Memory in Death edahr-25

by J. D. Robb

  “Did he?”

  “He’d just tell me to nod and go along, then do what I wanted.” Zana laughed, then covered her mouth with her hand as if to smother the sound. “That’s what he did, mostly, and there was hardly ever a cross word between them.”

  “But there were some.”

  “Little spats now and then, like families have. Eve—is it all right if I call you Eve?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “Do you think we can go home soon?” Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. “I was so excited about coming here, seeing New York, it was all I could think about. Now I just want to go home.”

  “At this point of the investigation, it’s more convenient if you and Bobby are here.”

  “That’s what he said.” She sighed. “And he doesn’t want to go home for Christmas. Says he just doesn’t want to be there for it. I guess I can understand. It’s just…” Tears shimmered in her eyes, but didn’t fall. “It’s selfish.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s our first Christmas married. Now we’ll spend it in a hotel room. It is selfish.” She sniffed back the tears, shook her head. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about it with his mama…”

  “It’s natural enough.”

  Zana cast her guilty look toward the pocket doors. “Don’t tell him I said anything. Please. He’s got enough on his mind.”

  She got to her feet when the doors opened. “Hi, honey. Look who’s here.”

  “Eve. Thanks for coming. I was just talking to my partner.” He worked up a smile for his wife. “We closed the deal.”

  She slapped her hands together, bounced on her toes. “The big house?”

  “The big one. D.K. got the contract and deposit from the buyer this morning.”

  “Oh, honey! That’s just wonderful. Congratulations.” She hurried around the sofa to give him a fierce hug. “You both worked so hard for that.”

  “Big sale,” Bobby told Eve. “Hell, a white elephant we took on. We’d just about given up, when we got a nibble last week. My partner tied it up in a bow this morning.”

  “Back in Texas.”

  “Yeah. Took them through it three times over the weekend. They just wouldn’t commit. Wanted to go through it again this morning, so he walked them through it again, and they finally bit. It’s a big commission for us.”

  And put the partner out of the running, Eve decided, unless he’d found a way to be two places at once. “Congratulations.”

  “Mama would’ve been on the moon.”

  “Honey.” Zana took his arms. “Don’t be sad. She wouldn’t want you to be sad. She’d be so proud . In fact, we’re going to celebrate. I mean it.” She gave him a little shake. “I’m going to order a bottle of champagne, and you’re going to take a little while to relax and be proud of yourself. Will you have some with us, Eve?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to go.”

  “I thought maybe you had some news, about my mother.”

  “The investigation’s moving forward. That’s the best I can tell you now. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. If anything breaks beforehand, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’m glad it’s you, Eve. It’s easier somehow because it’s you.”

  * * *

  She could go home, Eve thought, as she muscled her way into traffic. It was more than Bobby could do at this point. She could go home where things were normal, at least by her standards.

  As traffic snarled, she studied one of the bright, animated billboards, touting cut rates for holiday trips to Aruba.

  Everyone wanted to be somewhere else, she decided. People from Texas, and wherever, flocked to New York. New Yorkers crawled up the highway to the Hamptons, or got on a shuttle south for some island.

  Where did people on the islands go? she wondered. Probably to some noisy, overcrowded city.

  Why couldn’t people just stay put?

  Because they didn’t, the streets and sidewalks were clogged, with the airways overhead little better. And still, there wasn’t anywhere she’d rather be.

  She drove through the gates, finally, toward the lights.

  Every window was lit, candles or festooned trees glittering. It looked like a painting, she thought. Dark sky, rising moon, and the fanciful shapes and shadows of the house, with all those windows glowing.

  She could go home.

  So why was she depressed? It dragged at the base of her skull, at the pit of her belly as she parked the car, pushed herself out. She wanted to lie down, she realized, and not because she was tired. She just wanted to shut her head down for five damn minutes.

  Summerset was there, a dour skeleton amid the festive colors of the grand foyer.

  “Roarke is in his office, attending to some of your business.”

  In her current mood, the disapproval scraped over the weight in her belly. “Nobody held a stunner to his throat,” she snapped. “Which is what I dream of doing to you, night after night.”

  She stomped upstairs without bothering to take off her coat.

  She didn’t go to the office, which was petty and wrong. She knew it. But instead she went straight to the bedroom and, still in her coat, dropped facedown on the bed.

  Five minutes, she thought. She was entitled to five damn minutes of solitude and quiet. If only she could shut off her head.

  Seconds later, she heard the rapid pad of little feet, then the vibration of the bed as Galahad made his leap. She turned her head, stared into his bicolored eyes.

  He stared back. Then did a couple of lazy circles, curled up by her head, and stared some more. She found herself trying to out-stare him, to make him blink first.

  When she lost, she thought he smirked.

  “Pal, if you were a cop, you’d crack suspects like walnuts.”

  She shifted so she could scratch his ears. With the cat purring like a souped-up engine, she watched the lights glimmer on the bedroom tree.

  It was a good deal she had here, she told herself. Big bed, pretty tree, nice cat. What was wrong with her?

  She barely heard him come in, probably wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been listening for him.

  When the mattress depressed, she turned her head again. This time she stared into eyes of wild and vivid blue.

  Yeah, a pretty good deal.

  “I was coming in,” she murmured. “I just wanted a couple minutes.”

  “Headache?”

  “No. I’m just… I don’t know.”

  He stroked a hand over her hair. “Sad?”

  “What have I got to be sad about? I’ve got this big-ass house. Did you see how it looks all lit up?”

  “Yes.” His hand moved down to the nape of her neck where some of the weight lay.

  “I’ve got this fat cat hanging around. I think we should torment him on Christmas, make him wear some of those antler things. You know, like a reindeer.”

  “Undermine his dignity. Good idea.”

  “I’ve got you. The icing on my personal cake. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She curled into him, burrowed into him. “I don’t even care that she’s dead, so what’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re too hard on yourself, that’s what’s wrong with you.”

  She breathed him in, because it was a comfort. “I went to the morgue and looked at her. Just another body. I looked at what she did to herself, to try to screw with us. And it disgusted me. Didn’t surprise me—not once I thought about it. I looked at what someone else did to her, and it was like: Well, what goes around. I’m not supposed to think that.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “Today? Reported to Whitney. Got a little spanking there. Had lunch with Nadine to get her to spin the connection up front. Hit the lab. Followed the fabric trail to a retail outlet where Trudy bought the socks she used to make a sap. I got a list of banks between there and the hotel. Figure she had to get the credits. Check that tomorrow. Went by the bar where Zana was taken, talked to the owner. Reviewed the d
iscs. Um… updated reports. Checked in on Bobby and Zana. Good security at the hotel. You’ve got a solid frontman in your lobby.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Then I came home. Other stuff in there, but that’s the gist.”

  “In other words, you did your job. Whether or not you care she’s dead, you did the work that will lead you to her killer.”

  She rolled over, stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve got no juice.”

  “What did you have for lunch?”

  She gave a half laugh. “Taking my mind off my pity party? This pasta thing with some sort of herb stuff. It was good. Whatever Nadine and Peabody chowed on, they made a lot of girl yummy noises. The place was swinging, so I guess you’ve got a hit. Big surprise.”

  “The service?”

  “Spooky. The waiter sort of poofs at the table out of nowhere if you even think about wanting something. Nadine’s getting her own show.”

  “I heard about that just today. Good for her.”

  “And she’s got vid and book deals. You in on any of that?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “She wants to interview me, which maybe. And wants to do some of the vid here at the house, which is definitely no.”

  “Definitely.”

  She turned her head again to look at his face. How could one man be so beautiful, day after day? “I figured we’d line up in the same column on that.”

  “This is home.” His hand stroked over hers, then lay, quiet and warm, over it. “It’s private.”

  “I’m always bringing work home. Doing work here.”

  “As am I.”

  “You don’t fill it with cops on top of it.”

  “I don’t. And certainly don’t plan to in the future. If I had a problem with you doing so, I’d let you know.”

  “I had this memory flash today.”

  Ah, he thought, now we’ve got the root . “Tell me.”

  “I was thinking about the way she’d hurt herself, gone out, bought socks for God’s sake, for the sole purpose of bashing herself in the face, bruising her body. Vicious, self-destructive behavior. And I remembered this time…”

  She told him, just as the memory had come back to her. And more, as she remembered more. That it had been hot, and she could smell grass. Strange smell to her as she’d so rarely experienced it before. One of the boys had had a disc player, and there was music jingling out.

  And how the police car had slid almost silently up to the house that night. How the buttons on the cops’ uniforms had glinted in the moonlight.

  “They went across the street. It was late, it had to be late, because all the lights were out, everywhere. Then they came on, lights came on in the house across the street, and the boy’s father came to the door. The cops went inside.”

  “What happened?” he asked when she went silent.

  “I don’t know, not for sure. I imagine the kid told them he didn’t do anything. He’d been asleep. Couldn’t prove it, of course. I remember the cops came out, poked around. Found the spray can. I can still see how one of them bagged it, shook his head. Stupid kid, he was probably thinking. Asshole kid.

  “She went over, started shrieking. Pointing at the can, her car, their house. I just stood there and watched, and finally I couldn’t watch it anymore. I got into bed. Pulled the covers over my head.”

  She closed her eyes. “I heard other kids talking about it in school. How he’d had to go down to the police station with his parents. I tuned it out. I didn’t want to hear about it. A couple days later, Trudy was driving a new car. Nice shiny new car. I ran away not long after. I took off. I couldn’t stand being there with her. I couldn’t stand being there, seeing that house across the street.”

  She stared up at the dark window above her head. “I didn’t realize until today that’s the root of why I ran. I couldn’t stand being there with what she’d done, and what I hadn’t. He’d given me the best moment of my life, and he was in trouble. I didn’t do anything to help him. I didn’t say anything about what she did. I just let that kid take the rap.”

  “You were a child.”

  “That’s an excuse for doing nothing to help?”

  “It is, yes.”

  She sat up, pushed around so she could stare down at him. “The hell it is. He got dragged down to the cop shop, probably got a sheet, even if they couldn’t prove he did it. His parents had to make restitution.”

  “Insurance.”

  “Oh, fuck that, Roarke.”

  He sat up, took her chin firmly in his hand. “You were nine years old, and scared. Now you’re going to look back twenty years and blame yourself. Fuck that , Eve.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “And what could you have done? Gone to the police, told them you saw the woman—licensed and approved by Child Protection—deface her own car, then blame the kid across the street? They wouldn’t have believed you.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “It’s not. And we both know that boy survived that bump in his childhood. He had parents, a house, friends, and enough character to offer a little girl a ride on an airboard. I imagine he survived very well. You’ve devoted your adult life to protecting the public, risking your life to do so. So you can bloody well stop blaming yourself for once being a frightened child and behaving as one.”

  “Well, hell.”

  “I mean it. And take off your coat. Christ Jesus, aren’t you roasting?”

  It wasn’t often she felt— The only word she could think of was “abashed.” She tugged off her coat, left it pooled around her. “You’d think a person could wallow a little in her own bed.”

  “It’s my bed, too, and there’s been quite enough wallowing. Want to try for something else?”

  She picked up the cat, plopped him in her lap. “No.”

  “Go ahead and sulk, then, it’s a step up from wallowing.” He rolled off the bed. “I want some wine.”

  “He could’ve been scarred for life.”

  “Please.”

  She narrowed her eyes as he opened the liquor cabinet. “He could’ve become a career criminal, all because of that one frame job.”

  “There’s a thought.” He selected a nice white out of the cooler section. “Maybe you’ve put him away. Wouldn’t that be some lovely irony?”

  Her lips twitched, but she bore down on the laugh. “You could’ve done business with him in your nefarious past. He’s probably a kingpin somewhere in Texas right now.”

  “And he owes it all to you.” He came back to the bed with two glasses of wine, gave her one. “Better?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d forgotten about it, you know, the way you do even if it’s all normal. And when it came back, it just rushed in with all this guilt. He was only about fourteen, fifteen. He felt sorry for me. I could see it on his face. No good deed goes unpunished,” she said, toasting before she drank.

  “I can find him if you want. You can see what he’s up to, other than being a Texan crime lord.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  “Meanwhile, I’d like to ask you for something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have any pictures of you from before we met.”

  It took her mind a moment to catch up with the non sequitur. “Pictures?”

  “Yes, from when you were a nubile young girl, or a green rookie in uniform, which I’m hoping you’ll put on again one day soon. I do love my woman in uniform. I could access older ID photos, but I’d like it more if you could find something for me.”

  “I guess. Maybe. Probably. Why?”

  “Our lives didn’t start when we met.” He touched her face, just a feathering of those wonderful fingers over her skin. “Though I like to think the best of them did. I’d like to have a piece or two of you, from before.”

  “That’s pretty sappy.”

  “Guilty. And if you come across any photos of yourself at, oh, around eighteen, scantily clad, so much the better.”<
br />
  She couldn’t stop the laugh this time. “Perv.”

  “Again, guilty.”

  She took his glass, scooted over, and set both it and her own on the bedside table. She shoved the black butter of her coat carelessly onto the floor.

  “I feel like doing something else.”

  “Oh?” He cocked his head. “Such as?”

  She was quick, and she was agile. In a flashing movement, she rolled, reared up, and had her legs clamped around his waist, her hands fisted in his hair, and her mouth fused hotly to his. “Something like this,” she said when she let him breathe again.

  “I suppose I’ll have to make the time for you.”

  “Damn right.” She flipped open buttons on his shirt, leaned down to take a sharp nip at his jaw. “You scolded me. Counting my session with Whitney, that’s the second knuckle rap I’ve had today.”

  Her hands were very busy, and by the time they reached his zipper, he was hard as steel. “I hope you didn’t have the same reaction with your commander.”

  “He’s pretty studly, if you go for the big-shouldered, careworn type. Me, I like ‘em pretty.” She took another nip at his ear as she overbalanced them and shoved him to his back.

  The cat might have been fat, but he was also experienced, and dodged aside.

  “You’re so pretty. Sometimes I just want to lap you up like ice cream.” She tugged his shirt open, spread her hands on his chest. “And look at this, all that flesh, all that muscle. All mine.” She scraped her teeth down the center of his torso, felt him quiver. “Now that’s something to make girl yummy noises over.”

  His hands were on her, little thrills. But he let her lead, let her set the pace. He would let her, she knew, for the moment at least. And not knowing when he might take her over was another thrill.

  She yanked open her own shirt, put her hands over his to slide them up her body, close them over her breasts. And cruised on the sensation of those long, strong fingers against her. Then bowed back, eyes closed, as his hands skimmed down to unhook her trousers.

  She came down to him again, bracing on her elbows. Mouth-to-mouth—long, sumptuous kisses punctuated by quick bites as her heart beat, beat, beat against his. When she offered her breast, he took it, and her breath caught, then released on a shudder.