Memory in Death Read online

  “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 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 c
hoked 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.

  The carpet was green, thin, and pocked with a few burn holes. It had soaked up some of the blood.

  There was a single window, green drapes pulled tight, and a narrow bath where the short beige counter was jammed with various face and body creams and lotions, medications, hair products. There were towels on the floor. Eve counted one bath, one washcloth, and two hand towels.

  On the dresser—a just-up-a-level-from-cardboard affair with a mirror above—were a travel candle, a disc holder, a pair of faux pearl earrings, a fancy wrist unit, and a string of pearls that might have been the genuine deal.

  She studied, recorded, then stepped to the body that lay between the bed and a faded red chair.

  The face was turned toward her, those eyes filmed over the way death did. Blood had trickled and dried on the hair and skin of the temple, running there from where she could see the death blow at the back of the head.

  She wore rings—a trio of silver bands on her left hand, a blue stone in an ornate silver setting on the right. The nightgown was good quality cotton, white as snow where it wasn’t stained with blood. It was hiked up to the top of her thighs, and exposed bruising on both legs. The left side of her face carried a whopper that had blackened the eye.

  For the record, she took out her Identi-pad and verified.

  “Victim is identified as Lombard, Trudy. Female, Caucasian. Age fifty-eight. Vic was discovered by primary investigator, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, at this location. The body shows bruising on both thighs as well as facial bruising.”

  And that was off, Eve thought, but continued.

  “Cause of death appears to be a fractured skull caused by multiple blows to the back of the head. There’s no weapon near the body.” She took out her gauges. “Time of death is found to be one-thirty this morning.”

  A part of her unclenched at that. Both she and Roarke had been at home, with a couple hundred people, at the time in question.

  “Examination of the wound indicates your classic blunt instrument. There is no evidence of sexual assault. Vic’s wearing rings, and there is jewelry in plain sight on the dresser. Burglary is unlikely. There’s no evidence of struggle. No defensive wounds. The room is orderly. Bed’s been slept in,” she murmured as she re-examined the lay of the land from her crouch by the body. “So why is she over here?”

  Eve rose, crossed to the window, opened the drapes. The window was half-open. “Window’s open, emergency escape is easily accessible. Possibly the perpetrator entered through this route.”

  She turned around again, studied again. “But she wasn’t running toward the door. Somebody crawls in your window, and you’ve got time to get out of bed, you run—for the door, maybe the bathroom. But she didn’t. She was facing the window when she fell. Maybe he had a weapon, woke her, ordered her out of bed. Looking for a quick score. But he doesn’t take this very nice wrist unit? He smacks her around— an activity nobody hears, or at least reports—then bashes her over the head and leaves? It’s not like that. Nothing like that.”

  She shook her head as she re-examined Trudy. “Bruises on the face and body are older than one-thirty this morning. Hours older. ME will verify. What were you into Trudy? What were you up to?”

  She heard Peabody’s voice, just the rhythm of it out in the hall, then the muffled doing of airskids. “Peabody, Detective Delia, now on-scene. Record on, Peabody?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check out the closet, and see if you can find her pocket ‘link. I’ll want the room ’link replayed.”

  “On that.” She stepped to the body first. “Coshed, back of the head. Blunt. Classic.” Her gaze came up, met Eve’s. “Time of death?”

  “Just after one-thirty this morning.”

  And Eve saw the flash of relief. “Sexual assault?” Peabody asked as she turned to the closet.

  “No evidence thereof.”

  “She robbed?”

  “It’s possible her killer was after something specific, had no interest in some jewelry and a quality wrist unit.”

  “Or funds,” Peabody added, holding up a large handbag. “Wallet’s in here. Couple of credit cards, a debit, and some cash. No personal ‘link or PPC. A couple of good-sized shopping bags in the closet here.”

  “Keep looking.”

  Eve moved into the bath. The sweepers would go over the room, inch by inch. But she could see quite a bit without their particular brand of magic.

  She had, unfortunately, a solid working knowledge of hair gunk and face crap and body slathering stuff. The feared and dreaded Trina seemed to find a way to torture her with all of it every few weeks.

  Trudy, it seemed, hadn’t stinted on the products—quantity or quality. She had, by Eve’s estimation, a couple grand in vanity crowded onto the bathroom counter.

  The towels were still damp, Eve noted. In fact, the single washcloth was sodden. She glanced toward the tub. She’d bet the sweepers would find traces of bath products in the tub, face products on one of the towels.

  So where were the missing bath towel and washcloth? Should be two of each.

  She’d had a bath. Eve recalled how Trudy had enjoyed what she’d called her long soaks. If you’d disturbed her during that hour, you’d better have lopped off an appendage. Otherwise, you’d end up locked in a dark room.

  Took a beating sometime yesterday, or as far back as Friday evening, Eve thought. Closes herself up, long soaks and pills. Trudy had liked pills, too, Eve remembered.

  Take the edge off my nerves.

  Why didn’t she have Bobby or Zana tending to her? Being tended to had been another of Trudy’s favorites.

  Least you can do is bring me a cold drink.

  You’re going to eat me out of house and home, I expect you
could fetch me a cup of coffee and a piece of that cake.

  You’re the laziest damn thing on two legs. Get your skinny butt moving and clean up around here.

  Eve blew out a breath, settled herself. If Trudy had suffered in silence, there was a reason for it.

  “Dallas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No link.” Peabody stood at the bathroom door. “More cash in a security pack. More jewelry in pouches tucked into her clothes. Couple of transmissions, in and out, between her and either her son or her daughter-in-law. In-hotel trans. Bottle of blockers on the night table by the bed.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Let’s check the kitchen, see if we can determine the last time she got food.”

  “Nobody breaks in, kills someone, for a ‘link.”

  “Depends what’s on the ‘link, doesn’t it?” Eve moved to the Auto-Chef, hit replay.

  “Chicken soup, just after eight last night. Chinese wrap about midnight. A lot of coffee on and off until seven p.m.” She opened the frig-gie. “Wine, good stuff—about a glass and a half left in the bottle. Milk, juice—both opened—and a quart, half gone, of chocolate frozen non-dairy dessert product.”

  She glanced at the sink and counter. “Yet there’s not a bowl, glass, spoon unwashed.”

  “She was tidy?”

  “She was lazy, but maybe she was bored enough to clean up after herself.”

  She heard Crime Scene arrive, took another minute. “Door’s locked from the inside.” Two clicks, she thought, when the maid had used her master. “Killer exited from the window. Possibly entered through same. Tourist hives like this one don’t go for soundproofing. Makes you wonder why she didn’t scream the place down.”

  She stepped out, saw not only the sweepers, but Morris, the Chief Medical Examiner.

  She remembered he’d worn a suit to the party, a kind of muted blue overlaid with a faint sheen. His long, dark hair had been intricately braided and he’d knocked back a few. Enough that he’d gotten up on stage with the band at one point and wailed away on the sax.