J. Robb - Treachery in Death

“Still working the hard one.”

“Yeah. I want to be pissed off—mostly am. But now and again I lose that edge, and then I just feel sick.”

“Maybe I say something, piss you off. Give you the edge back.”

She shook her head, smiled a little. “No. I already owe you three and a half.”

“Friends don’t keep score. Not when it matters.” He put his huge hand over hers on the bar, patted it. “Want a pastry?”

She laughed this time. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to the hard.”

Peabody approached the little house in the Bronx with trepidation. She wasn’t afraid she’d walk away empty—though that was a possibility. She was more afraid she’d push the wrong way and break what she believed was a brittle hold on survival.

She thought of her own mother, what it would be like for her to be told her daughter was dead. Dead because she’d made the choice to be a cop. Dead because she’d been ordered to put herself at risk, and had done so.

Her mother was strong, Peabody thought, but it would put cracks in her. It would damage, and there would be fissures that would never fully close again.

So she thought of her own mother as she knocked on the door of the little house in the Bronx.

The woman who opened it was too thin—brittle again—with her hair pulled back in a tail. She wore cutoff sweats and a T-shirt and studied Peabody with annoyance out of shadowed eyes.

“Mrs. Devin—”

“I told you yesterday, when you got me on the ’link, I’ve got nothing to say to you. To any cop about Gail.”

“Mrs. Devin, if you could just hear me out. You don’t have to say anything. Just hear me out. I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important.”

“Important to who? You? I don’t care about what’s important to you. You’re cleaning up your files? That’s all she is to you, a file. Just a name in a file.”

“No, ma’am, she’s not. No, ma’am.” The emotion in her heart, in her belly rang clearly in her voice. “I apologize more than I can say if I gave you that impression. I’ve gotten to know Gail a little. I know she liked to sing, and she had a strong alto. I know her father taught her to fish, and even though she didn’t really like it, she went with him because they liked the time together. I know you and she had a strong and loving relationship. I know even after she moved to Manhattan, the two of you got together every week. For girl time. Lunch, dinner, a vid, the salon, shopping. It didn’t matter.”

Peabody’s stomach clenched as tears began to roll down the woman’s cheeks. But she didn’t stop. “She called you her best friend. You didn’t want her to be a cop, but you didn’t stand in her way. You were proud of her when she graduated from the Academy, with honors. When she made detective you had a party for her. She knew you were proud of her. I think it meant a lot to her to know you were.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Tears burned in Peabody’s eyes. She didn’t let them fall, but she wasn’t ashamed to let them show. Not here, not with a dead cop’s mother.

“Because I have a mother, Mrs. Devin, and she didn’t really want me to be a cop. I know she’s proud of me, and it means a lot. I love her so much. And some days, because she lives out West, I miss her until it hurts.”

“Why did you do it then, why did you leave her and do this?”

“Because I’m a cop. It’s what I am as much as what I do. Gail was a cop. She was your daughter, and she loved you. She was a cop, and she tried to make things better.”

“It killed her.”

“I know.” Peabody let a little of the anger clutched inside her show, let it mix with the sympathy. “When I was coming here, I thought of my mom, and what it would do to her if she lost me. I wish, for her, I could be something else. But I can’t. You were proud of Gail. I would have been proud to know her.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Could I come in, please?”

“Oh, what does it matter?”

When the woman turned away, leaving the door open, Peabody stepped inside. She noted the clutter on a table—items that had obviously been on shelves, caught the scent of cleaner, polish.

“I’m sorry I upset you so much yesterday. You didn’t get much sleep last night. Now a cleaning binge to help you work it off.” She tried a small smile. “My mom does the same.”

It wasn’t quite true, as it was her father who used that route, but sticking with mothers seemed best—and not altogether a lie.

“Ask what you want to ask and go. I want to get back to my housework.”

Won’t have her long, Peabody calculated, and skipped over the groundwork she’d intended to lay. “Gail had a good record. Her evaluations from her supervisors were excellent. There were some notes in her file during the period she served under Lieutenant Renee Oberman that indicated she was having a difficult time.”

“So what?” The resentment, the instinctive defense of her child charged out. “It’s difficult work, and she worked hard. Too hard. She barely did anything but work those last weeks.”

“Did you see her during that period, during those last weeks?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did she tell you why she was stressed, or what she was working on that was particularly difficult?”

“No. We didn’t talk about her work. She knew I didn’t like it. Being proud of your child doesn’t mean you want to be reminded how dangerous the work is they’ve chosen. I know she was tense. On edge. She’d lost weight.”

“You were worried about her.”

“I asked her to take some time off. Said we’d take a little trip, a few days at the shore. She said she’d like that, could use that. But she had to finish something first. Finish something important, then she’d really want to get away for a while. It was work. If it had been a man, or anything else, she’d have told me.”

“Is there anyone else she would have told?”

“One of you. Cops talk to other cops.”

Peabody nodded, felt it slipping away. “Did she keep a notebook, a diary, any sort of journal?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Anger fired through grief again. “And if she had kept one, I wouldn’t let you see it. It would be personal. But she didn’t keep a diary. I have all of her things, and there’s nothing like that.”

“You have her things?” A little bubble of excitement, of hope opened in Peabody’s throat. “Can I see them?”

“Why should I—”

“Please, Mrs. Devin. I can’t explain everything, but I promise you I want to do right by Gail. I swear to you, that’s my only purpose in being here, in asking you.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone.” The woman turned her back, strode through the living area to a dining nook, through that to a room off a kitchen that gleamed and smelled of lemon.

It was like a small bedroom without the bed. Clothes hung neatly in the closet—Peabody imagined more were neatly folded in the small dresser. Pieces of Gail Devin sat here and there. Whatnot boxes, scarves, a bright pink vase. Photos, framed posters, a Little League trophy, a fishing rod.

A slim case held discs. Music discs, music vids, Peabody noted. All arranged by category, alphabetized.

She got a little buzz.

“That’s a nice collection.”

“It was how she relaxed, let loose.”

I know her now, Peabody thought. She was smart and determined. A good cop. Where would a smart, determined, and good cop hide a record she wanted to keep handy, keep safe?

“Mrs. Devin, I have to ask you to let me borrow Gail’s music collection.”

Hot pink color stained cheeks already wet with tears. “Do you think I’d hand over what was Gail’s, one of her most important things, to a stranger?”