She was supposed to be grateful the state was providing her, a ward thereof, with an education, with a home, with enough food to sustain life. She was supposed to be grateful to have clothes on her back, even if someone else had worn them first. She was supposed to want to better herself, which had been tough when she hadn’t remembered, not clearly, where she’d come from in the first place.
What she remembered most were
the smug-toned lectures, the disappointed frowns that didn’t quite hide the superiority.
And the endless, the terminal, the all-pervasive boredom.
Of course, it hadn’t been smart and spiffy private schools for her, with state-of-the-art educational equipment, sparkling clean classrooms, stylish uniforms, and a one-teacher-per-six-students ratio.
She’d be willing to bet her next paycheck that the Sarah Child Academy didn’t run to fist fights in the hallways, or homemade boomers in the lockers.
But today, at least, it ran to murder.
While she waited in Mosebly’s office with its homey touches of live plants and stylish teapots, she did a quick run on the victim.
Foster, Craig, age twenty-six. No criminal. Both parents still living, she noted, and still married to each other. They lived in New Jersey, where Craig himself had been born and raised. He’d attended Columbia on a partial scholarship, earned his teaching certificate, and was working on a master’s degree in history.
He’d married Bolviar, Lissette, in July of the previous year.
He looked fresh and eager in his ID photo, Eve mused. A handsome young man with a clear complexion the color of roasted chestnuts. Deep, dark eyes, and dark hair worn in what Eve thought they were calling a high-top. Shaved close on the sides and back, brushed high on the crown.
His shoes had been trendy, too, she recalled. Black and silver gels, with ankle wraps. Pricey. But his sports jacket had been dirt brown, worn at the cuffs. Decent wrist unit, which had struck her as a knockoff. And a shiny gold band on the third finger of his left hand.
She imagined, when Peabody completed the scene, there would be under fifty credits in Craig’s pockets.
She made a few quick notes.
Where did the hot chocolate come from?
Who had access to the insulated cup?
Shared classroom?
Time line. Last to see vic alive, first to find body.
Insurance policies, death benefits? Beneficiaries?
She glanced up as the door opened.
“Lieutenant?” Mosebly stepped in, one hand on the shoulder of a young girl with milky skin dotted with freckles that went with her carrot-red hair. The hair was long and brushed back into a sleek tail.
She looked slight and shaky in her navy blazer and spotless khakis.
“Melodie, this is Lieutenant Dallas, with the police. She needs to speak with you. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Melodie’s mother, Angela Miles-Branch.”
The kid had gotten the hair and skin from Mom, Eve noted. And Mom looked just as shaky.
“Lieutenant, I wonder if this could possibly wait until tomorrow. I’d prefer taking Melodie home now.” Angela had Melodie’s hand in a death grip. “My daughter isn’t feeling well. Understandably.”
“It’ll be easier all around if we do this now. It shouldn’t take long. Principal Mosebly, if you’ll excuse us.”
“I feel I should stay, as a representative of the school and as Melodie’s advocate.”
“A representative isn’t required at this time, and the minor child’s mother is present as her advocate. You’ll need to step out.”
There was an argument in Mosebly’s eyes, but she tightened her jaw, stepped out of the room.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Melodie?”