Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(72)

“I don’t like the police in my house.” But she opened the door. “I don’t want you touching anything.”

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.”

“You weren’t living with him at the time of his death.”

“Doesn’t make me less of his wife, does it?”

“No, ma’am, it doesn’t. Can you tell me why you were separated from him, and your children?”

“That’s my private marital business.” Monica’s arms tightened on her chest. “Jamie had a lot on his mind. He was a great man. It’s a wife’s duty to give way to her husband’s needs and wishes.”

Eve only lifted a brow at that. “And your children? Did you take their needs and wishes into account?”

“He needed the children with him. Jamie adored them.”

But he didn’t think so much of you, did he? Eve mused. “And you, Ms. Rowan, did you adore your children?”

It wasn’t a question she needed to ask, and Eve was annoyed with herself the moment it was out.

“I gave birth to them, didn’t I?” Monica stretched her head forward aggressively on her scrawny neck. “I carried each one of them inside me for nine months, gave birth to them in pain and blood. I did my duty by them, kept them clean, kept them fed, and the government gave me a pittance for my trouble. A damn cop made more than a professional mother back then. Who do you think got up in the middle of the night with them when they were squalling? Who cleaned up after them? Nothing dirtier than children. You work your hands to the bone to keep a clean house when there’s children in it.”

So much for mother love, Eve thought, and reminded herself that wasn’t the issue.

“You were aware of your husband’s activities. His association with the terrorist group Apollo?”

“Propaganda and lies. Government lies.” She all but spat it out. “Jamie was a great man. A hero. If he’d been president, this country wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in with whores and filth in the streets.”

“Did you work with him?”

“A woman’s place is to keep a clean house, to provide decent meals, and to bear children.” She folded her lips into a sneer. “The two of you might want to be men, but I knew what God had put women on Earth to do.”

“Did he talk to you about his work?”

“No.”

“Did you meet any of his associates?”

“I was his wife. I provided a clean home for him and for the people who believed in him.”

“William Henson believed in him.”

“William Henson was a loyal and brilliant man.”

“Do you know where I might find this loyal and brilliant man?”

Monica smiled, thin and sly. “The government dogs hunted him down and killed him, just the way they killed all the loyal.”

“Really? I have no data that confirms his death.”

“A plot. Conspiracy. Cover-ups.” Thin beads of spittie flew out of her mouth. “They dragged honest people out of their homes, locked them in cages, starved and tortured them. Executions.”