Memory in Death (6 page)

He opened one eye, brilliant and blue. "But here I am, with my feelings so bruised."

She grinned, then levered up to work off her boots. When he sat up beside her, she turned so they sat facing each other, naked, forehead to forehead.

"I'll wash your back, but it goes on the credit side of my account, to be counted the next time I'm a complete asshole."

He patted a hand on her knee. "Done," he said, then pushed up, and offered her a hand.

*  *  *

In a small hotel room on Tenth Avenue, Trudy Lombard studied herself in the mirror. He thought he'd scared her, and maybe he had, but that didn't mean she'd just turn tail and run like a whipped dog.

She'd earned that compensation for tolerating that nasty little bitch in her home, nearly six months of her. Six months of having that dirty child under her roof. Feeding and clothing her.

Now, the mighty Roarke was going to pay for the way he'd treated Trudy Lombard—make no mistake about it. It was going to cost him a lot more than two million.

She'd taken off her suit, put on her nightgown. Preparation was important, she reminded herself, and washed down a pain blocker with the good French wine she preferred.

No point in chasing the pain, she thought. No point at all. Though she didn't mind a little pain. It sharpened the senses.

She took slow, even breaths as she picked up the sock she'd filled with credits. She swung it at her own face, striking between jaw and cheekbone. Pain exploded, nausea rolled in her belly, but she gritted her teeth, struck a second time.

Woozy, she lowered herself to the floor. It hurt more than she'd bargained for, but she could take it. She could take a great deal.

Once her hands had stopped shaking, she picked up the homemade sap again, slammed it into her hip. She bit her lip to bring blood, and smashed it twice against her thigh.

Not enough, she thought, even as tears leaked out of eyes that glittered with purpose and a kind of dark pleasure. Not quite enough, as the thrill of the pain coursed through her. Every blow was money in the bank.

With a keening wail, she swung the sap into her belly, once, twice. On the third blow, her stomach revolted. She vomited in the toilet, then rolled away. And passed out cold.

*  *  *

There was more to it than she'd realized, Eve admitted. The house was full of people and droids, and at this point it was tough to tell which was which. It looked as though an entire forest had been purchased and replanted in the ballroom, with another acre spreading to the terrace. Several miles of garlands, a few tons of colored balls, and enough tiny white lights to set the entire state aglow, were hung, about to be hung, waiting to be discussed where they should be hung.

There were ladders and tarps and tables and chairs, there were candles and fabrics. The guy in charge of setting up the platform for the orchestra, or band-—she wasn't sure which it was—was arguing with the guy in charge of some of the miles of garland.

She hoped they came to blows. That, at least, would be her territory.

It seemed Roarke had taken her at her word about supervising the ballroom decorations.

What had he been thinking?

Someone was always asking her what she thought, what she wanted, if she'd prefer this to that, or the other thing.

One of the crew had actually rushed from the room in tears the third time Eve said she didn't care.

Okay, she'd said she didn't give a gold-plated crap, but it meant the same thing.

Now she had a stress headache circling the top of her skull just waiting to clamp down on her brain and destroy it.

She wanted to lie down. More, she wanted her communicator to beep and have Dispatch inform her there was a triple homicide that needed her immediate attention.

"Had about enough?" Roarke whispered in her ear.

Such was her state that she jumped like a rabbit. "I'm fine. I'm good." And she broke, spinning to him, gripping his shirt. "Where have you been?"

"Why, blathering with the caterer, of course. The truffles are spectacular."

A steely light came into her eyes. "The chocolate kind?"

"No, actually, the sort the pigs snuffle out for us." He ran an absent hand over her tousled hair while he scanned the room. "But we have the chocolate kind as well. Go, make your escape." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I'll take over here."

She nearly bolted. Every instinct had her out the door, running for I her sanity. But it wasn't only pride, it was marriage that held her in 1 place. "What am I, stupid? I've run ops bigger than this when lives are on the line. Just back off. Hey, you!"

Roarke watched as she strode across the floor, cop in every swagger.

"I said you!" She shoved between Garland Guy and Platform Guy before blood was spilled. "Button it," she ordered as each began to I complain. "You, with the shiny stuff, put it where it belongs."

"But I—"

"You had a plan, the plan was approved. Stick with the plan and don't bother me, or I'll personally stuff all that shiny stuff up your butt. And you." She jabbed a finger in the other man's chest. "Stay out of his way, or I'll save some shiny stuff for you. Okay, you, tall blond girl with the flowers..."

"Poinsettias," the tall blonde clarified with New Jersey so thick in her voice Eve could have driven on it across the river. "There were supposed to be five hundred, but there're only four hundred and ninety-six, and—"

"Deal. Finish building your... what the hell is this?"

"It's a poinsettia tree, but—"

"Of course, it is. If you need four more, go get four more from the poinsettia factory. Otherwise work with what you've got. And you, over there with the lights."

Roarke rocked back and forth on his heels and watched her rip through the various crews. Some of them looked a little shaky when she'd finished, but the pace of work increased considerably.

"There." She walked back to him, folded her arms. "Handled. Any problems?"

"Other than being strangely aroused, not a one. I think you've put the fear of God into them and should reward yourself with a little break." He draped an arm over her shoulders. "Come on. We'll find you a truffle."

"The chocolate kind."

"Naturally."

*  *  *

Hours later, or so it seemed to her, she stepped out of the bathroom. She'd done the best she could with the lip dye and the eye gunk. On the bed, waiting for her, was what looked like a long panel of dull gold. She figured it became a dress of some kind once it was on a body.

At least it wasn't fussy, she decided as she fingered the material. There were shoes of the same tone, if you could call a couple of skinny straps with an even skinnier heel shoes. She glanced at the dresser and saw he'd thought of the rest. A black case was open, and the diamonds— nothing sparkled like that but diamonds, she assumed, though they looked to be the color of champagne—formed a circle against the velvet. Another held the dangle of earrings, and still another a thick bracelet.

She picked up the panel of gold fabric, studied it, and concluded it was one of those deals you just wiggled into. Once that was done, she carried the shoes, which weren't going on her feet until zero hour, and fumbled her way through the accessories at the dresser.

The bracelet was too big, she noted. She'd probably lose it, then someone would pawn it and have enough money to buy a nice little island country in the South Pacific.

"You're wearing it wrong," Roarke told her from the doorway. "Here." He stepped in, walked to her, elegant in formal black. He slid the glittering triple band to just above her elbow. "A bit of a warrior touch, suits you."

He stepped back. "You look like a flame. A long golden flame on a cold night."

When he gazed at her like that, things started melting inside her, so she turned away, studied herself in the mirror. The dress was a column, sleek and fluid from just over her breasts to her ankles.

"Is this dress going to stay up?"

"Until the guests leave, at any rate." He leaned over to brush his lips over her bare shoulder. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist so they studied the image they made in the glass.

"Our second Christmas together," he said. "We've stored up a few things in the memory box Mavis and Leonardo gave us last year."

"Yeah." She smiled at him, and had to admit the two of them looked pretty damn terrific. "We have. Maybe things'll stay quiet this year, so we can make more instead of running around after a deranged Santa."

"We can hope." The bedroom 'link beeped twice. "Our first guests are arriving. Shoes?"

"Yeah, yeah." She bent down to tug on one, narrowed her eyes at the sparkle on the strap. "Oh, my Jesus, don't tell me these are fricking diamonds on my shoes."

"All right, I won't tell you. Hustle up, there, Lieutenant. The hosts can't be fashionably late."

Diamonds on her shoes. He was a crazy man.

*  *  *

The crazy man threw a hell of a party—she had to give him credit. Within the hour, the ballroom was crowded with people. Lights sparkled tike wine, and the music streamed through. The tables were loaded with a good deal more than pig truffles. Fancy canapes, pates, mousse, glossy delicacies from around the world, and beyond it.

The waitstaff was every bit as elegant as the champagne they served on silver trays. She didn't bother to count the poinsettias, but the tree looked fine to her. In fact, it looked amazing, as did the pines that dripped more light, more color. The forest she'd seen that afternoon had become a wonderland.

Yeah, the guy threw a hell of a party.

"This is so totally juiced!" Mavis Freestone rushed up, leading with her very pregnant belly. At her velocity she bumped into Eve before Eve could avoid contact. "Nobody throws a splash like you guys."

Her hair was silver tonight, in a lot of long, shaggy layers. She wore red, so snug Eve wondered that the ball of her belly didn't burst free. In concession to her condition, her silver boots had short, squat heels shaped like Christmas trees.

Her eyebrows were a curve of silver stars. Eve didn't want to ask how she'd managed that one.

"You look absolutely radiant." Roarke took her hand, then smiled at the giant of a man in silver and red at her side. "Both of you, in fact."

"We're coming to the countdown." Leonardo rubbed his big hand over Mavis's back.

"Almost at what they consider full-term. Um, what's that? Can I have some of that?" She snatched three canapes off a passing tray, popped them like candy. "So when, you know, we're there, we're going to have sex day and night. Orgasms can kick you into labor. My teddy bear can sure do orgasm."

Leonardo's wide, copper-hued face went red along the cheekbones.

"So, you're set for the classes, right?"

Eve just couldn't talk about it, couldn't think about the coaching classes she and Roarke were scheduled to take. "Hey, there's Peabody. I think she's got a truffle."

"Truffle? Chocolate? Where? Later."

"There's my clever girl," Roarke murmured. "Saving us by baiting your best friend with food. The Miras have just arrived," he added.

Before Eve could comment, he was steering her toward them.

It was going to be awkward, she knew. It had been awkward between her and Mira since the two of them had knocked heads and sensibilities over the Icove case.

They'd both worked to keep it smooth, but there were still ripples. And Eve could feel them now as Mira glanced over and spotted her.

"We were held up." Mira kissed Roarke's cheek, smiled at Eve.

"Not literally, I hope," Roarke said as he shook Dennis's hand.

"Misplaced my tie." Dennis patted it. It was Christmas red with a pattern of little green Christmas trees running over it.

"Actually, I hid it." Mira slanted a look at her husband. "And was found out."

"I like it." Something about Dennis Mira with his dreamy eyes and mussy hair went straight to Eve's soft spot. "Festive."

"And look at you." Dennis took her hands, pulled back, wiggled his bushy eyebrows. "Glamorous."

"His idea." Eve tipped her head toward Roarke. "I'm ditching the shoes first chance."

"You look wonderful, both of you. And everything looks amazing." Mira, lovely as always in midnight blue, glanced around the ballroom. She'd done something with her hair, Eve noted. Little sparkly things glinted against the rich sable sweep.

"Let's get you a drink." Even as he spoke, a waiter magically appeared at Roarke's elbow. He lifted a glass of champagne from it for Mira. "Champagne, Dennis? Or can I offer you something stronger?"

"Stronger? Wouldn't say no."

"Come with me. I have something a little special. Ladies."

That was on purpose, Eve thought, and her neck tensed. Small talk was bad enough, and she only had a limited supply. But in the strained small-talk department, she was all but empty.

She fell back on the cliche. "So, I guess you're all ready for the holidays."

"Just about. You?"

"I don't know. I think. Listen, the food's—"

"Actually, I have something for you. I didn't bring it because I hoped you might be able to find a little time, come by the house tomorrow. For coffee."

"I..."

"I badly want to be friends again." Mira's eyes, a quiet blue, went misty. "I miss you. I miss you very much."

"Don't. We're friends." Or something more complicated, Eve thought, that was tangled in friendship. "I have something I have to do tomorrow, but after... I think I might want to talk about it. I think I might need to talk about it. After."

"Something serious." Mira touched a hand to Eve's arm, and the tension was gone. "I'll be home all day."

6

THE NEXT MORNING, SHE FELT BETTER THAN she'd anticipated. Her feet hurt a little because she'd never found the right moment to get rid of the shoes. But considering she hadn't hit the mattress until nearly four a.m., she was doing okay.

She couldn't say it was because she had a rare two days off in a row. Preparing for a party, giving a party, recovering from a party wasn't time off in her book. But it had kept the task she had today off her mind.

In any case, she felt better in normal clothes and a good pair of boots.

She found Roarke in his office, his feet propped on his desk as he talked on a headset. "That will do very well." He held up a finger, signalling her that he was nearly done. "I'll expect you then. Yes. Yes, I'm sure I will. Thank you."

He took off the headset, smiled at her. "Well, you look rested."

"It's nearly eleven."

"So it is. I imagine some of our guests are still in bed—a sign of a successful party."

"Pouring Peabody and McNab into one of your limos so that Mavis and Leonardo could cart them into their apartment's probably another sign. What was that all about? You don't usually use a headset at your desk."

"A quick call to Santa."

"You haven't, like, gone completely insane with the presents, right?"

His smile remained easy and mild. "So, it seemed as if you and Mira were back to normal."

Of course he'd gone insane with presents, she thought. And there was no point fighting it.

"Yeah, we're good. In fact, she wanted me to stop by today, and I was thinking maybe I would." She slid her fingers into her pockets, gave a little shrug. "Maybe talking to her about all this will put it to bed. Figuring that, you really don't have to come with me to the hotel. If they're still at the hotel."

"As of an hour ago, they were. And haven't indicated they plan to check out today. I'm going with you."

"It's really okay if you—"

"I'm going," he repeated, and swung his feet to the floor, rose. "If you want to speak with Mira alone, I'll drop you there afterward. I'll either come back for you myself and we could go have ourselves a

nice meal somewhere, or I'll send a car. Are you ready now?"

No point fighting this either, she decided. Better to save all the energy for the face-to-face with Trudy. "As I'll ever be." She stepped up, put her arms around him, and squeezed. "In case I get all worked up and pissed off and forget to thank you later."

"So noted."

*  *  *

It wasn't a fleabag, Eve decided when she studied the facade of the hotel. In a city of five-diamond hotels, it maybe earned a half carat. It didn't run to parking, so Roarke had paid an obscene amount in a private lot a block east. But then his ride was probably worth more than the building that housed the hotel and some souvenir shop called Tokens on Ten.

It didn't run to doormen either, and what passed for its lobby was a double-wide alcove with a counter. Behind it and a security screen was a droid clerk fashioned to resemble a man in his forties suffering from male-pattern baldness.

He wore a tired white shirt, and as bored an expression as a droid could manage.

"Checking in? Luggage?"

"Not checking in. No luggage. Try this instead." Eve drew out her badge.

Bored became long-suffering. "Was there a complaint? No one filed a complaint through me. All our licenses are in order."

"I need to speak to one of your guests. Lombard, Trudy."

"Oh." He swiveled to his register comp. "Ms. Lombard has a Do Not Disturb on her room. She hasn't taken it off yet today."

Eve kept her eyes on his, tapped a finger on her badge.

"Yeah, well... She's in four-fifteen. Do you want me to call up, let her know you're here?"

"I think we can find four-fifteen all by ourselves."

She eyed the single elevator with some distrust, but her feet were still a little achy from her diamond slippers.

"Voice activation's broke," the desk droid called out. "You have to push for your floor."

She stepped on, pushed four. "This thing gets stuck, you can get us out, right?"

"Not to worry." Roarke took her hand. "Look at her the way you looked at the clerk, and you'll be done."

"How'd I look at the clerk?"

"Like he was nothing." He lifted their joined hands, kissed hers as the elevator groaned its way upward. The droid wouldn't have registered the nerves, Roarke thought, and he doubted Trudy would. But they were there, under the surface. "If you're up for it after Mira's, why don't we do a little shopping?"

"Have you lost your mind?"

"No, seriously. We'll stroll around on Fifth, look at the decorations, wander over to watch the skaters. Be New Yorkers."

She started to point out that no sane New Yorker would hassle with Fifth on a weekend this close to Christmas, much less stroll. But suddenly, it seemed like just the thing.

"Sure. Why not?"

The elevator squeaked open on four. The hall was narrow, but it was clean. A maid's cart stood outside the open door of four-twelve, and a woman—curvy, blond, mid-twenties—was knocking lightly on four-fifteen.

"Come on, Mama Tru." The woman's voice was soft as cotton. As she knocked again, she shifted from foot to foot, nervously, on simple canvas skids the same quiet blue as her pants. "We're worried about you now. Come on and open the door. Bobby'll take us out for a nice lunch."

She glanced over with eyes baby blue like her outfit, and gave Eve and Roarke an embarrassed smile. "Morning. Or afternoon by now, I expect."

"She doesn't answer?"

The woman blinked at Eve. "Um... No. My mother-in-law. She wasn't feeling very well yesterday. I'm sorry, is the knocking bothering you?"

"I'm Dallas. Lieutenant Eve. She probably mentioned me."

"You're Eve!" She slapped crossed hands to her chest as her face lit up. "You're Eve. Oh, I'm so glad you came by. This is going to make her feel so much better. I'm just so happy to meet you. I'm Zana. Zana Lombard, Bobby's wife. Oh, gosh, and I'm just not fixed up like I wanted." She brushed at her hair that fell in soft, shiny waves. "You look just like you did on-screen. Mama Tru played that interview for me a couple times. I'm just so distracted I didn't recognize you. Goodness, we're like sisters, aren't we?"

She made a move—an obvious hug move—which Eve evaded by stepping to the side. "No, we're really not." This time Eve knocked, three good, strong pounds with the side of her fist. "Lombard, it's Dallas. Open up."

Zana bit her lip, twisted the silver chain she wore around her fingers. "Maybe I should get Bobby. We're down at the end of the hall. I should get Bobby."

"Why don't you give this a moment?" Roarke suggested, and drew her back gently with a hand on her arm. "I'm the lieutenant's husband."

"Oh, Lord, oh my, of course you are. I recognize you, I sure do. I'm just so confused. I'm starting to worry that something's wrong. I know Mama Tru went to see Eve—the lieutenant—but she wouldn't talk to us about it. She was that upset. Then yesterday." She gripped her hands together, twisted them. "I don't know what's going on. I hate when everyone's upset."

"Then you'd better take a long walk," Eve told her. She shook her 1 head at Roarke, then signalled to the maid who was peeking around I; the corner of the open door of four-twelve. "Open it," she ordered and flashed her badge.

"I'm not really supposed to without permission from the desk." "See this?" Eve waved her badge in the air. "This is permission. You I open the door, or I break in the door. Take your pick."

"I'll get it, I'll get it." The maid hustled over, digging her master out of her pocket. "Sometimes people sleep late on Sundays, you know.  Sometimes they just like to sleep in."

When she'd used the master, Eve nudged her aside. "Stand back."  She thumped twice more on the door. "Coming in."

She wasn't sleeping. Not in that position, not sprawled on the floor with her nightgown hiked up to her hips and her head resting in a pool of congealed blood.

Odd to feel nothing, Eve realized as she automatically pulled her recorder from her coat pocket. Odd to feel nothing at all.

She fixed it to her lapel, engaged. "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve," she began, then Zana was wiggling around her.

"What is it? What's..."

The words became a gurgle, and the first screech erupted before Eve could push her aside. By the second, the maid had joined in with a kind of hysterical harmony.

"Quiet. Shut up! Roarke."

"Wonderful. Ladies..."

He caught Zana before she hit the floor. And the maid ran like a gazelle toward the stairs. Doors began to open here and there along the hall.

"Police." She turned, held her badge in clear view. "Go back in your rooms, please." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't have my field kit."

"I have one in the car," Roarke told her, and laid Zana down on the hall carpet. "It seemed wise to store a few in various vehicles, as this sort of thing happens entirely too often."

"I'm going to need you to go get it. I'm sorry. Just leave her there." She drew out her communicator to call it in.

"What's going on? What's happening?"

"Sir, I need you to go back to your room. This is..."

She wouldn't have recognized him. Why should she? He'd been a blip in her life more than twenty years before. But she knew by the way he paled when he saw the woman passed out cold in the hallway, it was Bobby Lombard who had rushed out of the room at the end of the hall.

She eased the door to four-fifteen closed, and waited.

"Zana! My God, Zana!"

"She fainted. That's all. She'll be fine."

He was on his knees, clutching Zana's hand, patting it the way people do when they feel helpless.

He looked hefty, but in the way a ballplayer does, she thought. Strong and solid. His hair was the color of straw, cut short and neat. Water was beaded on it, and she could smell hotel soap. He hadn't finished buttoning his shirt, and the tail was out.

She had another flash of memory. He'd snuck her food, she remembered. She'd forgotten that, as she'd forgotten him. But sometimes he'd snuck a sandwich or crackers into her room when she was being punished.

He'd been his mother's pride and joy, and had gotten away with a great deal.

They hadn't been friends. No, they hadn't been friends. But he hadn't been unkind.

So she crouched down, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Bobby."

"What? Who..." His face was a sturdy kind of square, and his eyes were the blue of jeans that had faded from countless washings. She saw recognition layer over confusion.

"My God, it's Eve, isn't it? Mama's going to get a thrill. Zana, come on, honey. We had an awful lot to drink last night. Maybe she's... Zana, honey?"

"Bobby—"

The elevator opened, and the droid clerk came rushing out. "What happened? Who's—"

"Quiet," Eve snapped. "Not a word. Bobby, look at me. Your mother's inside. She's dead."

"What? No, she's not. God, almighty, she's just feeling off. Sorry for herself, mostly. Sulking in there since Friday night."

"Bobby, your mother's dead. I need you to take your wife and go back to your room until I come to talk to you."

"No." His wife moaned, but he was staring at Eve now, and his breath began to hitch. "No. No. I know you're upset with her. I know you're probably not happy she came, and I tried to tell her so. But that's no reason to say something like that."

"Bobby?" With her hand on the side of her head, Zana tried to sit up. "Bobby. I must've... Oh, God.

Oh, my God. Mama Tru! Bobby." She flung her arms around him and burst into wild sobs.

"Take her back, Bobby. You know what I do? Then you know I'm going to take care of this. I'm sorry, but I need you to go back to your room and wait for me."

"What happened?" Tears swirled into his eyes. "Did she get sick? I don't understand. I want to see Mama."

Eve got to her feet. Sometimes there was no other way. "Turn her around," she said with a nod toward Zana. "She doesn't need to see this again."

When he had, pressing Zana's face to his shoulder, Eve eased the door open enough for him to see what he needed to.

"There's blood. There's blood." He choked and pulled himself up with his wife in his arms. "Did you do that? Did you do that to her?"

"No. I just got here, and now I'm going to do my job and find out what happened, and who did this to her. I need you to go wait for me."

"We should never have come here. I told her." He began to sob along with his wife as they helped each other back to their room.

Eve turned back. "Looks like she should've listened."

She glanced over as the elevator clunked to a stop on the floor. One of the two uniforms responding looked familiar enough to have her nod in acknowledgment.

"Bilkey, right?"

"Sir. Howzit going?"

"Not so good for her." She jutted her chin toward the open doorway. "I need you to stand by. My field kit's on the way. I was here on personal, so my..." She hated to say "my husband" when she was on the job. But how else did you say it? "My, ah, husband's gone back to our ride for it. My partner's being tagged. Vic's son and daughter-in-law are down the hall in four-twenty. I want them to stay there. You can start the knock-on-doors when..."

She trailed off as the elevator bumped to a stop again. "There's my kit," she said as Roarke stepped out. "Start knocking. Vic's Lombard, Trudy, out of Texas."

She took the kit from Roarke, opened it for a can of Seal-It. "You made good time." She coated her hands, her boots. "Might as well say it so I can say I said it. You don't have to stay for this."

"And so I can say I said it, I'll say I'll wait. Do you want help?" He eyed the can of Seal-It with some disgust.

"Better not, not in there anyway. Anyone comes out or onto the floor, you can look stern and tell them to move along."

"A boyhood dream of mine."

That got a wisp of a smile out of her before she stepped inside.

The room was standard, which meant it was bland. Dull, washed-out colors, a few cheap prints in cheaper frames on the tofu-colored walls. There was a midget-sized kitchenette, which included a self-stocked AutoChef, minifriggie, and a sink the size of a walnut. A stingy entertainment screen was across from the bed, where the sheets were rumpled and a remarkably ugly spread was shoved down, draping its green leaves and red flowers at the foot.