Memory in Death (In Death 22)

She brought up the list of the children Trudy had fostered, then began to pick at their lives.

One was doing her third stretch for aggravated assault. Good candidate, Eve thought, if she wasn’t currently in a cage in Mobile, Alabama. She put a call through to the warden, just in case, and confirmed.

One down.

Another had been blown to bits while dancing at an underground club in Miami when a couple of lunatics stormed it. Suicide bombers, Eve recalled, protesting—with their lives, and more than a hundred others—what they considered the exploitation of women.

The next had a residence listed as Des Moines, Iowa, one current marriage on record, with employment as an elementary educator. One offspring, male. The spouse was a data cruncher. Still, they pulled in a decent living between them, Eve mused. Trudy might have dipped into the well.

Eve contacted Iowa. The woman who came on-screen looked exhausted. Banging and crashing sounded in the background. “Happy holidays. God help me. Wayne, please, will you keep it down for five minutes? Sorry.”

“No problem. Carly Tween?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with New York City Police and Security.”

“New York. I’ve got to sit down.” There was a huge sigh, and the screen tipped just enough for Eve to get a glimpse of an enormously pregnant belly. Another down, she decided, but followed through.

“What’s this about?”

“Trudy Lombard. Ring a bell?”

Her face changed, tightened. “Yes. She was my foster mother for several months when I was a child.”

“Could you tell me the last time you had contact with her?”

“Why? Wayne. I mean it. Why?” she repeated.

“Ms. Lombard was murdered. I’m investigating.”

“Murdered? Wait, just wait, I have to move to somewhere else. I can’t hear with all this noise.” There was a lot of huffing before the woman gained her feet, and the screen swayed as she waddled across what Eve saw was a family living area into a small office space. She shut the door.

“She was murdered? How?”

“Mrs. Tween, I’d like to know the last time you spoke with or had contact with Ms. Lombard.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“The fact that you’re not answering a routine question makes me wonder.”

“I was twelve,” Carly snapped. “I was under her care for eight months. My aunt was able to get custody and I went to live with her. Matter closed.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“Because a New York cop is calling my home and asking me questions about a murder. I have a family. I’m eight months pregnant, for God’s sake. I’m a teacher.”

“And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I have nothing to say about this or her. Nothing. Not without a lawyer, so leave me alone.”

The screen went black. “That went well,” Eve commented.

While she didn’t see Carly Tween waddling her way to New York to bash Trudy’s brains in, she kept her on the list.

On the next call she was switched to voice mail—two faces, two voices, both of them glowing to the point Eve wished for sunshades.

Hi! This is Pru!