Visions In Death

"Was she threatened by her ex-husband?" He smiled, humorlessly. "Not anymore. She was a strong woman, who'd put him where he belonged. In the past." "Do you know of anyone who'd want to hurt her?" "Absolutely no one. That's the God's truth. I can't resign myself, not fully, to the fact that anyone did. I know you have a job to do, but so do I. My wife needs me, the children need me. Can we do whatever else needs to be done later?" "Yes. I want to take this." She pulled out the roll of ribbon.

"I can give you a receipt." "Not necessary." He pushed to his feet, rubbed his hands over his face. "I've heard you're good at your job." "I am good at it." "I'm depending on you." He offered his hand. "We all are."

They hit crafts stores, crisscrossing Manhattan on the way downtown. Eve had no idea there was so much involved in the making of so many things easily available readymade.

When she expressed the opinion, Peabody smiled and fingered some brightly colored thread sold in hanks.

"There's a lot of satisfaction in making something yourself.

Picking the colors, the materials, the pattern.

Individualizing it, and seeing it come to life." "You say so." "A lot of craftsmen and artisans in my family. Goes with the whole Free-Ager philosophy. I'm pretty handy myself, but I don't have a lot of time for it. I still have the tea cozy my grandmother helped me crochet when I was ten." "I don't even know what that is." "What, the tea cozy or crocheting?" "Either, and I find I have no interest in finding out." She studied the shelves and displays, full of supplies and finished products. "A lot of the clerks we've talked to remember Maplewood. Don't see a lot of men in these joints." "Needlework remains primarily the work and/or hobby of the female. Too bad. It can be very relaxing. My uncle Jonas knits up a storm and claims it's one of the reasons he's a healthy, vital one hundred and six. Or seven. Maybe it's eight." Eve didn't bother to respond but headed out of the shop.

"Nobody, thus far, remembers any man bothering Elisa or any other customer for that matter. Nobody asking questions about her, loitering around. Same kind of ribbon. There has to be a co

CHAPTER 4

It didn't look like a refuge, Eve thought. It looked, from the outside at least, like a well-maintained, modest, multi-resident building. Middle-income apartments, sans doorman.

The casual observer wouldn't note anything special about it, even if he bothered to look.

And that, Eve reminded herself, was precisely the point.

The women and children who fled here didn't want anyone to notice.

But if you were a cop, you'd probably note and approve of the first-rate security. Full-scan cams, cleverly disguised in the simple trims and moldings. Privacy screens activated at all windows.

If you were a cop and knew Roarke, you could be certain there were motion pads at every access, with top-of-the-line alarms. Entree would require palm plate identification, keypad code, and/or clearance from inside. There would be twenty-four-hour security probably human and droid and you could bet your ass the entire place would lock down like a vault at any attempt to break in.

Not just a refuge, but a fortress.

Dochas, Gaelic for "hope," was as safe probably safer due to its anonymity as the White House.

If she'd known such places existed, would she have fled to one instead of wandering the streets of Dallas, a child broken, traumatized, and lost? No. Fear would have sent her ru

Even now, knowing better, she felt uneasy stepping up to the door. Alleys were easier, she thought, because you knew there were rats in the dark. You expected them.

But she reached up to ring the bell.

Before she could signal, the door opened.

Dr Louise Dimatto, that blond bundle of energy, greeted them.

She wore a pale blue lab coat over a simple black shirt and trousers. Two tiny gold hoops glinted in her left ear, with a third in the right. There were no rings on her competent fingers, and a plain, serviceable wrist unit sat on her left hand.

Nothing about her screamed money, though she came from big green seas of it.

She was pretty as a strawberry parfait, classy as a crystal flute of champagne, and a born reformer who lived to fight in the trenches.

"About damn time." She grabbed Eve's hand and pulled her inside. "I was begi

"We appreciate you making time," Eve began.

"Time's constantly being made. My goal is to make enough so there's twenty-six hours per day. That should be just about nght. How about a tour?" "We need-" "Come on." She kept Eve's hand trapped in hers. "Let me show off a little. Remodeling and rehab are finally complete, though Roarke's given me carte blanche for additional decorating or equipment. The man is now my god." "Yeah, he likes that part." Louise laughed, and hooked her arms through Eve's on one side and Peabody's on the other. "I don't have to tell you the security is flawless." "No security is flawless." "Don't be a cop," she complained and gave Eve a little hip check. "We have common rooms down here. Kitchen and the food's great dining area, library, a playroom, and what we call the family room." Eve could already hear the chatter as Louise took them down a hallway, gesturing to rooms. Women and children chatter, Eve thought. The sort that always made her feel awkward and edgy.

It smelled like girls, too mostly though she caught sight of what she thought were a couple of young boys loping off toward what was likely the kitchen area.

There were scents of polish and flowers and what she thought might be hair products. Tones of lemon and vanilla and the hard candy smell she always associated with groups of females.

There was a lot of color in the place as well as a lot of room. Cheerful color, comfortable furniture, spots for sitting alone, spots for conversation.

She saw immediately that the family room was the popular spot.

There were about a dozen women of various ages and races gathered there. Sitting on sofas, on the floor with the kids, who were also of various ages and races. They were talking, or sitting in silence, watching the entertainment screen or juggling babies on their laps.

She wondered why people were forever bouncing babies when it seemed from her wary observation that the perpetual motion only caused whatever was in their digestive systems to come spewing out. Of either end.