Visions in Death (In Death 19)

Nothing abo

ut her screamed money, though she came from big green seas of it.

She was pretty as a strawberry parfait, classy as a crystal flute of champagne, and a born reformer who lived to fight in the trenches.

“About damn time.” She grabbed Eve’s hand and pulled her inside. “I was beginning to think I’d have to call nine-one-one to get you down here. Hi, Peabody. Boy, don’t you look great.”

Peabody beamed. “Thanks.” After considerable experimentation, she’d found what she liked to think of as her detective look with simple lines, interesting colors, and matching airsneaks or skids.

“We appreciate you making time,” Eve began.

“Time’s constantly being made. My goal is to make enough so there’s twenty-six hours per day. That should be just about right. How about a tour?”

“We need—”

“Come on.” She kept Eve’s hand trapped in hers. “Let me show off a little. Remodeling and rehab are finally complete, though Roarke’s given me carte blanche for additional decorating or equipment. The man is now my god.”

“Yeah, he likes that part.”

Louise laughed, and hooked her arms through Eve’s on one side and Peabody’s on the other. “I don’t have to tell you the security is flawless.”

“No security is flawless.”

“Don’t be a cop,” she complained and gave Eve a little hip check. “We have common rooms down here. Kitchen—and the food’s great—dining area, library, a playroom, and what we call the family room.”

Eve could already hear the chatter as Louise took them down a hallway, gesturing to rooms. Women and children chatter, Eve thought. The sort that always made her feel awkward and edgy.

It smelled like girls, too—mostly—though she caught sight of what she thought were a couple of young boys loping off toward what was likely the kitchen area.

There were scents of polish and flowers and what she thought might be hair products. Tones of lemon and vanilla and the hard-candy smell she always associated with groups of females.

There was a lot of color in the place as well as a lot of room. Cheerful color, comfortable furniture, spots for sitting alone, spots for conversation.

She saw immediately that the family room was the popular spot.

There were about a dozen women of various ages and races gathered there. Sitting on sofas, on the floor with the kids, who were also of various ages and races. They were talking or sitting in silence, watching the entertainment screen or juggling babies on their laps.

She wondered why people were forever bouncing babies when it seemed—from her wary observation—that the perpetual motion only caused whatever was in their digestive systems to come spewing out. Of either end.

Not all the babies appeared to appreciate it, either. One of them was burbling in what might have been contentment, but two others were making sounds very reminiscent of emergency vehicles on the run.

It didn’t seem to bother anyone, particularly. Certainly not the field of kids on the floor, playing or bickering over their chosen activities.

“Ladies.”

Conversation died off as the women looked toward the doorway. Children shut up like clams. Babies continued to wail or burble.

“I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

In the moment’s pause, Eve saw the reaction to the thought of cops. The drawing into self, the nervous flicker of eyes, the gathering closer of children.

The abuser might be the enemy and Louise the ally, but cops, Eve thought, were the unknown and could fall into either camp.

“Lieutenant Dallas is Roarke’s wife, and this is her first visit.”

There was relief for some—the easing of tension in faces and bodies, even tentative smiles. And for others, the suspicion remained.

It wasn’t just a mix of ages and races. There was also a mix of injuries. Fresh bruises, fading ones. Mending bones. Mending lives.