Memory in Death (9 page)

She leaned back, considered.

Yeah, it could work. It was a good game. You've got your license and approval, in state. So you just move from location to location, pick up more kids, more fees. Child Services, busy agency. Always under-staffed, underfunded. Bet they were pleased to have an experienced woman, a pro-mom, willing to take on some charges.

Trudy had settled in one place after her professional mother status elapsed, and she'd gone out of the fostering business. Kept close to her son, Eve mused. Another handful of short-term jobs. Not a lot of income for a woman who supposedly liked to shop, and had jewelry valuable enough, reportedly, to leave home when traveling.

Interesting, Eve thought. Interesting. And she'd bet a pound of real coffee beans that she hadn't been the only child Trudy Lombard had traumatized.

8

SHE WISHED ROARKE HADN'T MADE HER FEEL obliged to go by the Miras. She was tired, and there was still a lot of work on her plate, a lot of thinking time to put in.

Now she'd have to visit. Sit around, drink something, make conversation. Exchange presents. The last always made her feel stupid, and she didn't know why. People seemed to have this unstoppable need to give and receive stuff they could easily afford to go out and get for themselves anyway.

Now here she was, standing outside the pretty house in its pretty neighborhood. There was a holly wreath on the door. She knew holly when she saw it now, after her experience with the decorators.

There were candles in the windows, pretty white lights glowing calm against the dark, and through one of those windows she could see the sparkle of a Christmas tree.

There would be presents under it, probably a considerable haul as Mira had grandchildren. She'd also learned that if one present wasn't enough to give a spouse for the holiday, a half dozen didn't come up to snuff for a kid.

She happened to know Peabody had already bought three—count them, three—presents for Mavis's baby, and the kid wasn't due to be born for over a month.

What the hell did you buy for a fetus, anyway? And why did nobody else think that was kind of creepy?

Roarke had shipped a damn cargo freighter of gifts to his relatives in Ireland.

And she was stalling. Just standing out in the cold and dark, stalling.

She shifted the packages under her arm, rang the bell.

It was Mira who answered moments later. Mira in her at-home wear, soft sweater, trim pants, bare feet.

"I'm so glad you came."

Before Eve could speak, she was being drawn inside, into warm, pine- and cranberry-scented air. There was music playing, something quiet and seasonal, and more candles flickering.

"Sorry it's so late."

"It doesn't matter. Come into the living room, let me take your coat."

"I've got these things. Just some things I picked up."

"Thank you. Just sit. I'm going to get you some wine."

"I don't want to hold you up from—"

"Please. Sit."

She laid the gifts on the coffee table beside a big silver bowl full of pine cones and red berries.

She'd been right about the mountain of gifts, Eve noted. There had to be a hundred packages under the tree. How many was that each? she wondered. How many of the Miras were there, anyway? They were kind of a horde. Might be almost twenty of them altogether, so...

She got to her feet as Dennis Mira strolled in.

"Sit, sit, sit. Charlie said you were here. Just came in to see you. Wonderful party last night."

He was wearing a cardigan. Something about the scruffy look of it with one of its buttons dangling from a loose thread turned her heart to mush.

He smiled, and since she continued to stand, walked to stand beside her and turned that dreamy smile toward the tree. "Charlie won't go for fake. Every year I tell her we ought to buy a replica, and every year she says no. I'm always glad."

He stunned Eve by draping an arm over her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Nothing ever seems too bad, too hard or too sad when you've got a Christmas tree in the living room. All those presents under it, all that anticipation. Just a way of saying there's always light and hope in the world. And you're lucky enough to have a family to share it with."

Her throat had snapped shut. She found herself doing something she'd never have believed, and even as she did it, she couldn't see herself doing it.

She turned into him, pressed her face to his shoulder, and wept.

He didn't seem the least surprised, and only stroked and patted her back. "There now. That's all right, sweetheart. You've had a hard day."

She hitched in a breath, drew away, appalled. "I'm sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry. I don't know what's... I should go."

But he had her hand. However soft and sweet he appeared, he had a grip like iron. "You just sit down here. I've got a handkerchief. I think." He began patting his pockets, digging into them with that vague and baffled expression.

It settled her more than a soother. She laughed, rubbed her face dry. "That's okay. I'm fine. I'm sorry. I really need to—"

"Have some wine," Mira said, and crossed the room with a tray.

As it was obvious she'd seen the outburst, Eve's embarrassment only increased.

"I'm a little off, that's all."

"Hardly a wonder." Mira set the tray down, picked up one of the glasses. "Sit down and relax. I'd like to open my present, if that's all right."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. Um..." She picked up Dennis's gift. "I came across this, thought you might be able to use it."

He beamed like a ten-year-old who'd just found a shiny red airbike under the tree. And the twinkle didn't fade when he drew out the scarf. "Look at this, Charlie. This ought to keep me warm when I take my walks."

"And it looks just like you. And, oh! Look at this." Mira lifted out the antique teapot. "It's gorgeous. Violets," she murmured, tracing a finger over the tiny painted flowers that twined around the white china pot. "I love violets."

She actually cooed over it, Eve realized, as some women tended to do over small, drooling babies.

"I figured you're into tea, so—"

"I love it. I absolutely love it." Mira rose, rushed over and kissed Eve on both cheeks. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"I think I'm going to try my gift out right now, have myself a little walk." Dennis rose. He walked over, bent down to Eve, tapped her chin. "You're a good girl and a smart woman. Talk to Charlie."

"I didn't mean to run him off," Eve said after Dennis left the room.

"You didn't. Dennis is as astute as he is absentminded, and he knew we needed a little time alone. Will you open your gift?" She took a box from the tray, held it out to Eve.

"It's pretty." She never knew the right thing to say, but that seemed appropriate when holding a box wrapped in silver and gold and topped by a big red bow.

She wasn't sure what it was—something round, with open scrollwork and small glittering stones. As it was on a chain her first thought was that it was some sort of necklace, though the disk was wider than her palm.

"Relax," Mira said with a laugh. "It's not jewelry. No one could compete with Roarke in that area. It's a kind of sun catcher, something you might hang at the window. In your office, I thought."

"It's pretty," Eve said again, and looking closer, made out a pattern in the scrollwork. "Celtic? Sort of like what's on my wedding ring."

"Yes. Though my daughter tells me the symbol on your ring is for protection. This one, and the stones with it, are to promote peace of mind. It's been blessed—I hope you're all right with that—by my daughter."

"Tell her I appreciate it. Thanks. I'll hang it in my office window. Maybe it'll work."

"You don't catch much of a break, do you?" Roarke had filled Mira in on the afternoon's work.

"I don't know." She studied the disk, ran her thumb over it. "I guess I was feeling sorry for myself, before, when Dennis put his arm around me. Standing there with him, looking at the tree, the way he is, the way the house smells, and the lights. I thought, I just thought if once—just once—I'd had someone like him... Just once. Well, I didn't. That's all."

"No, you didn't, and that shame lies in the system. Not in you."

Eve lifted her gaze, steadied herself again. "Wherever, it's the way it was. Now Trudy Lombard's dead, and she shouldn't be. I had to have my partner interview my husband. I have to be prepared to answer personal questions, put those answers on record if they apply to the investigation. I have to remember what it was like with her, because knowing her helps me know her killer. I have to do that when, a few days ago, if you'd asked me, I could barely remember her name. I can do that," Eve said, fiercely now. "I'm good at pushing it out, shoving it down. And I hate when it jumps up and kicks me in the face. Because she's nothing, nothing to who I am now."

"Of course, she is. Everyone who touched your life had a part in forming it." Mira's voice was as soft as the music that wafted through the air, and as implacable as iron. "You overcame people like her. You didn't have a Dennis Mira, bless him. You didn't have the simplicity of home and family. You had obstacles and pain and horrors. And you overcame them. That's your gift, Eve, and your burden."

"I fell apart when I first saw her in my office. I just crumbled."

"Then you picked yourself up and went on."

Eve let her head fall back. Roarke had been right—again. She'd needed to come here, to say it out loud to someone she trusted. "She made me feel afraid, sick with fear. As if just by being there, she could drag me back. And it wasn't even me she cared about. If I wasn't hooked to Roarke, she wouldn't have given me a second thought. Why does that bother me?" She closed her eyes.

"Because it's hard not to matter, even to someone you dislike."

"I guess it is. She wouldn't have come here. Not much to squeeze out of a cop, unless that cop happens to be married to billions."

She opened her eyes now, gave Mira a puzzled look. "He has billions. Do you ever think of that?"

"Do you?"

"Sometimes, this kind of time, and I can't really get a handle on it. I don't even know how many zeros that is because my brain goes fuzzy. And I don't know the number that goes ahead of them because once you have all those zeros it's just ridiculous anyway. She tried to shake him down."

"Yes, he gave me the basics. I'm sure he handled it appropriately. Would you have wanted him to pay her off?"

"No." Her eyes went hot. "Not one cent out of the billions. She used to tell me I didn't have a mother or a father because I was so stupid that they'd tossed me away because I wasn't worth the trouble."

Mira lifted her wine, sipped, to give herself a chance to push back her own anger. "She should never have passed the screening. You know that."

"She was smart. I look back now, and I see she was smart, the way you have to be to run long cons or quick scams successfully. She played the system, figured the ins and outs. I think, well, you're the head doctor, but I think she believed her own bullshit. You have to believe the lie to live it, to make others see you the way you need to be seen."

"Very possibly," Mira agreed. "To have lived it for so long."

"She had to figure she deserved the money, had earned it. Had to believe she'd worked and sacrificed, and given me a home out of her humanitarian nature, and now, hey, how about a little something for old times' sake? She was a player," Eve said, half to herself. "She was a player, so maybe she played too deep with somebody. I don't know."

"You could pass this off. In fact, you may be asked to do so."

"I won't. I think I've got that covered. I'll call in favors if I have to, but I'm going to see it through. It's necessary."

"I agree. That surprises you?" Mira asked when Eve stared at her. "She made you feel helpless and worthless, stupid and empty. You know better than that, but you need to feel it, to prove it, and to do that you'll need to take an active part in resolving this. I'll say just that to Commander Whitney."

"That has weight. Thanks."

*  *  *

When she stepped through the door of her home, Summerset was looming like a black crow in the foyer, fat Galahad at his feet. She knew by the gleam in his beady eyes he was primed.

"I find myself surprised," he said in what she figured he considered droll tones. "You're out for several hours, yet you return—dare I say— almost fashionably dressed, with nothing torn or bloodied.

A remarkable feat."

"I find myself surprised that no one's bothered to beat you into a pulpy mass just on the general principle of your ugliness. But the day's young yet, for both of us."

She whipped off her coat, dumped it on the newel post just because she could, and strutted up the stairs. The quick and habitual sally made her feel marginally better. It was just the thing to take Bobby's devastated face out of her head, at least temporarily.

She went straight to her office. She would set up a murder board here, set up files and create a secondary base, on the off chance Whitney vetoed both her and Mira. If she was ordered to step aside, officially, she intended to be ready to pursue the work on her own time.

She engaged her 'link to touch base with Morris.

"I'm going to come by in the morning," she told him. "Am I going to get any surprises?"

"Head blow did the job, and was incurred about thirty hours after the other injuries. While those were relatively minor in comparison, it's my opinion they were caused by the same weapon."

"Got anything on that?

"Some fibers in the head wounds. I'll be sending them over to our friend Dickhead at the lab. A weighed cloth sack would be my preliminary guess. Tox screen's come back positive for legal, over-the-counter pain meds. Standard blockers. She took one less than an hour before death, chased it with a very nice Chablis."

"Yeah, there was a bottle of that in her room, and blockers on the bed table."

"She had some soup, mostly chicken broth, and some soy noodles about eight, and some soft meat in a wrap closer to midnight. Treated herself to some chocolate frozen dessert, more wine with her late supper. She was, at time of death, nicely buzzed on wine and pills."

"Okay, thanks. I'll catch you in the morning."

"Dallas, are you interested in the fact that she's had several sculpting procedures over the last, I'd say, dozen years? Face and body, tucks and nips. Nothing major, but considerable work, and good work at that."

"Always good to know the habits of the dead. Thanks."

She ended the transmission, sat back at her desk to study the ceiling.

So she'd gotten herself roughed up sometime Friday after leaving Roarke's office. Doesn't, by their statements, tell her son or daughter-in-law, doesn't report same to the authorities. What she does, apparently, is hole up with wine and pills and easy food.

Either leaves her window unlocked, or opens the door to her killer.