Memory in Death (In Death 22)

Finally, she pulled up Trudy Lombard.

She skimmed over what she already knew, and lifted her eyebrows at the employment record.

She’d been a health care assistant, a receptionist in a manufacturing firm. She’d applied for professional mother status after the birth of her son, and had worked part-time—reporting an income just under the legal limit to retain that status.

Retail clerk, Eve scanned. Three different employers. Data cruncher, two employers. Domestic coordinator? What the hell was that? Whatever it was, it hadn’t lasted either.

She’d also lived in four different places, all in Texas, over a six-year period.

On the grift, Eve thought. That’s what the pattern told her. Run the game, wring it dry, move on.

She’d applied for, tested for, and been approved for foster parenting. Had applied and been granted the retention of full pro-mom status under the fostering waiver—make every penny count, Eve thought. Austin area, Eve noted, for a full year, before she’d moved again, applied again, been approved again.

Fourteen months in Beaumont, then another move, another application. Another approval.

“Itchy feet? You know what, Trudy, you bitch? I don’t think so. Then I came along, and look here, you pulled up stakes again three months after I went back inside. More applications, more approvals, and you just grifted your way around the big-ass state of Texas, taking the fostering fees, right up until Bobby graduated from college and your pro-mom status was up.”

She leaned back, considered.

Yeah, it could work. It was a good game. You’ve got your license and approval, in state. So you just move from location to location, pick up more kids, more fees. Child Services, busy agency. Always under-staffed, underfunded. Bet they were pleased to have an experienced woman, a pro-mom, willing to take on some charges.

Trudy had settled in one place after her professional mother status elapsed, and she’d gone out of the fostering business. Kept close to her son, Eve mused. Another handful of short-term jobs. Not a lot of income for a woman who supposedly liked to shop, and had jewelry valuable enough, reportedly, to leave home when traveling.

Interesting, Eve thought. Interesting. And she’d bet a pound of real coffee beans that she hadn’t been the only child Trudy Lombard had traumatized.

* * *

Chapter 8

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SHE WISHED ROARKE HADN’T MADE HER FEEL obliged to go by the Miras. She was tired, and there was still a lot of work on her plate, a lot of thinking time to put in.

Now she’d have to visit. Sit around, drink something, make conversation. Exchange presents. The last always made her feel stupid, and she didn’t know why. People seemed to have this unstoppable need to give and receive stuff they could easily afford to go out and get for themselves anyway.

Now here she was, standing outside the pretty house in its pretty neighborhood. There was a holly wreath on the door. She knew holly when she saw it now, after her experience with the decorators. There were candles in the windows, pretty white lights glowing calm against the dark, and through one of those windows she could see the sparkle of a Christmas tree.

There would be presents under it, probably a considerable haul as Mira had grandchildren. She’d also learned that if one present wasn’t enough to give a spouse for the holiday, a half dozen didn’t come up to snuff for a kid.

She happened to know Peabody had already bought three—count them, three—presents for Mavis’s baby, and the kid wasn’t due to be born for over a month.

What the hell did you buy for a fetus, anyway? And why did nobody else think that was kind of creepy?

Roarke had shipped a damn cargo freighter of gifts to his relatives in Ireland.

And she was stalling. Just standing out in the cold and dark, stalling.

She shifted the packages under her arm, rang the bell.

It was Mira who answered moments later. Mira in her at-home wear, soft sweater, trim pants, bare feet.

“I’m so glad you came.”

Before Eve could speak, she was being drawn inside, into warm, pine- and cranberry-scented air. There was music playing, something quiet and seasonal, and more candles flickering.

“Sorry it’s so late.”

“It doesn’t matter. Come into the living room, let me take your coat.”