But what if—
“Got your manifests here.”
Distracted, she glanced over. “Already?”
“One day you’ll afford me the awe I so richly deserve.”
“You’re rich enough to afford your own awe. What about matches?”
“If you’re in a hurry, you take half.” He tapped keys. “There. Transferring to you. Handle it from there?”
“I know how to do a search and match,” she muttered, and set it up to run. She swiveled around to look at him. “I’ve got these two long shots. Just plucking out of the air. One of the fosters is in a cage. Assaults, mostly. No family, no known associates in particular. Nothing in her jacket to indicate any real smarts, or connections. But maybe Trudy tried to hit her up along the line. So this career violent tendency decides to get back some of her own. Works a deal with somebody who’s close, or can get close to the mark. Take her out—got your revenge—make some money while you’re at it.”
“How would this person know Trudy was going to New York now, with the idea of shaking us down, and be able to put this kill together so quickly?”
“The kill’s of the moment. I still say that. Could’ve had the shill in place already. And yeah, I know it’s a long one. But I’m going to have another chat with the warden after Christmas. Maybe reach out to her last arresting officer.”
“And the other shot in the dark?”
“One of the fosters worked as a dancer in that club that was bombed a few years ago. Miami. Remember, a couple of bonzos got through the door, protesting sin or something. Things went wrong and the boomers blew. Took out over a hundred and fifty people.”
“I don’t remember, sorry. Before you, I can’t say I paid as much attention to that sort of thing.” But he stopped what he was doing, considered it. “So she survived?”
“No. At least she’s listed among the dead. But it was an underground club, and they run loose. Explosions, body parts flying. Blood, terror, confusion.”
“I get the picture, thanks.” He sat back, walking his mind along the path she was taking. “So, she somehow survives, is misidentified, and lives to plot Trudy’s eventual demise?”
“It’s an angle,” Eve said stubbornly. “There are others. Somebody close to her com
es back on Trudy. Revenge again. A lover or a close friend. I can talk to some of the survivors anyway, some of the people she worked with. Maybe get a clearer picture of her at least.”
She got up to pace. “And there’s this other thing going through my head. Did Trudy ever catch Bobby sneaking food to one of the girls? If so, what did she do about it? To her, to him. Or later, when he was older, did he ever get in contact with one of them? Or did one of them ever approach him? He never said anything about that. Easiest way to get to Trudy, it seems to me, would be through him.”
“You’re back to Zana.”
“Yeah.”
“Try this. What is it about Zana Lombard that keeps you circling back?”
“Well, like I said, she cries a lot.”
“Eve.”
“It’s irritating. But beyond that personal annoyance, she’s on the spot, both incidents. She’s the only one who saw her alleged abductor.”
“Why make up a story like that? It only brings her to the foreground. Wouldn’t she prefer to stay in the back?”
She rose to walk over, study her murder board. “Criminals are always complicating things, saying or doing more than they should. Even the smart ones. Add ego. Look what I pulled off, but nobody knows. Nobody can say, ‘Wow, that was pretty damn clever of you. Let me buy you a drink.’”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You think she did it.”
She drew a line with her finger from the photograph of Trudy, to Bobby, to Zana. A very handy triangle, she decided. Neat and tidy.
“I’ve thought she did it since I opened the door and found Trudy dead.”
He turned in the chair now, studying her face. “Kept that one close to the vest, didn’t you?”
“No need to get pissy.”