, and Ben and I ran down.
I don’t know why. We were his friends, and we ran down.”
“Where’d he get the stuff, Ron?”
“Man, this is fucked up.” He looked away, over her head, out to the
street. Fighting, Eve knew, the standard little war between ratting out
and standing up.
“He must’ve gotten it from Zero. A bunch of us chipped in so we
could get a party pack. Nothing heavy, I swear.”
“Where does Zero operate?”
“He runs a data club, Broadway and Twenty-ninth. Zero’s. Sells
recreationals under the counter. Tubbs, man, he was harmless. He was
just a big stupid guy.”
The big stupid guy and the poor schmuck he landed on were being
scraped off the sidewalk when Eve walked into party central. It looked
as she’d expected it would look: an unholy mess of abandoned clothes,
spilled booze, dropped food. The window remained open, which was
fortunate as the stench of smoke, puke, and sex still permeated.
Witnesses who hadn’t run like rabbits had given statements in adjoining
rooms, then had been released.
“What’s your take?” Eve asked Peabody as she crossed the minefield
of plates and glasses scattered on the carpet.
“Other than Tubbs won’t make it home for Christmas? Poor idiot
got himself hyped, probably figured Rudolph was hovering outside
with the rest of the reindeer and the sled. He jumped, in clear view of
more than a dozen witnesses. Death by Extreme Stupidity.”
When Eve said nothing, only continued to look out the open window,
Peabody stopped bagging pills she found on the floor. “You’ve got
another take?”
“Nobody pushed him, but he had help getting extremely stupid.”
Absently, she rubbed her hip that still ached a bit now and then from a
healing wound. “There’s going to be something in his tox screen other
than happy pills or something to give him his three-hour woody.”
“Nothing in the statements to indicate that anyone had anything
against the guy. He was just a schmoe. And he’s the one who brought
the illegals in.”
“That’s right.”
“You want to go after the pusher?”
“Illegals killed him. The guy who sold them held the weapon.” She
caught herself rubbing her hip, stopped, and turned around. “What
did you get from the witnesses regarding this guy’s illegals habit?”
“He didn’t really have one. Just played around a little now and then
at parties.” Peabody paused a moment. “And one of the ways pushers
increase their business is to spice the deal here and there. Okay. I’ll see if
Illegals has anything on this Zero, then we’ll go have a talk with him.”
She let Peabody run the show and spent her time getting the data on
the next of kin. Tubbs had no spouse or cohab, but he had a mother
in Brooklyn. Jacobs had a wife and a kid. As it was unlikely any investigation
would be necessary into either victim’s life, she contacted a departmental
grief counselor. Informing next of kin was always tough,
but the holidays added layers.
Back on the sidewalk, she stood looking at the police barricades, the
throngs behind them, the ugly smears left behind on the pavement. It
had been stupid, and plain bad luck, and had too many elements of
farce to be overlooked.
But two men who’d been alive that morning were now in bags on
their way to the morgue.
“Hey, lady! Hey, lady! Hey, lady!”
On the third call, Eve glanced around and spotted the kid who’d
scooted under the police line. He carried a battered suitcase nearly as
big as he was.
“You talking to me? Do I look like a lady?”
“Got good stuff.” As she watched, more impressed than surprised,
he flipped the latch on the case. A three-legged stand popped out of the
bottom, and the case folded out and became a table loaded with muf-
flers and scarves. “Good stuff. Hundred percent cashmere.”
The kid had skin the color of good black coffee, and eyes of impossible
green. There was an airboard hanging on a strap at his back, and the
board was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges to simulate flames.
Even as he grinned at her, his nimble fingers were pulling up various
scarves. “Nice color for you, lady.”
“Jesus, kid, I’m a cop.”
“Cops know good stuff.”
She waved off a uniform hot-footing it in their direction. “I’ve got a
couple of dead guys to deal with here.”
“They gone now.”
“Did you see the leaper?”
“Nah.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “Missed it, but I
heard. Get a good crowd when somebody goes and jumps out the window,
so I pulled up and came over. Doing good business. How ’bout
this red one here. Look fine with that bad-ass coat.”
She had to appreciate his balls, but kept her face stern. “I wear a badass
coat because I am a bad-ass, and if these are cashmere, I’ll eat the
whole trunk of them.”
“Label says cashmere; that’s what counts.” He smiled again, winningly.
“You’d look fine in this red one. Make you a good deal.”
She shook her head, but there was a checked one, black and green,
that caught her eye. She knew someone who’d wear it. Probably. “How
much?” She picked up the checked scarf, found it softer than she’d
have guessed.
“Seventy-five. Cheap as dirt.”
She dropped it again, and gave him a look he’d understand. “I’ve got
plenty of dirt.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Fifty, flat.” She pulled out credits, made the exchange. “Now get
behind the line before I run you in for being short.”
“Take the red one, too. Come on, lady. Half price. Good deal.”
“No. And if I find out you’ve got your fingers in any pockets, I’ll
find you. Beat it.”
He only smiled again, flipped the latch, and folded up. “No sweat,
no big. Merry Christmas and all that shit.”
“Back at you.” She turned, spotted Peabody heading her way, and
with some haste stuffed the scarf in her pocket.
“You bought something. You shopped!”
“I didn’t shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, or
gray-market goods. It’s potential evidence.”
“My ass.” Peabody got her fingers on the tip of the scarf, rubbed.
“It’s nice. How much? Maybe I wanted one. I haven’t finished Christmas
shopping yet. Where’d he go?”
“Peabody.”
“Damn it. Okay, okay. Illegals has a sheet on Gant, Martin, aka Zero.
I wrangled around with a Detective Piers, but our two dead guys outweigh
his ongoing investigation. We’ll go bring him in for Interview.”
As they started toward their vehicle, Peabody looked over her
shoulder. “Did he have any red ones?”
The club was open for business, as clubs in this sector tended to be,
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Zero’s was a slick step
up from a joint, with a circular revolving bar, privacy cubes, a lot of silver
and black that would appeal to the young professional crowd. At
the moment the music was tame and recorded, with wall screens filled
with a homely male face, fortunately half-hidden by a lot of lank purple
hair. He sang morosely of the futility of life.
Eve could have told him that for Tubbs Lawrence and Leo Jacobs
the alternative probably seemed a lot more futile.
The bouncer was big as a maxibus, and his tunic jacket proved that
black wasn’t necessarily slimming. He made them as cops the minute
they stepped in. Eve saw the flicker in his eyes, the important rolling
back of his shoulders.
The floor didn’t actually vibrate when he crossed the room, but she
wouldn’t have called him light on his feet.
He gave them both a hard look out of nut-brown eyes, and showed
his teeth.
“You got a problem?”
Peabody was a little late with the answer, habitually waiting for Eve
to take the lead. “Depends. We’d like to talk to your boss.”
“Zero’s busy.”
“Gosh, then I guess we’ll have to wait.” Peabody took a long look
around. “While we’re waiting we might as well take a look at your licenses.”
Now she showed her teeth as well. “I like busywork. Maybe
we’ll chat up some of your clientele. Community relations, and all that.”
As she spoke, she pulled out her badge. “Meanwhile you can tell him
Detective Peabody, and my partner, Lieutenant Dallas, are waiting.”
Peabody strolled over to a table where a man in a business suit and a
woman—who looked unlikely to be his wife due to the amount of
breast spilling out of her pink spangled top—were huddled. “Good afternoon,
sir!” She greeted him with an enthusiastic smile, and all the
blood drained out of his face. “And what brings you into this fine establishment
this afternoon?”
He got quickly to his feet, mumbled about having an appointment.
As he rabbited, the woman rose. As she was about six inches taller than
Peabody, she pushed those impressive breasts in Peabody’s face. “I’m
doing business here! I’m doing business here!”
Still smiling, Peabody took out a memo book. “Name, please?”
“What the fuck!”
“Ms. What-the-Fuck, I’d like to see your license.”
“Bull!”
“No, really. Just a spotcheck.”
“Bull.” She spun herself and those breasts toward the bouncer. “This
cop ran off my john.”
“I’m sorry, I’d like to see your companion license. If everything’s in
order, I’ll let you get back to work.”
Bull—and it seemed the day for people to have names appropriate
to their bodies—flanked Peabody, who now looked, Eve thought, like
a slight yet sturdy filling between two bulky pieces of bread.
Eve rolled to her toes, just in case.
“You got no right coming in here rousting customers.”
“I’m just using my time wisely while we wait to speak with Mr.
Gant. Lieutenant, I don’t believe Mr. Bull appreciates police officers.”
“I got better use for women.”
Eve rolled onto her toes again, and her tone was cool as the December
breeze. “Want to try to use me? Bull.”
She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, the flash of color
on the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the second level. “Looks like
your boss has time after all.”
Another appearance-appropriate name, she decided. The man was
barely five feet in height and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds.
He used the short guy’s compensation swagger and wore a bright blue
suit with a florid pink shirt. His hair was short, straight, reminding her
of pictures of Julius Caesar.
It was ink black, like his eyes.
A silver eyetooth winked as he offered a smile.
“Something I can do for you, Officers?”
“Mr. Gant?”
He spread his hands, nodded at Peabody. “Just call me Zero.”
“I’m afraid we’ve had a complaint. We’re going to need you to come
downtown and answer some questions.”
“What sort of complaint?”
“It involves the sale of illegal substances.” Peabody glanced to one of
the privacy cubes. “Such as the ones currently being ingested by some
of your clientele.”
“Privacy booths.” This time he raised his spread hands in a shrug.
“Hard to keep your eye on everyone. But I’ll certainly have those
people removed. I run a class establishment.”
“We’ll talk about that downtown.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Peabody lifted her eyebrows. “Do you want to be?”
The good humor in Zero’s eyes hardened into something much less
pleasant. “Bull, contact Fienes, have him meet me . . .”
“Cop Central,” Peabody supplied. “With Detective Peabody.”
Zero got his coat, a long white number that probably was one
hundred percent cashmere. As they stepped outside, Eve looked down
at him.
“You got an idiot on your door, Zero.”
Zero lifted his shoulders. “He has his uses.”
Eve took a winding route through Central, giving Zero a bored
glance. “Holidays,” she said vaguely as they mobbed onto another
people glide. “Everybody’s scrambling to clear their desks so they can
sit around and do nothing. Lucky to book an interview room for an
hour the way things are.”
“Waste of time.”
“Come on, Zero, you know how it goes. You get a complaint, you do
the dance.”
“I know most of the Illegals cops.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I
don’t know you, but there’s something . . .”
“People get transferred, don’t they?”
Off the glide, she led the way to one of the smaller interview rooms.
“Have a seat,” she invited, gesturing to one of the two chairs at a little
table. “You want something? Coffee, whatever?”
“Just my lawyer.”
“I’ll go check on that. Detective? Can I have a minute?”
She stepped out, closed the door behind Peabody. “I was about to
check my pockets for bread crumbs,” Peabody commented. “Why did
we circle around?”
“No point letting him know we’re Homicide unless he asks. Far as
he knows, this is a straight Illegals inquiry. He knows the ropes, knows
how to grease them. He’s not worried about us taking a little poke
there. Figures if we’ve got a solid complaint, he’ll fob it off, pay a fine,
go back to business as usual.”
“Cocky little son of a bitch,” Peabody muttered.
“Yeah, so use it. Fumble around some. We’re not going to get him
on murder. But we establish his connection to Tubbs, let him think one
of his customers is trying to screw with him. Work him so we’re just
trying to put this into the file. Tubbs hurt somebody, and now he’s trying
to foist it off on Zero. Trying to make a deal so he gets off on the
possession.”
“I got it, piss him off. We don’t give a damn either way.” Peabody
rubbed her palms on her thighs. “I’ll go Miranda him, see if I can establish
a rapport.”
“I’ll see about his lawyer. You know, I bet he goes to Illegals instead
of Homicide.” Eve smiled, strolled off.
Outside the interview room, Peabody steadied herself, then inspired,
slapped and pinched her cheeks pink. When she walked in, her
eyes were down and her color was up.
“I . . . I’m going to turn on the record, Mr. Gant, and read you your
rights. My . . . The lieutenant is going to check to see if your attorney’s
arrived.”
His smile was smug as she cleared her throat, engaged the record,
and recited the Revised Miranda. “Um, do you understand your rights
and obligations, Mr. Gant?”
“Sure. She give you some grief?”
“Not my fault she wants to go home early today, and this got
dumped on us. Anyway, we have information that indicates illegal substances
have been bought and sold on the premises owned by . . . Shoot,
I’m supposed to wait for the lawyer. Sorry.”
“No sweat.” He tipped back now, obviously a man in charge, and
gave her a go-ahead wave. “Why don’t you just run it through for me,
save us all time.”
“Well, okay. An individual has filed a complaint, stating that illegals
were purchased from you, by him.”
“What? He complain I overcharge? If I did sell illegals, which I
don’t, why does he go to the cops? Better Business Bureau, maybe.”
Peabody returned his grin, though she made hers a little forced.
“The situation is, this individual injured another individual while under
the influence of the illegals allegedly purchased through you.”
Zero rolled his eyes to the ceiling, a gesture of impatient disgust. “So
he gets himself juiced, then he wants to push the fact he was an asshole
onto the guy who sold him the juice. What a world.”
“That’s nutshelling it, I guess.”
“Not saying I had any juice to sell, but a guy can’t go whining about
the vendor, get me?”
“Mr. Lawrence claims—”
“How’m I supposed to know some guy named Lawrence? You
know how many people I see every day?”
“Well, they call him Tubbs, but—”
“Tubbs? Tubbs went narc on me? That fat son of a bitch?”
Eve wound her way back, figuring she’d confused things enough that
the lawyer would be hunting for them for a good twenty minutes.
Rather than go into Interview, she slipped into Observation. The first
thing she heard was Zero’s curse as he came halfway out of his chair.
It made her smile.
Peabody looked both alarmed and embarrassed, Eve noted. Good
touch—the right touch.
“Please, Mr. Gant—”
“I want to talk to that bastard. I want him to look me in the face.”
“We really can’t arrange that right now. But—”
“That tub of shit in trouble?”
“Well, you could say that. Yes, you could say . . . um.”
“Good. And you can tell him for me, he’d better not come back to my
place.” Zero stabbed a finger on her, setting his trio of rings glittering angrily.
“I don’t want to see him or those asshole suits he runs with in my
place again. He’ll get another kick for buying and possession, right?”
“Actually, he didn’t have any illegals on his person at the time of the
incident. We’re doing a tox screen, so we can get him for use.”
“He tries to fuck with me, I’ll fuck with him.” Secure in his world,
Zero sat back, folded his arms. “Say I happened to pass some juice—
personal use, not for resale. We’re talking the usual fine, community
service.”
“That’s the norm, yes, sir.”
“Why don’t you bring Piers in here. I’ve worked with Piers before.”
“Oh, I think Detective Piers is off duty.”
“You bring him in on this. He’ll take care of the details.”
“Absolutely.”
“Dumbass comes into my place. He solicits illegals from me. Fat
slob’s always nickel-and-diming me, you get it? Mostly Push—and not
worth my time. But I’m going to do him a favor since he and his buddies
are regulars. Just a favor for a customer. He wants a party pack, so
I go out of my way to do him this favor—at cost! No profit. That keeps
the fine down,” he reminded her.
“Yes, sir.”
“Even gave him a separate stash, customized just for him.”
“Customized?”
“Holiday gift. Didn’t charge him for it. No exchange of funds. I
ought to be able to sue him. I ought to be able to sue that rat bastard for
my time and emotional distress. I’m going to ask my lawyer about that.”
“You can ask your lawyer, Mr. Gant, but it’s going to be tough to sue
Mr. Lawrence, seeing as he’s dead.”
“What do you mean, dead?”
“Apparently the customized juice didn’t agree with him.” The harried
and uncertain Peabody was gone, and in her place was a stonecold
cop. “He’s dead, and he took an innocent bystander with him.”
“What the hell is this?”
“This is me—oh, and I’m Homicide, by the way, not Illegals—
arresting you. Martin Gant, you’re under arrest for the murder of Max
Lawrence and Leo Jacobs. For trafficking in illegal substances, for
owning and operating an entertainment venue that distributes illegal
substances.”
She turned as Eve opened the door. “All done here?” Eve said
brightly. “I have these two nice officers ready to escort our guest down
to booking. Oh, your lawyer appears to be wandering around the facility.
We’ll make sure he finds you.”
“I’ll have your badges.”
Eve took one of his arms, and Peabody the other, as they hauled him
to his feet. “Not in this lifetime,” Eve said, and passed him to the uniforms,
watched him walk out the door. “Nice job, Detective.”
“I think I got lucky. Really lucky. And I think he’s greasing palms in
Illegals.”
“Yeah, going to have to have a chat with Piers. Let’s go write it up.”
“He won’t go down for murder. You said.”
“No.” As they walked, Eve shook her head. “Maybe Man Two.
Maybe. But he’ll do time. He’ll do some time, and they’ll pull his operating
license. Fines and legal fees will cost him big. He’ll pay. Best we get.”
“Best they get,” Peabody corrected. “Tubbs and Jacobs.”
They swung into the bull pen as Officer Troy Trueheart stepped
out. He was tall, and he was built, and he was as fresh as a peach with
the fuzz still on it.
“Oh, Lieutenant, there’s a woman here to see you.”
“About what?”
“She said it was personal.” He glanced around, frowned. “I don’t see
her. I don’t think she left. I just got her some coffee a few minutes ago.”
“Name?”
“Lombard. Mrs. Lombard.”
“Well, if you round her up, let me know.”
“Dallas? I’ll write up the report. I’d like to,” Peabody added. “Feels
like taking it all the way through.”
“I’ll remind you of that when this goes to court.”
Eve walked through the bull pen and to her office.
It was a stingy room with barely any space for the desk, a spare chair,
and the skinny pane of glass masquerading as a window. She didn’t
have any problem spotting the woman.
She sat in the spare chair, sipping coffee from a recyclable cup. Her
hair was reddish blond, worn in a cap that had apparently exploded
into curls. Her skin was very white, except for the pink on her cheeks,
the pink on her lips. Her eyes were grass green.
Middle fifties, Eve judged, filing it all away in a fingersnap. A bigboned
body in a green dress with black collar and cuffs. Black heels,
and the requisite enormous black purse sitting neatly on the floor by
her feet.
She squeaked when Eve came in, nearly spilled the coffee, then
hastily set it aside.
“There you are!”
She leaped up, the pink in her face deepening, her eyes going bright.
There was a twang to her voice, and something in it set Eve’s nerves
on edge.
“Mrs. Lombard? You’re not allowed to wander around the offices.”
“I just wanted to see where you worked. Why, honey, just look at
you.” She rushed forward, and would have had Eve in an embrace if
Eve’s reflexes weren’t so quick.
“Hold it. Who are you? What do you want?”
Those green eyes widened, went swimming. “Why, honey, don’t
you know me? I’m your mama!”
“There are simply no accolades lavish enough to praise this series justly.”—The Columbia (SC) State
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