Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(32)

They passed through an office area where people went busily about their business, clipping along the corridors, manning desks, answering 'links. A number of them wore the bright orange jumpsuits.

"Prisoners are allowed in this area?" Eve asked.

"Residents," Miller corrected mildly, "are allowed- encouraged-to apply for suitable jobs after they've completed half their rehabilitation training. It aids in their adjustment to the outside world when they leave us, so they may re-enter society with self-esteem and a meaningful purpose."

"Uh-huh. Well, one of your former residents has re-entered society with a meaningful purpose. She likes killing men. We need to talk about Julianna Dunne, Supervisor Miller."

"Yes." He pressed his palms together like a preacher about to call the congregation to prayer. "I was very distressed to learn you believe she's involved in a homicide."

"I don't believe she's involved. I know she's a murderer. Just as she was when she came here."

He paused. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but from your tone I get the impression you don't believe in the basic tenets of rehabilitation."

"I believe in crime and punishment, and that some learn from it. Learn it well enough to change how they live in the real world. I also believe that there are some who can't change, or just don't want to."

Through the glass door at Miller's back, she watched two inmates make a quick, slick exchange of envelopes. Credits for illegals was Eve's guess.

"They like what they do," she added, "and can't wait for the chance to get back to it. Julianna likes what she does."

"She was a model resident," he said stiffly.

"I bet. And I bet she applied for a job position when half her time was up. Where'd she work?"

He drew air through his nose. Most of the warm bonhomie chilled under insult and disapproval. "She was employed at the Visitor's Coordination Center."

"Access to computers?" Feeney asked.

"Of course. Our units are secured and passcoded. Residents are not permitted unsupervised transmissions. Her immediate superior, Georgia Foster, gave Julianna the highest evaluations."

Eve and Feeney exchanged looks. "You want to point me in the direction of that center," Feeney said. "I'll speak with Ms. Foster."

"And I'd like interviews with the inmates on this list." Eve drew it out of her pocket. "Sorry, residents," she corrected, but not without a sneer in her voice.

"Of course. I'll arrange it." Miller's nose had gone up in the air, and Eve doubted the invitation for lunch was still on the table.

"See that pass?" Feeney muttered when Miller turned his back to speak into his in-house communicator.

"Yep."

"Wanna tell this ass**le?"

"Nope. Residents' business ventures and recreational activities are his problem. And if I have to listen to him lecture much longer, I may go hit up that con for a little Zoner myself."

...

Eve took the interviews one at a time in a conference area outfitted with six chairs, a cheerfully patterned sofa, a small entertainment screen, and a sturdy table manufactured from recycled paper products.

There were bland paintings of flower arrangements on the walls and a sign on the inside of the door that reminded residents and their guests to behave in a courteous manner.

Eve supposed she was the guest portion of that statement.

There was no two-way mirror, but she spotted the four scan-cams snugged into corners. The door leading in was glass, privacy screen optional. She left it off.

The guard, a big-shouldered, pie-faced woman who looked like she had enough sense and experience not to think of the inmates as residents, brought Maria Sanchez in first.

Sanchez was a tough little Latin mix with a mop of curly black hair skinned back into a tail. There was a little tattoo of a lightning bolt worked into the jagged scar at the right side of her mouth.

She sauntered in, jauntily swinging her hips, then dropped into a chair and drummed her fingers on the table. Eve spotted sensor bracelets on both her wrists and ankles.

Miller might have been a moron, but even he wasn't stupid enough, it seemed, to take chances with a hard case like Sanchez. At Eve's nod, the guard retreated to the other side of the door.

"Got smoke?" Sanchez asked in a raspy, musical voice.

"No."

"Shit. You drag me off my morning rec time and you don't got smoke?"

"I'm real sorry to bust up your daily tennis game, Sanchez."

"Shit. Me, I play round ball." She eased back, craned her neck to look under the table. "You got a lot of leg, but I'd still whip your ass on the court."

"We'll have to find time for a pickup game one of these fine days, but right now I'm here about Julianna Dunne. You had the cage beside hers the last three years."

"We don't call them cages 'round here." She sent Eve a sneer. "They call 'em personal areas. Fucking personal areas. Miller, he's an ass**le."

Eve wasn't sure what it said that she and Sanchez had that basic point of agreement. "What did you and Dunne talk about when you were in your respective personal areas?"

"I don't give nothing to cops. Oh wait, yeah, I give one thing to cops." She held up her middle finger.