"Oh yeah, that'll work."
Eve took a right, slowed as the street narrowed. The duplexes and triplexes here were old and shoved unhappily together. Lawns were quietly miserable, showing grass the bitter yellow of winter where snow had melted. She pulled up at a curb by a cracked sidewalk, shut off the engine.
Trip complete. Time elapsed nine minutes, forty-eight seconds. Please remember to code your door.
"You'd have cut another two minutes off easy if you'd gone air over that traffic," Peabody told her when they climbed out.
"Stop grinning and put on your cop face. Monica's peeking out the window." Eve headed up the bumpy, unshoveled walk and rapped on the middle door of the triplex.
It was a long wait, though she judged Monica had about three steps to take to get from the window to the door. She didn't expect a warm welcome. And didn't get one.
The door opened a crack and one hard gray eye peered out. "What do you want?"
"Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security, and aide. We have a few questions we'd like to ask you, Ms. Rowan. Can we come in?"
"This isn't New York. You've got no authority here, no business here."
"We have some questions," Eve repeated. "And we've been cleared to request an interview. It would be easier for you, Ms. Rowan, if we conducted it here rather than arranging for you to be transported to New York."
"You can't make me go to New York."
Eve didn't bother to sigh, and pocketed the badge she flipped out for Monica's study. "Yes, we can. But we'd rather not inconvenience you. We won't take up much of your time."
"I don't like the police in my house." But she opened the door. "I don't want you touching any
thing."
Eve stepped into what she supposed the architect had amused himself by calling a foyer. It was no more than four square feet of faded linoleum, ruthlessly scrubbed.
"You wipe your feet. You wipe your dirty cop feet before you come in my house."
Dutifully, Eve stepped back, wiped her boots on a mat. It gave her another moment to study Monica Rowan.
The image on file had been a true one. The woman was hard-faced, grim-eyed, and gray. Eyes, skin, hair were all nearly the same dull color. She was wearing flannel from top to toe, and the heat pumping through the house was already making Eve uncomfortably warm in her jacket and jeans.
"Close the door! You're costing me money letting the heat out. You know what it costs to heat this place? Utility company is run by government drones."
Peabody wiped her feet, stepped in, closed the door, and was rammed up tight against Eve. Monica stood glowering, her arms folded across her chest. "You ask what you got to ask, then get out."
So much, Eve mused, for Yankee hospitality. "It's a little crowded here, Ms. Rowan. Maybe we can go in the living room and sit down."
"You make it fast. I've got things to do." She turned and led the way into a doll-sized living area.
It was painfully clean, the single chair and small sofa slicked with clear plastic. Two matching lamps still wore their plastic shields on the shades. Eve decided she didn't want to sit down after all.
The window drapes were drawn together, leaving a thin chink. The inch-wide slit brought in the only light.
There were dust catchers, but no dust. Eve imagined if a mote wandered in, it soon ran screaming in horror. A dozen little happy-faced figurines, gleaming clean, danced over tabletops. A cheap model cat droid rose creakily from the rug, gave one rusty meow, and settled again.
"Ask your questions and go. I've got housework to finish."
Eve recited the revised Miranda when Peabody went on record. "Do you understand your rights and obligations, Mrs. Rowan?"
"I understand you've come in my house unwanted, and you're interrupting my work. I don't need any bleeding-heart liberal lawyer. They're all government puppets preying on honest people. Get on with it."
"You were married to James Rowan."
"Until the government killed him and my children."