by J. D. Robb
“With Craig? I liked him quite a lot. Quite a lot,” he repeated quietly. “I was, well, unconvinced when he first came on staff last year. He was so young—the youngest member of the teaching staff. But he made up for a certain lack of experience with enthusiasm and dedication. He cared a great deal, a great deal about the students. He must have been ill and not known it. He must have had some sort of condition. To die that way. It’s inconceivable.”
The sentiment was echoed by every staff member Eve spoke with. She finished up the session with Reed Williams, English department.
No pouch on this one, Eve noted. He had a strong, lean build that told her he took advantage of the fitness center facilities. His hair was a deep, rich brown tipped with gold to simulate sun streaks. His square jaw was deeply clefted under a firm mouth. His eyes of sharp, bottle green were heavily and darkly lashed.
He was thirty-eight, single, and wearing a suit that she estimated had cost him a stinging slice of his monthly pay.
“I saw him this morning, in the fitness center. He was doing reps when I came in. I don’t like to talk when I’m working out, so it was just a…well, a nod of acknowledgment. I’d say we were in there together for about twenty minutes. He headed out, waved. He generally took a swim after a workout. I was in there another ten minutes, I’d guess. Grabbed a shower, dressed. Then I saw Craig again in the lounge, with Eric. Eric Dawson.”
“Did Mr. Foster have anything with him?”
“With him? No, just a tube of Pepsi. We talked vids for a few minutes, then headed off to class. I ran into him again in the staff restroom.” Williams smiled slightly and showed a single dimple in his left cheek to go with the cleft. “Just a kind of ‘How’s it going?’ as we used the facilities. I guess that was right about eleven. Just before. The classes start on the hour, and I wasn’t late.”
“How did you get along with him?”
“Fine. We got along fine.”
“You both liked action vids. Did you hang out socially?”
“Now and again, sure. I went to his wedding last year—most of the staff did. We had a beer together a couple of times.” He shrugged. “We weren’t best pals, but we got along. Mirri would know him better, socially.”
“Mirri.”
“Hallywell. English department, Drama. They saw each other outside the school.”
“On a social level.”
“Sure.” He smiled a little again, and there was a smirk behind it. “They have a standing date Wednesday nights. To study.”
With the initial interviews done, Eve tagged Peabody again. “Bixley.”
“Hernando M., Maintenance. He was dealing with a plumbing problem in the boys’ john down the hall from the scene. He passed the two wits and Dawson on his way out.”
“Buzz?”
“No. He’s late sixties, worked here for twelve years. His two grandsons attend on his employee tuition rate. Seems like a solid type.”
“Hallywell.”
“Mirri C. Finished her about fifteen minutes ago. English department, runs the Drama Club and directs the school plays. I’m about to interview the last on my list. Is there something about Hallywell? I didn’t get a buzz from her either.”
“I want a quick followup. If she’s still here, I’ll track her down. Find me when you’re done.”
“She was pretty broken up—Hallywell. Might check one of the washrooms. I’d say she’d need to compose herself before she left.”
Following Peabody’s advice, Eve tried the staff restroom closest to the lounge where Peabody was conducting interviews. The door required a key card; Eve used her master.
And found a woman sitting on the floor in front of the bank of sinks, weeping.
“Mirri Hallywell.”
“Yes. Yes.” She choked back a sob, sniffled, mopped at her face with a tissue. The face was splotchy from the crying jag, the pale blue eyes swollen from it. She had dark hair worn in a brutally short Caesar style and tiny silver hoops in her ears.
“I’m sorry. Are you with the police? I’ve already talked to a detective.”
“My partner. I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Oh, God, oh, God. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.”
Eve crouched. “It’s rough when a colleague’s killed, so suddenly.”
“It’s horrible. We weren’t just colleagues. We were friends. We were good friends. None of this seems possible.”
“How good friends?”
Mirri let her head fall back. “That’s a terrible thing to imply, a terrible thing to think about someone like Craig. Someone who can’t speak for himself anymore.”
“I speak for him now. That’s what I do.”
“Then if you’re going to speak for him you should know he loved his wife. They loved each other. I envy that, what they have together. I’m her friend, too. I’m her friend, and I don’t know how to begin to help her through this.”
“You and Craig saw each other every week, outside work.”
“We had a study date on Wednesdays.” Fire came into the ravaged eyes. “For God’s sake, is that what everything whittles down to for people like you?”
“If it was innocent, why get pissed off?” Eve countered.
“Because he’s dead. He’s dead.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “We were both working on our Master’s degrees. We’d go to the library or a coffee shop, study together for a couple hours. Maybe have a beer afterward. We’re going out—I mean, oh, God, I mean we were supposed to go out tomorrow, to the vids. Craig and Lissy and this guy they fixed me up with. I hate being fixed up, but they talked me into this one last month, and it’s worked out pretty well so far. So we’re doing a double date.”
“Mirri, if you and Craig had anything going, now’s the time to tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I’m not so desperate I’d poach a friend.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I was going to call Lissy, come in here and call her, even though they said we weren’t to contact anyone. I thought, I need to do that for her, she needs to hear about this from a friend. But I couldn’t.”
Mirri drew up her knees, pressed her face to them. “I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say, how to say it, and I didn’t have the guts to try.”
“That’s for us to do.”
“What can you say?” Mirri demanded. “What can you say to someone like this? She’s expecting he’ll be there when she comes home. And he won’t be there. Not tonight, not ever. What can you say?”
Then she sighed, pushed herself to her feet. “It’s not your fault. I wish it were. I wish it could be your fault and I could scream and rave at you for it. Would you tell Lissy…would you just tell her how sorry I am, and that if I can help, if I can do anything…I’ll be there.”
Lissette Foster was an editorial assistant for a small publishing house with offices in midtown. The background Peabody accessed listed her as twenty-four, a native of Martinique who had moved to New York to attend Columbia. The only blight on her record was an underage drinking rap when she’d been nineteen. She’d been given probation, and community service.
Her mother remained in Martinique. Her father’s whereabouts were unknown.
“So,” Peabody continued, “speaking of the islands, how was your vacation?”
“It was good.” A week of sun, sand, and sex. What could be better? “This snow’s starting to stick.”
“Yeah, we’re supposed to get maybe four inches. Are you looking seriously at the wife?”
“She’s first on the list. Spouses tend to be.”
“Yeah, but newlyweds? I know how it’s supposed to be tough the first year, adjusting and whatever, but poison? It’s sneaky and distant. A spouse gets pissed, it’s usually bloodier, and more personal.”
“Usually. If his lunch was poisoned, where did the lunch come from? Consensus is, from home. Wife had the easiest access. Although consensus also is the vic left the bagg
ed lunch in his classroom. Unlocked room. He comes in early, dumps his stuff in the classroom, heads to the fitness center. Again, fairly easy access for anyone.”
“Motive?”
“Other than the pop quiz? Not clear as yet. The wit? Rayleen Straffo is the fruit of Oliver Straffo’s loins.”
“Oh, shit! Seriously? Does she have horns and a tail?”
“If so, well hidden.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel as she thought of Straffo. “He could get a lot of screen time with this, playing the Daddy card. Outrage, concern, blah, blah.”
“It’d be just like him. You’re going on Nadine’s new show this week. You can balance his bullshit.”
“Don’t remind me. Stupid damn friendships. They always cost you.”
“You’re so soft and sentimental, Dallas.”
“Yeah, I love that about me.” Judging the snow, the insanity of New York drivers in same, Eve swung into a parking lot two blocks from the address. “I’m not trying for street parking in this snowing crap.”
“I can use the exercise. I, like, ate my way through the holidays, and am expecting McNab to spring for something resembling chocolate for Valentine’s Day, so I need to lose in advance. What are you getting for Roarke?”
“For what?”
“For Valentine’s Day?”
“I just got his Christmas stuff five minutes ago.” She stepped out of the car, remembered the scarf stuffed in her coat pocket. Pulling it out, Eve swung it around her neck.
“Two months ago. And it’s Valentine’s Day. For sweethearts. You need to get him a gooey card and a sentimental token. I already got McNab’s. It’s a talking picture frame with our names inscribed on it. I put this shot of the two of us his father took at Christmas? He can keep it in his cube in EDD. Roarke would like something like that.”
“Roarke already knows what we look like.” A minicoupe skidded at the light, fishtailed into the crosswalk, and earned the curses and snarls of pedestrians.
She loved New York.
“Oh, speaking of pictures, I’ve got a new crop of Belle. Have you seen her since you got back?”
“No. Is she asking for tats and belly rings already?”
“Come on. She is so seriously adorable. She’s got Leonardo’s eyes and Mavis’s mouth, and—”
“God help us if she inherits their fashion sense along with it.”
“She smiles at me, every time I pick her up.” Above her scarf, under her watch cap, Peabody’s eyes went to brown goo. “People say that’s gas, but she smiles at me. She’s getting so big, and she’s…”
While Peabody rhapsodized about Mavis’s infant daughter, Eve listened to the music of New York. The blasting horns, the arguments, the rumbling ad blimps from overhead. Through them were the voices, a rat-a-tat of conversations, a litany of complaints.
“So, what are you going to take her?”
“What? Taking what? Where?”
“To Belle, Dallas, when you go to see her. The gift?”
“What gift?” Seriously stymied, Eve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Why do I have to take a gift?”
“Because.”
“Why? Didn’t I do the shower thing, with gifts, then the hospital thing?”
“Yes, but when you go to visit the baby at home for the first time, it’s traditional to—”
“Who makes this up?” Seriously aggrieved, Eve jabbed a finger into the marshmallow puffiness of Peabody’s winter coat. “I demand to know who makes these rules. It’s madness. Tell me who it is, and I’ll have them committed for psychiatric evaluation.”
“Aw, Dallas, you just need to bring her a little teddy bear or a pretty rattle. It’s fun shopping for baby stuff.”
“My ass. You know what’s fun?” Eve hauled open the door of the office building. “Finding out who poisoned some poor slob of a history teacher. That’s my idea of fun. Any more talk about shopping, gifts, babies, gooey cards, or Valentine’s Day, my boot’s going so far up your ass you’ll think the toe’s your tongue.”
“A week at the beach sure sweetened your mood. Sir,” Peabody muttered when Eve’s look fried off the top layers of her skin.
Eve turned on her heel toward the security station, and badged the guard. “Lissette Foster.”
“Just a minute, please.” He ran the badge number, the ID ploddingly, thoroughly. “Yes, sir, you’re cleared. Lissette Foster…Foster, Foster. Here we go. She’s with Blackburn Publishing. Editorial. Uh…that’s on the ninth floor. Bank of elevators to your right. Have a productive day.”
“Yeah, you bet. Native of Martinique,” Eve began as they stepped into an elevator to be assaulted with quiet, mind-melting music. “Student visa, most like, work visa maybe. She’d get her green card by marrying a U.S. citizen. And keep her status here as his widow.”
“Easier ways to get a green card.”
“Sure. But maybe things weren’t working, and divorce within two years cancels out the green. Maybe there was more going on in those Wednesday night sessions with Hallywell than studying. You got a job here, you want a life here. Killing to keep it isn’t a stretch.”
They stepped off into a small reception area where a woman sat behind a white counter. She wore a headset and a big, welcoming smile.
“Good afternoon!” she said, so enthusiastically that Eve’s eyes slitted. “Welcome to Blackburn Publishing. How may I help you today?”
“Lissette Foster.”
“Of course. I can certainly find out if Ms. Foster’s free. May I say who’s here to see her, and the nature of your business?”
Eve simply took out her badge again. “We’ll explain all that to Ms. Foster.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes bugged as she stared at the badge. “Oh, my. Excuse me.” She swiveled around, spoke into the mouthpiece of her headset in a hissing whisper. “Lissette Foster.” Clearing her throat, she darted a glance back at Eve. “Lissette, there’s someone here in Reception to see you. It’s a police officer. I don’t know. I really don’t. Okay.”
With her smile strained at the edges, the woman turned back to Eve. “She’ll be right here. If you’d like to sit—”
“We’re fine.”
By the time Eve had unwrapped her scarf, a woman was striding out on ice-pick heels. Those alone indicated some level of insanity to Eve. The heels were cherry red, the pencil-slim suit stone gray. Inside it was an excellent body.
Lissette Foster had luminous skin, heavy-lidded, and currently annoyed, nut-brown eyes. Her hair was nearly the same shade and worn ruler-straight to brush her shoulders.
She moved with purpose, Eve thought. Like a woman with a fire in her belly. It might have sparked from anger, from ambition, or passion, but it was hot.
“You’re police?” Lissette demanded in a brisk tone made exotic by the French accent.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I told him we’d keep the music down. Arrest me then.” Drama quivering, she held out her arms, wrists together. “Arrest me for playing music after the ungodly hour of nine P.M. on a Saturday night. I should be dragged away in chains! Just because some retired cop has issues is no reason to have police coming to where I work. Does he want me to get fired?”
“Ms. Foster, we’re not here about your music. We’d like to speak with your privately. Your office would be best.”
“Office?” Lissette let out a very lusty laugh. “I’m an editorial assistant. I’m lucky I’ve got a cube. What’s this about?”
Eve turned now to the woman at reception. “I need a private room. Office, conference room, lounge, whatever. I want it now.”
“Certainly, certainly. The conference room isn’t booked right now. You can—”
“Fine.” Eve looked back at Lissette. “Let’s go.”
“What’s this about? I have a meeting with the boss in…oh, God, ten minutes. She hates anyone to be late. If you think you can pitch a story idea to someone at my level, I can promise you, yo
u’re wasting your time.”
She wound her way through a maze of cubes and narrow hallways, past offices with tiny windows, corner offices with views to kill.
“Look, I shouldn’t have talked that way about Sergeant Kowoski. Maybe the music was too loud. My husband and I were playing around, pretending we were at some hot club. We were probably a little drunk, and a little loud. I don’t want any trouble.”
She stepped into a room with a dozen chairs around a wide table, long counters along each side wall and screens front and back.
“Can we do this quickly? I really don’t want to be late for my meeting.”
“We’d like you to sit down.”
“This is ridiculous.” Blowing out a breath, she yanked out a chair, sat. Then came straight back to her feet again, with alarm in her eyes. “Oh, God. Has something happened to my mother? Was there an accident? Maman?”
“No.”
How did you tell someone the person she expected to be waiting for her at home wouldn’t be there tonight? Or any other night? Eve remembered. You told them fast, without flourishes.
“It’s regarding your husband, Mrs. Foster.”
“Craig? He’s still at school.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, your husband’s dead.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say to someone. That’s a vicious, terrible thing to say. I want you to leave, right now. I’m going to call the police—the real police—and have you arrested.”
“Mrs. Foster, my partner and I are the real police, and we’re the investigators on your husband’s death. He died today at approximately twelve-thirty.”
“Of course he didn’t. He didn’t. He was at school. That’s his lunch break, and he sent me an e-mail just after noon. I packed his lunch this morning. He’s at school, at the Monday faculty meeting right now. And he’s fine.”
Her breath began to come quick, choppy. Her color was fading even as she fumbled a hand behind to brace the table as her legs went out.
“You should sit down, Mrs. Foster,” Peabody said gently. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“No. No. Was there a bomb? Was there a bomb at school? Oh, my God. Is he hurt? Is Craig hurt?”