Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(73)

“Were you dragged out of your home, Mrs. Rowan? Locked up, tortured?”

Monica’s eyes slitted. “I had nothing they wanted.”

“Can you give me names of people who believed in him who are still alive?”

“It was thirty years ago and more. They came and they went.”

“What about their wives? Their children? You must have met their families. Socialized.”

“I had a house to run. I didn’t have time to socialize.”

Eve flicked a glance around the room. There was no view screen in evidence. “Do you keep up with the news, Ms. Rowan? Current events.”

“I mind my own business. I don’t need to know what other people are up to.”

“Then you might not be aware that yesterday a terrorist group calling themselves Cassandra bombed the Plaza Hotel in New York. Hundreds of people were killed. Among them, women and children.”

The gray eyes flickered, then leveled again. “They should have been in their own homes where they belonged.”

“It doesn’t concern you that a group of terrorists is killing innocent people? That it’s believed this group is connected to your dead husband?”

“No one’s innocent.”

“Not even you, Mrs. Rowan?” Before she could answer, Eve moved on. “Has anyone from Cassandra contacted you?”

“I keep to myself. I don’t know anything about your bombed hotel, but if you ask me, the country’d be better off if that whole city was blown to hell. I’ve given you all the time I’m going to give. I want you out of my house, or I’m calling my public representative.”

Eve gave it one more shot. “Your husband and his group never asked for money, Mrs. Rowan. Whatever they did, they did for their beliefs. Cassandra is holding the city hostage for money. Would James Rowan have approved?”

“I don’t know anything about it. I’m telling you to leave.”

Eve took a memo card out of her pocket, set it on the table in front of a figure of a laughing woman. “If and when you remember or think of anything that might help, I’d appreciate it if you contacted me. Thanks for your time.”

They headed out, with Monica dogging their heels. Outside, Eve sucked in air. “Let’s get back to the whores and filth in the streets, Peabody.”

“Oh, you bet.” She shuddered for effect. “I’d rather have been raised by rabid wolves than a woman like that.”

Eve glanced back to see that dingy gray eye peering through the chink in the drapes. “What’s the difference?”

Monica watched them go, waited until the car had pulled away. She went back, picked up the memo card. Could be a bug, she thought. Jamie had taught her well. She hurried into the kitchen with it, dumped it in the recycler, and turned the whining machine on.

Satisfied, she went to the wall ‘link. Could be bugged, could be bugged, too. Everything could be. Dirty cops. Lips peeled back, she slipped a small jammer out of a drawer, slid it onto the ‘link.

She’d done her duty, hadn’t she? Done it without complaint. It was long past time for compensation. She programmed the number.

“I want my share,” she said in a hiss when she heard the voice answer. “The police were just here, asking questions. I didn’t tell them anything. But I might next time. I might just have a few things to say to Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD that would perk her ears up. I want my share, Cassandra,” she repeated, attacking a faint smudge on the counter with a tattered disinfectant rag. “I earned it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

I trust you have received and are pleased with the latest progress reports transmitted to your location. The next steps of our plan are under way. Much like the chess games we used to play on those long, quiet nights, pawns are sacrificed for the queen.

At this time there is a small matter I would ask you to take care of for us, as our time is limited and our concentration must remain focused on the events unfolding. Timing over the next few days is vital.

Attached is the data you will require to arrange an execution long overdue. This is a matter we had hoped to handle ourselves at a future date, but circumstances require its implementation immediately.

There is no cause for concern.

We must keep this transmission brief. Remember us at tonight’s rally. Speak our name.

We are Cassandra.

Zeke stayed in the apartment all day, afraid if he so much as stepped out to the corner deli for tofu, Clarissa would call, and berating himself for forgetting to give her the number of his pocket ‘link.

He kept himself busy. There were a dozen minor chores and repairs around the apartment his sister had neglected. He cleared the kitchen drain, repaired the drip, sanded the bedroom door and window sashes so that they no longer stuck, dealt with the temperamental light switch in the bathroom.

If he’d thought of it, he would have bought a few kits and upgraded her lighting system. He made a note to do so before he returned to Arizona.

If there was time. If he and Clarissa weren’t on a transport west that night.

Why didn’t she call?

When he caught himself staring at the ‘link, he moved into the kitchen and concentrated on the recycler. He took it apart, cleaned it, put it back together again.