Innocent in Death (In Death #24)(9)

“Yeah, you bet. Native of Martinique,” Eve began as they stepped into an elevator to be assaulted with quiet, mind-melting music. “Student visa, most like, work visa maybe. She’d get her green card by marrying a U.S. citizen. And keep her status here as his widow.”

“Easier ways to get a green card.”

“Sure. But maybe things weren’t working, and divorce within two years cancels out the green. Maybe there was more going on in those Wednesday night sessions with Hallywell than studying. You got a job here, you want a life here. Killing to keep it isn’t a stretch.”

They stepped off into a small reception area where a woman sat behind a white counter. She wore a headset and a big, welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon!” she said, so enthusiastically that Eve’s eyes slitted. “Welcome to Blackburn Publishing. How may I help you today?”

“Lissette Foster.”

“Of course. I can certainly find out if Ms. Foster’s free. May I say who’s here to see her, and the nature of your business?”

Eve simply took out her badge again. “We’ll explain all that to Ms. Foster.”

“Oh.” The woman’s eyes bugged as she stared at the badge. “Oh, my. Excuse me.” She swiveled around, spoke into the mouthpiece of her headset in a hissing whisper. “Lissette Foster.” Clearing her throat, she darted a glance back at Eve. “Lissette, there’s someone here in Reception to see you. It’s apolice officer. I don’t know. I really don’t. Okay.”

With her smile strained at the edges, the woman turned back to Eve. “She’ll be right here. If you’d like to sit—”

“We’re fine.”

By the time Eve had unwrapped her scarf, a woman was striding out on ice-pick heels. Those alone indicated some level of insanity to Eve. The heels were cherry red, the pencil-slim suit stone gray. Inside it was an excellent body.

Lissette Foster had luminous skin, heavy-lidded, and currently annoyed, nut-brown eyes. Her hair was nearly the same shade and worn ruler-straight to brush her shoulders.

She moved with purpose, Eve thought. Like a woman with a fire in her belly. It might have sparked from anger, from ambition, or passion, but it was hot.

“You’re police?” Lissette demanded in a brisk tone made exotic by the French accent.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I told him we’d keep the music down. Arrest me then.” Drama quivering, she held out her arms, wrists together. “Arrest me for playing music after the ungodly hour of nine P.M. on a Saturday night. I should be dragged away in chains! Just because some retired cop has issues is no reason to have police coming to where I work. Does he want me to get fired?”

“Ms. Foster, we’re not here about your music. We’d like to speak with your privately. Your office would be best.”

“Office?” Lissette let out a very lusty laugh. “I’m an editorial assistant. I’m lucky I’ve got a cube. What’s this about?”

Eve turned now to the woman at reception. “I need a private room. Office, conference room, lounge, whatever. I want it now.”

“Certainly, certainly. The conference room isn’t booked right now. You can—”

“Fine.” Eve looked back at Lissette. “Let’s go.”

“What’s this about? I have a meeting with the boss in…oh, God, ten minutes. She hates anyone to be late. If you think you can pitch a story idea to someone at my level, I can promise you, you’re wasting your time.”

She wound her way through a maze of cubes and narrow hallways, past offices with tiny windows, corner offices with views to kill.

“Look, I shouldn’t have talked that way about Sergeant Kowoski. Maybe the music was too loud. My husband and I were playing around, pretending we were at some hot club. We were probably a little drunk, and a little loud. I don’t want any trouble.”

She stepped into a room with a dozen chairs around a wide table, long counters along each side wall and screens front and back.

“Can we do this quickly? I really don’t want to be late for my meeting.”

“We’d like you to sit down.”

“This is ridiculous.” Blowing out a breath, she yanked out a chair, sat. Then came straight back to her feet again, with alarm in her eyes. “Oh, God. Has something happened to my mother? Was there an accident? Maman ? ”

“No.”

How did you tell someone the person she expected to be waiting for her at home wouldn’t be there tonight? Or any other night? Eve remembered. You told them fast, without flourishes.

“It’s regarding your husband, Mrs. Foster.”

“Craig? He’s still at school.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, your husband’s dead.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say to someone. That’s a vicious, terrible thing to say. I want you to leave, right now. I’m going to call the police—the real police—and have you arrested.”

“Mrs. Foster, my partner and I are the real police, and we’re the investigators on your husband’s death. He died today at approximately twelve-thirty.”

“Of course he didn’t. He didn’t. He was at school. That’s his lunch break, and he sent me an e-mail just after noon. I packed his lunch this morning. He’s at school, at the Monday faculty meeting right now. And he’s fine.”