Memory in Death (10 page)

Now why would she do that if the killer had already played a tune on her the day before? Where was her fear, her anger? Where was her survival instinct?

A woman who could run a game on CPS for over a decade had damn good survival instincts.

Even if you're in some pain, why would you get buzzed alone in a hotel room when someone's hurt you, and obviously can hurt you again? Especially when you have family right down the hall.

Unless it was what was down the hall that hurt you. Possible, she thought. But if so, why stay where they could so easily get to you, hurt you again

She glanced over as Roarke came in through his adjoining office.

"You get yourself beat up," she began, "you don't want the cops involved."

"Certainly not."

"Right, okay, I get that. You don't tell your son?"

"I don't have one to tell at the moment." He eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. "But pride might very well prevent me."

"That's guy thinking. Think like a woman."

"A stretch for me," he said with a smile. "How about you?"

"If I'm thinking like this woman, I whine ASAP to anyone who'll listen. But she doesn't, which gives me a couple of possibilities."

"One, she doesn't have to tell her son, because her son's the one who used her as a punching bag."

"That's one," she agreed. "One that's not fitting so well into my memory of their relationship. If that relationship soured since, why does she stay where he can get to her again?"

He picked up the little statue of the goddess, a symbol of mother, he thought, from her desk. He toyed with it idly as he spoke. "We both know relationships are thorny areas. It's possible that he made a habit out of knocking her about. She was used to it, and didn't consider telling anyone, or getting out of his way."

"There's the daughter-in-law. No marks on her, no typical signs of an abusive relationship there. A guy who pounds on Mommy is likely to smack the little woman around, too. It doesn't fit very well for me."

"If you bump that down the list"—he set the statue back on her desk—"what leapfrogs over it?"

"She doesn't want anyone to know. Which isn't pride, it's planning, it's precaution. She had an agenda, a personal one." And yeah, Eve thought, she liked that a lot better.

"But it doesn't explain why she drank a lot of wine, took blockers, got herself impaired."

She shuffled the close-up still of Trudy's face to the top of her pile. And took a hard look at it. "That doesn't say fear to me. She's afraid, she uses her son as a shield, she locks herself up tight, or she runs. She didn't do any of those things. Why wasn't she afraid?"

"There are some who enjoy pain."

Eve shook her head. "Yeah, there's that. But she liked being tended to. Run me a bath, get me a snack. She'd used the tub, and I got a prelim sweeper's report that tells me there was some blood in the bathroom sink, in the drain. So she washed up after she got tuned."

Missing towels, she remembered, and made another note of it.

"And she turns her back on her killer. Blow came from behind. She's not afraid."

"Someone she knows and mistakenly—as it turns out—trusts."

"You don't trust somebody who smashes your face the day before." Love them, maybe. She knew there was a kind of love that ran to that. But trust was different. "Morris thinks the same weapon was used throughout, but I'm thinking two different hands on it, two different times. You've got the run from your building security."

"A copy, yes. Feeney has the original."

"I want to see it."

He took a disc from his pocket. "Thought you might."

She plugged it in, ordered the review on the wall screen.

"I've had the whole business put on here," he said as Eve watched Trudy enter Roarke's Midtown building. She crossed the acres of marble, passed animated screens, rivers of flowers, sparkling little pools, and moved straight to the information desk that handled the offices.

That suit, she noted, had been in the closet of the hotel room. Neatly hung. The shoes had been tucked in there, too. She hadn't been wearing that outfit when she was beaten.

"Done her research," Eve mused. "No fumbling around, no looking around to get her bearings."

"She presses at information, as you see. 'No, I've no appointment, but he'll want to see me,' and so on. Look confident, look friendly, and as though you belong. She's very good."

"She got upstairs, anyway."

"They called through, got to Caro, who passed the request on to me. I had them make her wait a bit. I'm good as well. She doesn't care for it, as you can see by the way her face tightens up, but she has a seat in one of the lobby waiting areas. Unless you want to watch her twiddle her thumbs for the next bit of time, you can move forward."

Eve did, then slowed it down when a young woman approached Trudy.

"Caro, who knows the ropes, sent one of the assistants down to escort her up on one of the public elevators. Takes her round about, up to my level, through outer areas, down the skyway. A goodly hike, and when she arrives, well, she can wait a bit more. I'm a busy man, aren't I?"

"She's impressed," Eve commented. "Who wouldn't be? All that space, the glass, the art, the people at your beck and call. Good job."

"Here you see Caro coming to get her at last, to walk her back. Then Caro goes out, shuts the doors, and we have our little chat."

Eve ran the disc forward, marked the time elapsed at twelve minutes before Trudy came hurrying out.

And there was fear, Eve noted, a hint of wildness in the eyes, a jerkiness to the walk that was nearly a trot.

"She was a bit annoyed," Roarke said with a wide, wide grin.

Eve said nothing, simply watched as Trudy was escorted down, and quickly made her way out of the building.

"Unharmed, as you see, and where she went from there, I couldn't say."

"She wasn't afraid of her killer." Eve's gaze met his. "But she was afraid of you."

He held up his hands, palms out. "Never laid a hand on her."

"You don't have to," Eve replied. "But you're clear. You had a record going inside your office. You would have."

He lifted a shoulder. "And your point?"

"You didn't offer that to Feeney, to the investigation."

"It's private."

She took a careful breath. "And if it comes to a squeeze?"

"Then I'll give it to you, and you can decide if it's needed. I said nothing to her that I'm ashamed of, but it's your privacy. It's ours, and we're bloody well entitled to it."

"If it has weight in the investigation—"

"It doesn't. Damn it, Eve, take my word and let it go. Do you think I had her done, for Christ's sake?"

"No. But I know you could have. I know a part of you could want that."

"You're wrong." He braced his hands on the desk, leaned forward until their eyes were level. And his were cold as arctic ice. "If I'd wanted her done, I'd have given myself the pleasure of seeing to it personally. That's who you married, and I've never pretended otherwise. It's for you to deal with."

He straightened, turned, started for the door.

"Roarke."

When he glanced back, she had her fingers pressed to her eyes. It tugged at his heart even as temper and pride burned at his throat.

"I know who I married." She lowered her hands, and her eyes were dark, but they were clear. "And you're right, you'd have done it yourself. The fact that you could and would do that, for me—the fact that you wouldn't, didn't do that, again for me, well, sometimes it's a hell of a jolt."

"I love you, beyond all reason. That's a hell of a jolt for me as well."

"She kept me afraid, the way I think a dog's afraid of the boot that kicks him, again and again and again. It's not even a human fear, it's more primal, it's more... sheer. I don't know how to say it."

"You have."

"She played on that, she used that, kept me down in the fear until there was nothing but just getting through one day to the next. And she did it without the boot. She did it by twisting what was inside me until it was all there was. Until, I swear I'd have ended myself, just to get out."

"But you ran instead. And got out, and did more than anyone could expect."

"This, all this, makes me remember too well what it was like to be nothing but fear." The fact that her breath shuddered out told her the memory was very close to the surface. "I have to see this through, Roarke. I have to end this the way I am now. I don't think I can if you walk away from me."

He came back, took her hand, gripped it. "I never walk very far."

"Help me. Please? Will you help me?"

"What do you need?"

"I need to see the run from your office." She tightened her hand on his. "It's not mistrust of you. I need to get into her head. I need to know what she was thinking, feeling, when she left. It can't have been many hours after that she got beat up. Where did she go, who did she go to? It might help me figure it out."

"All right then, but it's not going into the file. Your word on that first."

"You've got it."

He left her to go back into his office. When he returned, he handed her a fresh disc. "There's audio as well."

With a nod, she plugged it in. Looked and listened.

She knew him, the ins and outs of him, and still, his face, his tone even more than his words, made her belly jitter.

When the run ended, she took the disc out, gave it back to him. "It's a wonder she didn't piss herself and ruin your expensive chair and carpet."

"Would've been worth it."

Eve rose, paced around the room. "She had to be working with someone. But if it was Bobby... nothing I have on him clicks for this.

It takes a certain type to punch out your own mother. I don't like him for it. Someone else."

"She was an attractive enough woman. A lover, perhaps."

"Logical, and lovers are notorious for using fists and weapons. So, she's scared, scared bad, maybe wants to drop the whole thing and head back to Texas, and this pisses him off. She had a job to do, a part to play, and she didn't pull it off. He slaps her around to remind her what's at stake. When he comes to see her later, she's whiny, she's half-drunk. I want to go home. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this anymore. And he's pissed again, and kills her."

"Logical."

Yeah, logical, she thought. But shook her head. "I don't like it. She doesn't give up that easy. Plus, while you scared her, he hurt her. Maybe she's caught between the two—fear and pain. But she's not running from either. And why kill her?" She lifted her hands. "Wait until she's calmed down. With her dead, you've got nothing."

"He lost control."

She brought the murder scene, the body, back into her head. "But he didn't. Three blows. Three deliberate blows. He loses control, he's drunk or juiced or just plain murderous, he beats the shit out of her, he smashes her face. He whales on her, but he doesn't. He just bashes the back of her head, and leaves her."

She rolled her shoulders. "I'm going to set up a board. I have to start putting this in order."

"Well then, let's have a meal first."

9

SHE ATE BECAUSE HE'D NAG HER OTHERWISE.

And the mechanical act of fueling the body gave her more time to think. She had a glass of wine, nursing it throughout the meal. Small sips, like medicine taken reluctantly.

She left the wall screen on, data scrolling over. More pieces of the players she knew, or knew of, thus far. Trudy herself, and Bobby, Zana, and Bobby's partner, Densil K. Easton.

Finances looked solid, if not spectacular, all around. Easton had attended the same college as Bobby, graduated with him. He was married, one offspring.

A knuckle rap for disorderly conduct his last year in college. Otherwise, no criminal.

Still, a good candidate if Trudy had a partner, or a lover. Who'd know the ins and outs of personal and professional data better than the son's business partner?

Easy enough to get from Texas to New York. Tell the wife you've got to make a quick trip out of town, wheel a deal.

The killer had to be good with details. Remembering to take Trudy's 'link, bringing the weapon, or using something handy, then taking it along with him.

Quick temper, though, bashing a woman's brains out with a couple of hard blows. But not rage.

Purpose.

And what was the purpose?

"Why don't you talk it through," Roarke suggested, tipped his glass toward her. "It might help."

"Just circling around it. I need to see the body again, need to talk to Bobby and his wife again, check out this business partner, Densil Easton, get a line on if the vic had any lovers or tight friends.

Sweepers didn't find much. Plenty of prints. Vic's, son's, daughter-in-law's, the maid's. A couple of others that checked out as previous guests, back home and alibied at the time in question. No prints on the escape platform or ladder. Got blood there, and some smeared pigeon shit."

"Lovely."

"Little bit of blood in the drain, and I'm betting it's the vic's."

"Meaning the killer didn't wash up at the scene, and either wiped whatever he touched, or sealed up.

So you'd say prepared."

"Maybe prepared, maybe somebody who knows how to seize opportunity." She was silent a long moment. "I don't feel."

"Don't feel what?"

"What I'm used to feeling. They're worried I can't be objective because I knew her, but that's not the problem. I don't feel... I guess it's a connection. I always feel some kind of connection. I knew her, and I don't feel anything at all. I helped scrape two men off the sidewalk a few days ago."

Tubbs—Max Lawrence in his Santa suit—and Leo Jacobs, husband and father.

"Their mothers wouldn't have recognized them," she continued. "I didn't know them, but I felt... I felt pity and anger. You're supposed to put that aside. It doesn't help the victims, the investigation, that pity,

that anger. But it does. If I can hold on to it, just enough of it to drive me on. But I don't have it. I can't hold what I don't have."

"Why should you?"

She looked up sharply. "Because—"

"Because she's dead? Death conveniently makes her worth your pity, your anger? Why? She preyed on you, an innocent and traumatized child. And how many others. Eve? Have you thought of that?"

Her throat burned. But it was his anger heating it, she realized. Not her own. "Yes. Yes, I've thought of that. And I've also thought that because I don't feel, or can't, I should've passed on this. And I can't pass because if you can walk away, even once if you can just turn your back and walk, you've lost what made you."

"Then use something else this time." He reached over, just to brush his fingers over the back of her hand. "Your curiosity. Who, why, how? You want to know, don't you?"

"Yeah." She looked back at the screens. "Yeah, I want to know."

"Then let that be enough this time. This one time."

"I guess it's going to have to be."

*  *  *

So she set up her board, reviewed her notes, compiled lists, checked data. When her office 'link beeped, she checked the readout, glanced at Roarke. "It's Bobby."

She answered. "Dallas."

"Um, sorry. I'm sorry to contact you at home, and so late. It's Bobby Lombard."

"Yeah, it's all right. What's the problem?"

Other than your mother being dead, she thought, and the fact that you look one thin step up from a ghost.

"I wanted to ask, if we can move. I mean, if we can get another hotel." His hand lifted, raked through his short, sandy hair. "It's hard— it's hard to be here, right down the hall from... It's hard."

"You got a place in mind?"

"I... no. I tried a couple of places. Things are booked. Christmas. But Zana said maybe we had to stay here, and I didn't think of that, so I wanted to ask."

"Hold on." She put the 'link on wait mode. "You saw the digs they were in. You got anything comparable to that, something that has a vacancy for a few days?"

"There's always something."

"Thanks." She changed modes. "Listen, Bobby, I can have a place for you tomorrow. I need you to hang on there tonight, and I'll have a new location for you in the morning."

"That's nice of you. It's a lot of bother. I'm not thinking so clear right now."

"You can hang on for tonight, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah." He passed his hand over his eyes. "I don't know what exactly we should do."

"Just stay there. My partner and I will come by in the morning. About eight. We need to do a follow-up, and afterward you can relocate."

"Okay. That's good. Okay. Can you tell me if you know anything about... if you know anything more?"

"We'll talk in the morning, Bobby."

"Yeah." His breath came out in a sigh. "In the morning. Thanks. Sorry."

"No problem."

When she disconnected, Roarke moved over behind her chair, laid his hands on her shoulders. "You have pity enough," he said quietly.

*  *  *

She thought she would dream, thought the nightmares would chase her in sleep, hunt her down. But they stayed shadows, never took form. Twice she woke, her body tight and tensed for the fight that didn't come. In the morning, tired and edgy, she tried to combat the fatigue with a blistering shower, with strong coffee.

In the end, she picked up her shield, shouldered on her weapon.

She'd do the job, she told herself. If there was an empty place inside her, she'd just fill it with work.

Roarke walked in, already suited up for the day. Those staggering blue eyes alert, aware. Once all she'd had was the work, and those empty places.

Now she had him.

"I thought hell had frozen over during the night." She took a slug out of her second mug of coffee. "Since you weren't sitting here scanning the financials when I got up."

"Did that in my office, so hell's still a fiery pit, if that's a comfort." He tossed her a memo cube. "Took care of this from there as well. Mid-level, Big Apple Hotel. It should suit them."

"Thanks." She pushed it into her pocket as he cocked his head and studied her.

"You don't look rested."

"If I were a girl, a comment like that would piss me off. I think."

Now he smiled, moved in to touch his lips to hers. "Lucky for both of us, then." And he laid his cheek to hers, rubbed. "Nearly Christmas."

"I know, seeing as the room smells like a forest from the big-ass tree you had hauled in here."

He smiled at it over her shoulder. "You had a fine time hanging the baubles on the boughs, didn't you?"

"Yeah, that was good. I had a better time banging your brains out under them."

"That did put a nice finish on things." He eased back, smoothed his thumbs under her eyes. "I don't like seeing shadows there."

"You bought the territory, Ace. They go with it."

"I want a date with you, Lieutenant, seeing as our Sunday plans were aborted."

"I thought dates went out with the I do's. Isn't that in the marriage rule book?"

"You didn't read the fine print. Christmas Eve, barring emergencies. You and me, in the parlor. We'll open our gifts, drink a great deal of Christmas cheer, and take turns banging each other's brains out."

"Will there be cookies?"

"Without a doubt."

"I'm there. Gotta go." She pushed the coffee into his hand. "Peabody's meeting me at the crime scene." Then she grabbed his hair, gave it a yank, and gave him a hard, noisy kiss. "See you."

He was better than hot showers and real coffee for getting the system up and running, she decided. And she had one more thing left to top it off.

She jogged down the stairs, grabbed her coat from the newel post, and sent Summerset a wide, toothy smile as she swirled it on. "Figured out just what to get you for Christmas. A brand-new shiny stick for you to shove up your ass. The one you've had up there the past couple decades must be showing some wear."

She strode out to her car with the smile still on her face. She had to admit, despite a shitty night's sleep, she wasn't feeling half bad.

*  *  *

Peabody was stomping up and down in front of the hotel when Eve pulled up. The way she was eating up sidewalk told Eve she was either trying to walk off a few calories, cold—which didn't seem possible as she had some sort of long muffler deal wrapped about six times around her neck—or seriously pissed.

It only took one look at her partner's face to opt for door number three.

"What is that?" Eve demanded.

"What is what?"

"That thing that's strangling you. Should I call pest control?"

"It's a scarf. My grandmother wove it, sent it to me, and told me to open it now. So I did."

Eve pursed her lips, studied the length of zigzagging reds and greens. "Festive."

"It's warm, and it's pretty, and it's the fricking season, isn't it?"

"Last I checked. You want me to call that exterminator after all, for the bug crawling around in your ass, or are you getting a thrill out of it?"

"He's such a jerk. He's a total and complete asshole. What am I doing cohabbing with that moron?"

"Don't ask me. Really," Eve said holding up a hand. "Don't ask me."

"Is it my fault we're in a budget crunch? It is not," Peabody announced and jabbed a finger in Eve's face. "Is it my fault his stupid family lives in stupid Scotland? I don't think so. And so what if we spent a couple of measly days with my family at Thanksgiving?" The snaking scarf flew and billowed when Peabody threw up her hands. "They have the sense to live in the United States of America, don't they? Don't they?"

"I don't know," Eve said cautiously as Peabody's eyes seemed to pin-wheel with passion. "There're a lot of them."

"Well, they do! And I just mention, just casually mention, that maybe we should stick around home for Christmas. You know, seeing as it's our first one as a couple—and maybe, considering his attitude, our last. Stupid fuckhead. What are you looking at?" she demanded of a man who glanced her way as he walked by. "Yeah, keep walking. Dumbass man."

"The dumbass man is an innocent bystander. One of those dumbasses we're sworn to protect and serve."

"All men are dumbasses. Every mother's son. He said I was selfish! He said I wasn't willing to share. Well, bullshit. Doesn't he wear my earrings? Doesn't he—"

"If he wears anything else of yours, I really, really don't want to know about it. We're on the clock, Peabody."

"Well, I'm not selfish, and I'm not being stupid. And if it's so important to him to go roast his damn chestnuts in Scotland, then he can just go. Screw him. I don't know those people."

Tears swam now, and had Eve's stomach going on alert. "No, no, no. No. There's no crying on the job. No crying on the damn sidewalk in front of a crime scene."

"His parents, and his family. And his cousin Sheila. You know how he's always talking about her. I can't just go over there. I still have five pounds to lose, and I haven't finished doing this skin-care regimen that's supposed to shrink my pores—which are currently the circumference of moon craters. And by the time we pay for the flight, we'll be tapped for a month. We should stay home. Why can't we just stay home?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Maybe because you did the holiday thing with your half, and—"

"But he knew my parents. Didn't he?"

There were still tears threatening, Eve noted, but with the heat in those brown eyes, it was a wonder they didn't turn to steam.

"Didn't he meet my parents before that? He wasn't going in cold. Besides, my family's different."

She knew it was a mistake to ask, but the words just popped out of Eve's mouth. "How do you know?"

"Because they're my family. And it's not like I don't want to meet his. Eventually. But I have to go to a foreign country, and eat—I don't know—haggis or something. It's disgusting."

"Yeah, I bet the tofu surprise was a big winner over Thanksgiving."

Peabody's pinwheeling eyes went to lethal slits. "Whose side are you on?"

"Nobody's. I'm neutral. I'm—what is it—I'm Switzerland. Can we go to work now?"

"He slept on the couch," Peabody said in a trembling voice. "And he was gone when I got up this morning."

Eve heaved a huge sigh. "What time is his tour?"

"On at eight, same as me."

Eve pulled out her communicator, contacted EDD.

"Don't!" Now Peabody did the panic dance on the sidewalk. "I don't want him to know I'm worried about him."

"Shut up. Lieutenant Dallas, Sergeant. Has Detective McNab clocked in?" When she got an affirmative, she nodded. "Thanks, that's it." She clicked off. "There, he's on the job. Like we should be."

"Bastard." Tears dried up in eyes gone hard. Her mouth tightened to the width of a scalpel blade. "Just strolls right in to work."

"Jesus. Jesus Christ. My head. My head." Eve cradled it in her hands a moment. "Okay. I was going to do this later." She dug into her pocket, pulled out a small wrapped box. "Take it now."

"My Christmas present? That's nice. But I'm not really in the mood to—"

"Open the goddamn thing or I'll kill you where you stand."

"Sir! Opening it." She ripped the paper, stuffed it hurriedly in her pocket, and pulled off the lid. "It's a key code."

"That's right. It's to the ground transpo that'll be at the airport over in that foreign country. Air transpo's been arranged, for two, on one of Roarke's private shuttles. Round trip. Merry fricking Christmas. Do what you want with it."