Memory in Death (2 page)

"And what brings you into this fine establishment this afternoon?"

He got quickly to his feet, mumbled about having an appointment. As he rabbited, the woman rose. As she was about six inches taller than Peabody, she pushed those impressive breasts in Peabody's face.

"I'm doing business here! I'm doing business here!"

Still smiling, Peabody took out a memo book. "Name, please?"

"What the fuck!"

"Ms. What-the-Fuck, I'd like to see your license."

"Bull!"

"No, really. Just a spotcheck."

"Bull." She spun herself and those breasts toward the bouncer. "This cop ran off my John."

"I'm sorry, I'd like to see your companion license. If everything's in order, I'll let you get back to work."

Bull—and it seemed the day for people to have names appropriate to their bodies—flanked Peabody, who now looked, Eve thought, like a slight yet sturdy filling between two bulky pieces of bread.

Eve rolled to her toes, just in case.

"You got no right coming in here rousting customers."

"I'm just using my time wisely while we wait to speak with Mr. Gant. Lieutenant, I don't believe Mr. Bull appreciates police officers."

"I got better use for women."

Eve rolled onto her toes again, and her tone was cool as the December breeze. "Want to try to use me? Bull."

She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, the flash of color on the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the second level. "Looks like your boss has time after all."

Another appearance-appropriate name, she decided. The man was barely five feet in height and couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds. He used the short guy's compensation swagger and wore a bright blue suit with a florid pink shirt. His hair was short, straight, reminding her of pictures of Julius Caesar.

It was ink black, like his eyes.

A silver eyetooth winked as he offered a smile.

"Something I can do for you, Officers?"

"Mr. Gant?"

He spread his hands, nodded at Peabody. "Just call me Zero."

"I'm afraid we've had a complaint. We're going to need you to come downtown and answer some questions."

"What sort of complaint?"

"It involves the sale of illegal substances." Peabody glanced to one of the privacy cubes. "Such as the ones currently being ingested by some of your clientele."

"Privacy booths." This time he raised his spread hands in a shrug. "Hard to keep your eye on everyone. But I'll certainly have those people removed. I run a class establishment."

"We'll talk about that downtown."

"Am I under arrest?"

Peabody lifted her eyebrows. "Do you want to be?"

The good humor in Zero's eyes hardened into something much less pleasant. "Bull, contact Fienes, have him meet me..."

"Cop Central," Peabody supplied. "With Detective Peabody."

Zero got his coat, a long white number that probably was one hundred percent cashmere. As they stepped outside, Eve looked down at him.

"You got an idiot on your door, Zero."

Zero lifted his shoulders. "He has his uses."

*  *  *

Eve took a winding route through Central, giving Zero a bored glance. "Holidays," she said vaguely as they mobbed onto another people glide. "Everybody's scrambling to clear their desks so they can sit around and do nothing. Lucky to book an interview room for an hour the way things are."

"Waste of time."

"Come on, Zero, you know how it goes. You get a complaint, you do the dance."

"I know most of the Illegals cops." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't know you, but there's something..."

"People get transferred, don't they?"

Off the glide, she led the way to one of the smaller interview rooms. "Have a seat," she invited, gesturing to one of the two chairs at a little table. "You want something? Coffee, whatever?"

"Just my lawyer."

"I'll go check on that. Detective? Can I have a minute?"

She stepped out, closed the door behind Peabody. "I was about to check my pockets for bread crumbs," Peabody commented. "Why did we circle around?"

"No point letting him know we're Homicide unless he asks. Far as he knows, this is a straight Illegals inquiry. He knows the ropes, knows how to grease them. He's not worried about us taking a little poke there. Figures if we've got a solid complaint, he'll fob it off, pay a fine, go back to business as usual."

"Cocky little son of a bitch," Peabody muttered.

"Yeah, so use it. Fumble around some. We're not going to get him on murder. But we establish his connection to Tubbs, let him think one of his customers is trying to screw with him. Work him so we're just trying to put this into the file. Tubbs hurt somebody, and now he's trying to foist it off on Zero. Trying to make a deal so he gets off on the possession."

"I got it, piss him off. We don't give a damn either way." Peabody rubbed her palms on her thighs. "I'll go Miranda him, see if I can establish a rapport."

"I'll see about his lawyer. You know, I bet he goes to Illegals instead of Homicide." Eve smiled, strolled off.

Outside the interview room, Peabody steadied herself, then inspired, slapped and pinched her cheeks pink. When she walked in, her eyes were down and her color was up.

"I... I'm going to turn on the record, Mr. Gant, and read you your rights. My... The lieutenant is going to check to see if your attorney's arrived."

His smile was smug as she cleared her throat, engaged the record, and recited the Revised Miranda. "Um, do you understand your rights and obligations, Mr. Gant?"

"Sure. She give you some grief?"

"Not my fault she wants to go home early today, and this got dumped on us. Anyway, we have information that indicates illegal substances have been bought and sold on the premises owned by... Shoot, I'm supposed to wait for the lawyer. Sorry."

"No sweat." He tipped back now, obviously a man in charge, and gave her a go-ahead wave. "Why don't you just run it through for me, save us all time."

"Well, okay. An individual has filed a complaint, stating that illegals were purchased from you, by him."

"What? He complain I overcharge? If I did sell illegals, which I don't, why does he go to the cops? Better Business Bureau, maybe."

Peabody returned his grin, though she made hers a little forced.

"The situation is, this individual injured another individual while under the influence of the illegals allegedly purchased through you."

Zero rolled his eyes to the ceiling, a gesture of impatient disgust. "So he gets himself juiced, then he wants to push the fact he was an asshole onto the guy who sold him the juice. What a world."

"That's nutshelling it, I guess."

"Not saying I had any juice to sell, but a guy can't go whining about the vendor, get me?"

"Mr. Lawrence claims—"

"How'm I supposed to know some guy named Lawrence? You know how many people I see every day?"

"Well, they call him Tubbs, but—"

"Tubbs? Tubbs went narc on me? That fat son of a bitch?"

*  *  *

Eve wound her way back, figuring she'd confused things enough that the lawyer would be hunting for them for a good twenty minutes. Rather than go into Interview, she slipped into Observation. The first thing she heard was Zero's curse as he came halfway out of his chair.

It made her smile.

Peabody looked both alarmed and embarrassed, Eve noted. Good touch—the right touch.

"Please, Mr. Gant—"

"I want to talk to that bastard. I want him to look me in the face."

"We really can't arrange that right now. But—"

"That tub of shit in trouble?"

"Well, you could say that. Yes, you could say... um."

"Good. And you can tell him for me, he'd better not come back to my place." Zero stabbed a finger on her, setting his trio of rings glittering angrily. "I don't want to see him or those asshole suits he runs with in my place again. He'll get another kick for buying and possession, right?"

"Actually, he didn't have any illegals on his person at the time of the incident. We're doing a tox screen, so we can get him for use."

"He tries to fuck with me, I'll fuck with him." Secure in his world, Zero sat back, folded his arms. "Say I happened to pass some juice— personal use, not for resale. We're talking the usual fine, community service.

"That's the norm, yes, sir."

"Why don't you bring Piers in here. I've worked with Piers before."

"Oh, I think Detective Piers is off duty."

"You bring him in on this. He'll take care of the details."

"Absolutely."

"Dumbass comes into my place. He solicits illegals from me. Fat slob's always nickel-and-diming me, you get it? Mostly Push—and not worth my time. But I'm going to do him a favor since he and his buddies are regulars. Just a favor for a customer. He wants a party pack, so I go out of my way to do him this favor—at cost! No profit. That keeps the fine down," he reminded her.

"Yes, sir."

"Even gave him a separate stash, customized just for him."

"Customized?"

"Holiday gift. Didn't charge him for it. No exchange of funds. I ought to be able to sue him. I ought to be able to sue that rat bastard for my time and emotional distress. I'm going to ask my lawyer about that."

"You can ask your lawyer, Mr. Gant, but it's going to be tough to sue Mr. Lawrence, seeing as he's dead."

"What do you mean, dead?"

"Apparently the customized juice didn't agree with him." The harried and uncertain Peabody was gone, and in her place was a stone-cold cop. "He's dead, and he took an innocent bystander with him."

"What the hell is this?"

"This is me—oh, and I'm Homicide, by the way, not Illegals— arresting you. Martin Gant, you're under arrest for the murder of Max Lawrence and Leo Jacobs. For trafficking in illegal substances, for owning and operating an entertainment venue that distributes illegal substances."

She turned as Eve opened the door. "All done here?" Eve said brightly. "I have these two nice officers ready to escort our guest down to booking. Oh, your lawyer appears to be wandering around the facility. We'll make sure he finds you."

"I'll have your badges."

Eve took one of his arms, and Peabody the other, as they hauled him to his feet. "Not in this lifetime," Eve said, and passed him to the uniforms, watched him walk out the door. "Nice job, Detective."

"I think I got lucky. Really lucky. And I think he's greasing palms in Illegals."

"Yeah, going to have to have a chat with Piers. Let's go write it up."

"He won't go down for murder. You said."

"No." As they walked, Eve shook her head. "Maybe Man Two. Maybe. But he'll do time. He'll do some time, and they'll pull his operating license. Fines and legal fees will cost him big. He'll pay. Best we get."

"Best they get," Peabody corrected. "Tubbs and Jacobs."

They swung into the bull pen as Officer Troy Trueheart stepped out. He was tall, and he was built, and he was as fresh as a peach with the fuzz still on it.

"Oh, Lieutenant, there's a woman here to see you."

"About what?"

"She said it was personal." He glanced around, frowned. "I don't see her. I don't think she left. I just got her some coffee a few minutes ago."

"Name?"

"Lombard. Mrs. Lombard."

"Well, if you round her up, let me know."

"Dallas? I'll write up the report. I'd like to," Peabody added. "Feels like taking it all the way through."

"I'll remind you of that when this goes to court."

Eve walked through the bull pen and to her office.

It was a stingy room with barely any space for the desk, a spare chair, and the skinny pane of glass masquerading as a window. She didn't have any problem spotting the woman.

She sat in the spare chair, sipping coffee from a recyclable cup. Her hair was reddish blond, worn in a cap that had apparently exploded into curls. Her skin was very white, except for the pink on her cheeks, the pink on her lips. Her eyes were grass green.

Middle fifties, Eve judged, filing it all away in a fingersnap. A big-boned body in a green dress with black collar and cuffs. Black heels, and the requisite enormous black purse sitting neatly on the floor by her feet.

She squeaked when Eve came in, nearly spilled the coffee, then hastily set it aside.

"There you are!"

She leaped up, the pink in her face deepening, her eyes going bright. There was a twang to her voice, and something in it set Eve's nerves on edge.

"Mrs. Lombard? You're not allowed to wander around the offices."

"I just wanted to see where you worked. Why, honey, just look at you." She rushed forward, and would have had Eve in an embrace if Eve's reflexes weren't so quick.

"Hold it. Who are you? What do you want?"

Those green eyes widened, went swimming. "Why, honey, don't you know me? I'm your mama!"

2

COLD RIMED HER BELLY, FROSTED ITS WAY UP to her throat. She couldn't breathe through the ice of it. The woman's arms were around her now; she was powerless to stop them. She was smothered by them, by the overwhelming scent of roses. And the teary voice—Texas, Texas twang— pounded in her head like vicious fists.

Through it she could hear her desk link beep. She could hear the chatter from the bull pen. She hadn't closed the door. God, the door was open, and anyone could...

Then it was all noise, a buzzing hive of hornets in her head. They stung at her chest and brought back the heat, a breathless roll of it that washed through her and grayed her vision.

No, you're not. No, you're not. You're not.

Was that her voice? It was so small, a child's voice. Were the words outside her head, or just buzzing there like the bees?

She got her hands up, somehow she got them up and pushed at the soft, plump arms that clamped around her. "Let go of me. Let go."

She stumbled back, very nearly ran. "I don't know you." She stared at the face, but she couldn't make out the features any longer. It was a blur, just color and shape. "I don't know you."

"Eve, honey, it's Trudy! Oh, look at me crying like I had to water the cats." She sniffled, pulled a wide pink handkerchief out of some pocket, dabbed. "Silly, just silly old me. I figured you'd know me the second you saw me, just the way I did you. 'Course it has been more than twenty years, between us girls." She gave Eve a watery smile. "I expect I show a few of them."

"I don't know you," Eve repeated, very carefully. "You're not my mother."

Trudy's lashes fluttered. There was something behind them, something in those eyes, but Eve couldn't quite focus.

"Sugar pie, you really don't remember? You and me and Bobby in our sweet little house in Summervale? Just north of Lufkin?"

There was a dull buzz of memory, just on the corner of her mind. But it was making her ill to search for it. "After..."

"You were such a quiet little thing, no bigger than two cents' worth of soap. Of course, you'd had a horrible time of it, hadn't you, honey? Poor little lamb. I said I could be a good mama to that poor little lamb, and I took you right on home with me."

"Foster care." Her lips felt bruised, swollen by the words. "After."

"You do remember!" Trudy's hands fluttered up to her cheeks. "I swear, hardly a day's gone by in all these years I haven't thought of you and wondered how you'd turned out. And just look! A policewoman, living in New York City. Married, too. No babies of your own yet, though?"

Sickness roiling in her belly. Fear scratching at her throat. "What do you want?"

"Why, to catch up with my girl." The voice was a trill, almost a song. "Bobby's with me. He's married now, and Zana's the sweetest thing on two legs. We came up from Texas to see the sights, and find our little girl. We have to have ourselves a real reunion. Bobby'll take the whole bunch of us out to dinner."

She sat back in the chair again, smoothed at her skirts while she studied Eve's face. "My, my, you grew up tall, didn't you? Still skinny as a snake, but it looks good on you. God knows I'm forever trying to shake off a few pounds. Bobby now, he's got his daddy's build—which is just about the only thing that no-account ever gave him, or me, for that matter. Just wait till he sees you!"

Eve stayed on her feet. "How did you find me?"

"Well, it's the damnedest thing, excuse my French. There I was puttering around my kitchen. You'll remember I set store by a clean kitchen. I had the screen on for company, and they were talking about those doctors who got murdered, and that cloning. Sin against God and humanity, you ask me, and I was about to switch to something else, but it was so interesting somehow. Why, the teeth nearly dropped out of my head when I saw you talking on there. They had your name, too, right there. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York City Police and Security Department. You're a heroine, that's what they said. And you'd been wounded, too. Poor little lamb. But you look to be fit now. You're looking very fit."

There was a woman sitting in her visitor's chair. Red hair, green eyes, lips curved in a smile of sweet sentiment. Eve saw a monster, fanged and clawed. One that didn't need to wait for the dark.

"You need to go. You have to go now."

"You must be busy as a one-armed paper hanger, and here I am just babbling on. You just tell me where you want to have dinner, and I'll get on, have Bobby make some reservations."

"No. No. I remember you." A little, some. It was easy to let it haze. It was necessary. "I'm not interested. I don't want to see you."

"What a thing to say." The voice registered hurt, but the eyes were hard now. "What a way to be. I took you into my home. I was a mama to you."

"No, you weren't." Dark rooms, so dark. Cold water. I set store by a clean kitchen.

No. Don't think now. Don't remember now.

"You're going to want to go now, right now. Quietly. I'm not a helpless child anymore. So you're going to want to go, and keep going."

"Now, Eve, honey—"

"Get out, get out. Now." Her hands were shaking so that she balled them into fists to hide the tremors. "Or I'll put you in a fucking cage. You'll be the one in a cage, I swear it."

Trudy picked up her purse, and a black coat she'd hung over the back of the chair. "Shame on you."

Her eyes as she walked by Eve were wet with tears. And hard as stone.

Eve started to close the door, to lock it. But the room was overwhelmed with the scent of roses. Her stomach clenched, so she braced her hands on her desk until the worst of the nausea passed.

"Sir, the woman who was... Lieutenant? Sir, are you all right?"

She shook her head at Trueheart's voice, waved him back. Digging for control, she straightened. She had to hold on, hold onto herself, until she got out. Got away. "Tell Detective Peabody something's come up. I have to go."

"Lieutenant, if there's anything I can do—"

"I just told you what to do." Because she couldn't bear the concern on his face, she left her desk, the unanswered 'link, the messages, the paperwork, arrowed straight through the bull pen, ignoring the hails.

She had to get out, outside. Away. Sweat was sliding down her back as she jumped on the first glide down. She could swear she felt her own bones trembling, and the cartilage in her knees sloshing, but she kept going. Even when she heard Peabody call her name, she kept going.

"Wait, wait! Whoa. What's the matter? What happened?"

"I have to go. You'll have to handle Zero, the PA. Next of kin of the victims may be calling in for more answers. They usually do. You have to deal with them. I have to go."

"Wait. Jesus, did something happen to Roarke?"

"No."

"Will you wait one damn minute!"

Instead, feeling her stomach revolt, Eve sprinted into the closest bathroom. She let the sickness come—what choice did she have? She let it come, the bitter bile of it, pouring through the fear and panic and memory, until she was empty.

"Okay. Okay." She was shaking, and her face ran with sweat. But there were no tears. There wouldn't be tears to add to the humiliation.

"Here. Here you go." Peabody pushed dampened tissues into her hand. "It's all I've got. I'll get some water."

"No." Eve let her head fall back on the wall of the stall. "No. Anything goes in now is just going to come up again. I'm okay."

"My ass. Morris has guests in the morgue that look better than you."

"I just need to go."

"Tell me what happened."

"I just need to go. I'm taking the rest of the day, comp time. You can handle the case, you're up to it." I'm not, she thought. I'm just not. "Any problems, just... just stall 'til tomorrow."

"Screw the case. Look, I'll get you home. You're in no shape to—"

"Peabody, if you're my friend, back off. Let me be. Just do the job," Eve said as she got shakily to her feet. "And let me be."

Peabody let her go, but she pulled out her pocket 'link as she headed back up to Homicide. Maybe she had to back off, but she knew someone who didn't.

And wouldn't.

*  *  *

Eve's first thought was to set her vehicle on auto. But it was better to be in control, better to concentrate on navigating the trip uptown. Better, she thought, to deal with the traffic, the snags, the time, the sheer bad temper of New York than her own misery.

Going home, that was the object. She'd be okay once she was home.

Maybe her stomach was raw and her head pounding, but she'd been sick before, and unhappy before. The first eight years of her life had been a slow ride through hell, and the ones following it hadn't been a damn picnic at the beach.

She'd gotten through, she'd gotten by.

She'd get through, she'd get by again.

She wasn't going to be sucked back in. She wasn't going to be a victim because some voice from the past panicked her.

But her hands shook on the wheel nonetheless, and she kept all the windows down to the harsh air, the city smells.

Soy dogs smoking on a glide-cart, the sour belch of a maxibus, a curbside recycler that hadn't been serviced in recent memory. She could take the stench of all that, and the sheer weight of aromas layering the air from the mass of humanity that thronged the streets and glides.

She could take the noise, the blats and the beeps that thumbed their collective noses at noise pollution laws. The tidal wave of voices rolled toward her, through her, past her. Thousands crammed the streets, the natives clipping along, tourists gawking and getting in the way. People juggling and hauling boxes and shopping bags.

Christmas was coming. Don't be late.

She'd bought a scarf off the street from a smart-ass kid she'd enjoyed. Green and black checks, for Dr. Mira's husband. What would Mira have to say about her reaction to today's ugly flashback?

Plenty. The criminal profiler and psychiatrist would have plenty to say in her classy and concerned way.

Eve didn't give a rat's bony ass.

She wanted home.

Her eyes blurred when the gates opened for her. Blurred with weariness and relief. The great, grand lawn flowed, acres of peace and beauty in the center of the chaos of the city she'd made hers.

Roarke had the vision, and the power, to create this haven for himself, and for her the sanctuary she hadn't known she'd wanted.

It looked like an elegant fortress, but it was home. Just home, for all its size and fierce beauty. Behind those walls, that stone and glass, was the life they'd created together. Their lives, their memories, spilled out into all those vast rooms.

He'd given her home, she needed to remember that. And to remember that no one could take it from her, no one could rip her back to when she'd had nothing, had been nothing.

No one could do that but Eve herself.

But she was cold, so cold, and the headache was tearing through her skull like demon claws.

She dragged herself out of the car, swayed on a hip that now ached horribly. Then she put one foot in front of the other until she'd made it up the steps, through the door.

She barely registered Summerset, Roarke's majordomo, glide into the foyer. She didn't have the energy to spar with him, hoped she had enough to get up the stairs.

"Don't talk to me." She gripped the newel post, and the cold sweat on her palms made it slick. She pulled herself up the stairs, one tread at a time.

The effort had her breath coming short. Her chest was so tight, so tight it felt as if someone had banded steel around it.

In the bedroom, she pulled off her coat, let it fall, dragged off her clothes as she aimed for the bathroom.

"Jets on," she ordered. "Full. One hundred and one degrees."

Naked, she stepped under the spray, into the heat. And exhausted, lowered herself to the shower floor, curled up, and let the heat and force of the water battle the cold.

*  *  *

That's where he found her, curled on the wet tiles with water beating over her. Steam hung like a curtain. It ripped at his heart to see her.

He grabbed a bath sheet. "Jets off," Roarke ordered, and crouched down to bundle her up.

"No. Don't." She slapped out at him, automatic defense without any sting. "Just leave me alone."

"Not in this lifetime. Stop it!" His voice was sharp, and the Irish in it had a bite. "You'll have boiled your bones in another minute." He hauled her up, lifting her off her feet and into his arms when she tried to curl up again. "Just hush now. Ssh. I've got you."

She closed her eyes. Shutting him out, he knew well enough. But he carried her into the bedroom, over to the platform that held their bed, and sitting with her on his lap rubbed the towel over her.

"I'm going to get you a robe, and a soother."

"I don't want—"

"Didn't ask what you wanted, did I?" He lifted her chin with his hand, traced his thumb down its shallow dent. "Eve, look at me. Look at me now." There was resentment as well as fatigue in her eyes—and it nearly made him smile. "You're too sick to argue with me, and we both know it. Whatever's hurt you... well, you'll tell me about it, then we'll see what's to be done." He touched his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

"I've already taken care of it. Nothing has to be done."

"Well, that'll save us some time, won't it?" He shifted her, then rose to get her a warm robe.

She'd gotten his suit wet, she noted. Damn suit probably cost more than the tailor made in two years. Now the shoulders and sleeves were damp. She watched in silence as he shrugged out of the jacket, laid it over the back of a chair in the sitting area.

Graceful as a cat, she thought, and a lot more dangerous. He'd probably been in one of his hundreds of weekly meetings, making plans to buy a freaking solar system. Now he was here, flipping through the closet for a robe. Long and lean, a body of elegant and disciplined muscles, the face of a young Irish god who could seduce with one look out of those Celtic blue eyes.

She didn't want him here. Didn't want anyone here.

"I want to be alone."

He arched an eyebrow, cocked his head a little so that silky mane of midnight flowed around his face. "To suffer and brood, is it? You'd have a better time fighting with me. Here, put this on."