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When the woman turned away, lea
ving 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.”
