Robb, J.D. - [Dallas 25] - Memory in Death-v2

by Memory in Death (v2. 0) (lit)

  “I don’t think we’ll ever come back here.” Zana looked out the side window. “Too much has happened. Too many bad memories. I guess I’ll probably never see you again either, after we go.”

  She was silent a moment. “If you find out who killed Mama Tru, will Bobby have to come back?”

  “I’d say that depends.”

  Eve went into the hotel, up to the room to satisfy herself nothing had been disturbed. She asked for and received a copy of lobby security, posted her man, and escaped.

  She went back to Central and found two gaily wrapped boxes on her desk. A glance at the cards told her they were from Peabody and Mc-Nab. One for her, one for Roarke.

  Unable to drum up enough Christmas spirit to open hers, she set them aside to work. She wrote her report, read Peabody’s, and signed off on it.

  For the next half hour, she sat in the relative quiet, studied her murder board, her notes, and let it all circle.

  Before she left, she hung the prism Mira had given her.

  Maybe it would help.

  She left it shimmering dully against the dark window as she pulled out her ‘link, tucked the presents under her arm, and left the office. “I’m clear.”

  “What are you hungry for?” Roarke asked her.

  “That’s a loaded question.” She held up a hand, acknowledging Baxter, and stopped. “Let’s keep it simple.”

  “Just as I thought. Sophia’s,” he told her, and rattled off an address. “Thirty minutes.”

  “That’ll work. If you get there first, order a really, really big bottle of wine. Big. Pour me a tumbler full.”

  “Should be an interesting evening. I’ll see you soon, Lieutenant.”

  She pocketed her ‘link, turned to Baxter.

  “Don’t suppose I could tag along, share that really, really big bottle.”

  “I’m not sharing.”

  “In that case, can I have a minute? Private?”

  “All right.” She walked back to her office, called for lights. “I’ll spring for coffee if you want it, but that’s my best offer.”

  “I’ll take it.” He went to the AutoChef himself. He was still wearing his soft clothes, Eve noted. Light gray sweater, dark gray pants. He’d gotten some blood—Bobby’s blood, she imagined—on the pants.

  “I don’t know what to think,” he told her. “Maybe I was too loose. Maybe I’m just fucking losing it. I’ve gone over it in my head. I wrote it up. I still don’t know.”

  He took out the coffee, turned. “I let the kid take point. Not blaming him, it was my call. I sent him down for dogs, for Christ’s sake. Figured they were just getting theirs, and it put him in a decent position. And screw it, Dallas, I was hungry.”

  She knew guilt when she saw it, and at the moment, it was like looking in a mirror. “You want me to ream you for it? I’ve got some left.”

  “Maybe.” He scowled into the coffee, then downed some. “I’m listening to them, and there’s nothing. Just chatter. Can’t get a full visual, but he’s tall enough I can see the back of his head, his profile when he turns to her. I moved forward when she spilled the coffee, then I relaxed again. If they’re at noon, Trueheart’s at ten o’clock. I’m at three. Then she’s screaming in my ear.”

  Eve sat on the edge of her desk. “No vibe?”

  “None. Blimps are blasting overhead. One of those street-corner Santas ringing his damn bell. People are streaming by, or crowding in to get the light.”

  He drank more coffee. “I pushed in, soon as she screamed. I didn’t see anybody take off. Bastard could’ve stood there. Could be one of the wits, far as I know. Or he could’ve just melted back. It was a freaking parade on Fifth today. And some people slipped, tumbled.”

  Her head came up, lips pursed. “Before or after?”

  “Before, during, after. Putting it back, I see this woman—red coat, big blonde ‘do. She slips a little. Right in back of where Zana was standing. That’d be the initial bump. Spilled coffee. I can see the male sub turn. I hear him ask her what happened. Anxious. Then he relaxes when she says she got coffee on her coat. So do I. Then he pitches forward. Chaos ensues.”

  “So maybe we’re both beating ourselves up because the guy lost his footing.”

  “Coincidences are hooey.”

  “Hooey.” At least she got a short laugh out of it. “Yeah, they are. So we’ll run the record backward and forward. He’s tucked up. Nobody’s getting near him. So’s she. We’ll run it when the damn lab stops playing Christmas carols. No point slapping ourselves, or me slapping you, until we know if this is the one in a million that actually is coincidence.”

  “If I screwed this up, I need to know.”

  She smiled thinly. “On that, Baxter, I can promise you. I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  Chapter 16

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  ROARKE WATCHED HER COME IN, HIS TALL, lanky cop in the rather spectacular black leather coat. Her eyes were tired, the stress showing in them even as he noted the way she scoped the room.

  Cops were cops, he knew, 24/7. She’d be able to tell him, should he ask, how many were in the booth at the opposite corner, what they were wearing, possibly what they were eating. And she’d be able to do so with her back to them.

  Fascinating.

  She checked her coat, brushed off the waiter who must have offered to escort her to their table. And crossed the restaurant alone, in that long, loose stride he loved.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, rising to greet her, “you make a picture.”

  “A picture of what?”

  “Confidence and authority. Very sexy.” He kissed her lightly, then gestured to the wine he’d poured when he’d seen her come in. “It’s not a tumbler, but you can consider it a bottomless glass.”

  “Appreciate it.” She took a good slug. “Crappy day.”

  “So I gathered. Why don’t we order, then you can tell me about it?”

  She glanced up at the waiter who materialized at her side. “I want spaghetti and meatballs, with the red sauce. You got that here?”

  “Of course, madam. And to start?”

  She lifted her wine. “I’ve started.”

  “Insalada mista,” Roarke told him. “Two. And I’ll have the chicken Parmesan.” He dipped some bread in the herbed oil already on the table, handed it to her. “Sop some of that wine up, why don’t you?”

  She stuffed the bread in her mouth.

  “Describe the waiter for me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s entertaining. Go ahead.” And it would settle her down, he thought.

  She shrugged, took another good swallow of wine. “Caucasian male, mid-thirties. Wearing black pants, white shirt, black loafer-style shoes. Five eight, a hundred and fifty. Brown and brown. Smooth complexion. Full bottom lip, long nose with a good-sized hook to it. Crooked eye-tooth on the left. Straight, thick eyebrows. Bronx accent, but he’s working on losing it. Small stud, right earlobe—some kind of blue stone. Thick silver band, ring finger, left hand. Gay. He’s probably got a spouse.”

  “Gay?”

  “Yeah, he checked you out, not me. So?”

  “So. As I said, entertaining. What went wrong today?”

  “What didn’t?” she answered, and told him.

  The salads arrived before she’d finished, so she stabbed at hers.

  “So, that’s where I’m at. Can’t beat up Baxter or Trueheart, because— as far as I can see—they did the job. Wouldn’t have been a job if I hadn’t worked it.”

  “Which means you beat up on yourself. What’s the point, Eve? If he was pushed, where does it come from? Where’s the gain?”

  “You can go back to money. Trudy was pretty well set, and he’s doing okay. Or you go back to revenge. He was there, living in the house, her blood relation, when she was fostering.”

  “He brought you food,” Roarke reminded her. “You wouldn’t have been the only one he’d done that for.”

  “Probably no
t. But he didn’t stand up. Maybe somebody figures he should have.” Do you?

  She stabbed more salad, drank more wine. “No. Blood’s thicker, and so’s self-preservation. I don’t blame him for anything. But he was a kid when I was there, just another kid. He was older before she gave up fostering. Someone could figure he should pay, too.”

  “His silence makes him an accessory?”

  “Something like that. And damn it, it would be easier to erase them at home, wouldn’t it? Yeah, you got a strange city, more people, so that’s a plus. But you’d be able to scope their routines more back in Texas. Which takes me back, at least part of the way, to impulse.”

  “Have you considered Bobby’s pretty new wife?”

  “Yeah, and still am. Maybe she wasn’t as tolerant of her mother-in-law as she claims. From my side, it would take a hell of a lot of tolerance. So she sees an opportunity, takes it. Get rid of Mama Tru, and put the money in Bobby’s pocket. Then, hey, why not ditch the middle man? He’s out, I’m in. Could she be stupid enough to think I wouldn’t look at her for it?”

  “When you look, what do you see?”

  “Nothing that pops up and screams ‘I’m a murderer,’ not on evidence, not on her record. But she’s a little too sweet and sissy for me.”

  He smiled a little. “Can girls be sissies?”

  “In my world. All that pink and pastel and ‘Mama Tru.’” Eve stuffed more bread in her mouth. “Cries if you look at her.”

  “Well now, you’ve a dead mother-in-law, an abduction, and a husband in the hospital. Seems a few tears are justified.”

  Eve just drummed her fingers. “There’s nothing in her record that leans toward this. I don’t see anyone marrying Bobby for money— just not enough of it, even if she’d known about Trudy’s dirty little nest egg.”

  “A million or so makes a comfortable life in some circles,” he reminded her.

  “Now you sound like Peabody. I’m not jaded about money,” she muttered. “But marrying somebody to get your hands on it, when you’re going to have to off him, and his mother. It’s a big stretch. And I don’t see how she could have known, beforehand, that Trudy had dough stashed here and there.”

  “A connection to one of the women who’d been blackmailed?” he suggested.

  She had to give him credit. He thought like a cop, something he’d wince over if she mentioned it. “Yeah, that was a thought. I did some digging, trying to see if I could find something there. Nothing, so far anyway. I read the witness reports, and two say she grabbed for him, tried to grab his arm as he went into the street. Just like she said.”

  “But you still wonder.”

  “Yeah, you gotta wonder. She’s the one, on the spot, for both incidents. She’s the one connected to both victims. And at this point, she’s the one who stands to gain the most if money is the motive.”

  “So you have guards on her, as much to keep track of her as for her protection.”

  “Can’t do much more until the twenty-sixth. Lab won’t push, half my men are out or their minds are. There’s no immediate danger to the populace, so I can’t get the lab to push. Even the sweepers didn’t get back to me on the results from the room next to my scene. Christmas is bogging me down.”

  “Bah, humbug.”

  “I get that,” she said and pointed a finger at him. “I turned down a candy cane today.”

  She told him about drunken Santa while their entrees were served.

  “You meet the most interesting group of people in your line of work.”

  “Yeah, it’s what you’d call eclectic.” Put it away, she told herself. Put the day away and remember you have a life. “So, you got things squared away in your world.”

  “More or less.” He poured them both more wine. “A bit of business tomorrow, but I’m closing the office at noon. There are a few little details I want to see to at home.”

  “Details.” She eyed him as she wound pasta around her fork. “What else could there be? You importing reindeer?”

  “Ah, if only I’d thought of it sooner. No, just a bit of this and that.” He brushed a hand over hers. “Our Christmas Eve was interrupted last year, if you recall.”

  “I recall.” She’d never forget the manic drive to get to Peabody, and the terror of wondering if they’d be too late. “She’ll be in Scotland this time. Have to take care of herself.”

  “She contacted me today, she and McNab, to thank me. She was surprised, and touched—both of them were—when I told them it had been your idea.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “It’s your shuttle.” She squirmed a little.

  “It’s interesting that you have as difficult a time giving gifts as you do receiving them.”

  “That’s because you always go overboard.” Frowning at him, she stabbed a meatball. “You went overboard, didn’t you?”

  “Are you fishing for a hint?”

  “No. Maybe. No,” she decided. “You just love stringing me along, seeing as you’re such a smart ass.”

  “What a thing to say. You might end up with a lump of coal in your stocking.”

  “Few thousand years, I’ll have a diamond, so… What was she going to do with the money?”

  He sat back, smiled. The cop was back.

  “Tuck it away? For what? She had funds tucked. Didn’t live high because she didn’t want anyone to know. But she had her pretty baubles, locked up so she could look at them. Had jewelry insured,” she told him. “I got the paperwork on that. Over a quarter mil in sparkles. And she had her tune-ups. But that’s all piddly. Because the money was coming in in what you could call dribbles. But this was her big score. Big, fat lump sum, she’s figuring on. Must’ve had a plan for some of it.”

  “Property, perhaps. Or a trip. Art, jewelry.”

  “Got jewelry, and can’t wear it too much outside her own house. People would get ideas. But if she planned to relocate… I’ve got to check, see if she had a valid passport. When she got it, or renewed it. She’s got Bobby, but he’s grown up now, married now. Not so much at her beck and call. That’s a pisser.”

  “A new home, a new location. Somewhere she can live in the manner she deserves to live. A staff of some kind.”

  “Need someone to boss around, sure. This isn’t the kind of stake you just put in a bank somewhere. Especially since—you can put money on it—she planned to keep tapping you. Can’t stick around good old Texas, where people know you. You’re freaking rich now. Gotta enjoy it.”

  “What does that tell you regarding the investigation? If you find she’d made inquiries about a property, or travel, what does it give you besides busywork?”

  “Busywork’s underrated. Maybe she let something slip, to Bobby, to Zana, to someone else. Maybe we use Peabody’s favorite—there’s a hot young lover out there, someone she had by the short hairs, or someone who got greedy. Can circle back to revenge. One of her former charges is keeping tabs on her, or is being used by her, and gets wind she’s got a big deal going.”

  She nudged her plate aside. “I want to play this angle. You finished?”

  “Nearly. No dessert?”

  “I’m fine as is.”

  “They have gelato.” His grin was quick, brilliant. “Chocolate.”

  “Bastard.” She fought her inner war, her weakness. “You think we can get it to go?”

  * * *

  It was interesting, Eve decided, when you looked in a direction that didn’t seem relevant. The little pieces that shuffled down. Maybe not into the puzzle yet, but waiting for you to find the fit.

  “Her passport’s current.” She scooped up the decadent delight of rich chocolate. “Had one for twelve years. And she traveled. Funny nobody mentioned that. Spain, Italy, France. She liked Europe, but there’s Rio, and Belize, and Bimini. Exotic locales.”

  “Nothing off planet?” he asked.

  “Nothing she used this passport for. I’m betting she liked sticking to terr
a firma. Off planet takes a lot of time, and a lot of money. And while she traveled, she was in and out—with few exceptions—in a few days. Longest I find here’s ten days in Italy. Went in through Florence. And had another trip there, one day, the week before she came to New York.”

  “Maybe a weakness for Tuscany,” Roarke suggested.

  “Quick trips, though.” She drummed her fingers, ate more gelato. “Could be she made them on the q.t. Didn’t tell her son. I’ve got to go back, find out if she traveled alone or with a companion.”

  She studied the data. “Had a reason for going back to Italy right before she came here to make her score. Looking over there, you bet your ass. Thinking she might like to find herself a villa.”

  “It would take some time, but I could find out if she made inquiries about property with a realtor over there.”

  “She’d know something about the ins and out, wouldn’t she, with a son in the business.”

  She sat back, sighed. “So here’s one way. She’s looking to relocate, plop herself down to live the high life after she skins you.”

  “I object to the term. No one skins me.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t get that. Time to start enjoying her hard-earned nest egg. Deck herself out in all those glitters she’s been paying insurance premiums for. Time to kick up her heels. Got herself in tune for it. She’s tapped out a couple of her income sources, but they’re finite anyway. She hits the jackpot, and she can move on. Retire.”

  “What does she tell her family?”

  Think like her, Eve ordered herself. It wasn’t so hard to do. “Her son’s replaced her with a wife. Ungrateful bastard. Doesn’t have to tell him a damn thing. If she intended to tell him, you can bet she’s got something worked out: She won the lottery, got some inheritance, something out of the blue. But she doesn’t need Bobby anymore because she’s got someone on her string, someone who can do the grunt work when she needs it. They should be with her in New York, just in case.”

  She rolled her shoulders. “Or she’s going to shake her minion off, hire somebody fresh when she relocates. Who do you know in that area of Italy who handles real estate, could give us a hand with this?”