Memory in Death (8 page)

"All right."

"Here's the deal." She turned to Peabody and gave what she considered a statement. "We had a houseful of caterers and decorators and God knows crawling all over the house all day Saturday. All day. When Roarke has outside contractors on the premises, he keeps cams on, full. You're going to contact Feeney, request that he pick up those discs, examine the equipment, and verify we were both there, all day."

"I'll take care of it. I'm going to repeat: Nobody's going to look at you." She held up a hand before Eve could interrupt. "Neither would you, Dallas, after five minutes. A face punch, sure. You're not above it. And so what? But that was more than a punch that left her face messed up. More than a fist, and you are above that. She tries to shake Roarke down? Shit, she had to be bird stupid. He'd scrape her off like, well, like you'd scrape flying rat shit off your shoe. It's a nonissue. Trust me, I'm a detective."

"Been a while since you've managed to work that into a conversation."

"I've grown mature, and selective." As they rounded the corner, Peabody dipped her hands into her pockets. "He's going to have to be interviewed, you know."

"Yeah." She could see him leaning up against the side of her vehicle— where had that come from—and working on his PPC. "I know."

He looked over, spotted her. His eyebrows lifted, and he tucked his PPC away. "Out for a stroll?"

"You never know where cop work's going to take you."

"Obviously. Hello, Peabody. Recovered this morning?"

"Barely. It was a hell of a party."

"Give us a minute, will you?" Eve asked her.

"Sure. I'll go talk to people, and get those discs."

When they were alone, Eve gave her vehicle's tire a little boot. "How did this get here?"

"A bit of sleight of hand. I assumed you'd want your own."

"Yeah, you're right."

"I contacted Mira, let her know what was going on and that you'd be tied up for a while."

"Mira? Oh, right, right." She shoved a hand through her hair. "Forgot. Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"We'll negotiate."

"I've got to ask you for one more. I need you to come down, make an official statement regarding your conversation with the victim on Friday at your office."

Something sizzled in his eyes. "Am I on your short list, Lieutenant?"

"Don't pull that. Don't." She drew a breath in, slowly. Released it, slowly. "Another investigator catches this, we're both on the short list until we clear it up. We both had motive to cause her pain, and someone caused her plenty. We're out regarding the murder. Can't kill someone in Midtown when you're partying with the chief of police in another part of town. Still, we've both got connections, and the wherewithal to hire somebody to do it."

"And we're both smart enough to have hired someone who wouldn't be quite so obvious and sloppy."

"Maybe, but sometimes obvious and sloppy is purposeful. Added to it, somebody busted up her face earlier. We need to cover that, too."

"So, you don't think I murdered her, but as for beating her up—"

"Stop it." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Hitting me with this attitude isn't helping."

"Which attitude would you prefer I hit you with? I have several available."

"Goddamn it, Roarke."

"All right, all right." He waved a hand in dismissal. "It just pisses me off, having my wife interview me over assault."

"Well, cheer up, I won't be. Peabody'll handle it."

"Won't that be delightful?" He took her arms, turned her so they were toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. "I want you to tell me—I want you to look at me and tell me, right now, if you believe I put hands on her."

"No." There was no hesitation. "It's not your style, and if you'd lost it enough to jump out of character, you'd have told me already. The fact is, it's my style, and I'll be putting her visit to me in my report."

He swore. "Bloody bitch is as much trouble dead as she was alive. Don't give me that look. I won't be lighting a candle for her. You would, in your way. Because for better or worse, she's yours now, and you'll stand for her because you can't do otherwise."

He continued to hold her arms, and now ran his hands lightly up and down. "I'll come with you now, and have it done."

"Crappy way to spend a Sunday."

"Wouldn't be the first," he said and opened the car door.

*  *  *

At Central, Peabody set up in one of the interview rooms. Her movements were a little jerky, and her eyes stayed down.

"Relax," Roarke advised. "I believe it's traditional for the subject to be nervous rather than the investigator."

"It's awkward. It's just a formality." Peabody looked up. "It sucks. It's a sucky formality."

"Hopefully, it'll be quick and painless for both of us."

"You ready?"

"Go ahead."

She had to clear her throat, but read the data into record. "Sir, we understand you're here voluntarily, and we appreciate your cooperation with this investigation."

"Whatever I can do..." He shifted his gaze to the long mirror, to indicate he knew very well Eve was observing from the other side. "For the department."

"You were acquainted with Trudy Lombard."

"Not really. I had the occasion to meet her once, when she requested a meeting with me, at my office, this past Friday."

"Why did you agree to meet her?"

"Curiosity. I was aware that my wife was briefly in her charge many years ago."

"Ms. Lombard was Lieutenant Dallas's foster mother for a five-and-a-half-month period in 2036."

"That was my understanding."

"Were you aware that Ms. Lombard had made contact with the lieutenant at her office in this facility this past Thursday?"

"I was."

"And how would you describe the lieutenant's reaction to that contact?"

"As her business."

When Peabody opened her mouth, shut it again, he shrugged. "My wife had no desire to renew the relationship. Her memory of that time was unhappy, and I believe she preferred to keep it in the past."

"But you agreed to meet with Ms. Lombard, at your office in Mid-town."

"Yes, as I said, I was curious." His gaze tracked to the mirror again, and, he was sure, met Eve's.

"I wondered what she wanted."

"What was it she wanted?"

"Money, naturally. Her initial pitch was to play on my sympathy, to enlist me to help her soften the lieutenant. Her claim was that my wife was mistaken in her feelings toward her, and her memory of that portion of her life."

He paused, looked at Peabody, and nearly smiled. "As the lieutenant is, as you know, rarely mistaken on such matters, I didn't find the woman's claims credible, and wasn't sympathetic. I suggested that she leave things as they were."

"But she wanted you to pay her?"

"Yes. Two million dollars was the suggestion. She would go back to Texas for that amount. She was unhappy when I informed her that I had no intention of paying her any amount, at any time."

"Did she threaten you in some way?"

"She was no threat, to me or mine. She was an irritant at worst. A kind of leech, you could say, who'd hoped to suck a bit of blood out of what was a difficult time in my wife's childhood."

"Did you consider her request for money blackmail?"

Tricky area, Roarke thought. "She may have hoped I'd see it that way—I can't say. For myself, I considered it ridiculous, and nothing that I, or the lieutenant, should concern ourselves with."

"It didn't make you angry? Somebody comes into your office, tries to hose you down? It'd tick me off."

He smiled at her, wished he could tell her she was doing a good job of it. "To be frank, Detective, I'd expected her to try me. It seemed the most logical reason for her contacting the lieutenant after all these years."

He leaned back in his chair. "Angry? No. On the contrary, I got some satisfaction out of the meeting, by letting her know, unmistakably, that there would be no payment. Now or ever."

"How did you make that clear?"

"By telling her just that. We spoke in my office for perhaps ten minutes, and I sent her on her way. I requested that my admin inform Security, to make certain she'd left the building. Oh, there's a record of her entering and exiting the building, and my office. Standard security measures. I took it upon myself to contact Captain Feeney of EDD, and ask that he personally retrieve those discs so that you have them for your files. I thought that would be best."

"Good." Peabody's eyes went wide. "That's good. Um, did you have contact with Ms. Lombard after she left your office on Friday?"

"None. The lieutenant and I spent the evening at home on Friday, and she and I hosted a large holiday party on Saturday at our home. We were quite busy throughout the day with preparations. There are also security discs for that period, as we had numerous outside contractors in our home. Captain Feeney will also retrieve those. And, of course, Saturday evening we were among more than two hundred and fifty friends, acquaintances, and business colleagues from approximately eight p.m. until after three in the morning. I'm happy to provide you with the guest list."

"We appreciate it. Did you have any physical contact with Trudy Lombard, at any time?"

His voice remained neutral, but he allowed just a hint of disgust to show on his face. "I shook her hand when we met. That was quite enough."

"Could you tell me why you and the lieutenant were at the West Side Hotel this morning?"

"We'd decided it would be best if the lieutenant spoke to Lombard face-to-face, to inform her that she—my wife—had no desire for further contact, and that neither of us intended to pay for the privilege of choice."

Peabody nodded. "Thank you. Again, we appreciate your cooperation in this matter. Interview end."

She heaved out a breath, went comically limp in her chair. "Thank God that's over."

He reached over to pat her hand. "How'd we do?"

"She'll let us know, believe me, but my take? You were forthcoming, articulate, and gave the details. You're alibied up to your gonads— Oh, sorry."

"Not a problem, I like knowing that part of my anatomy is protected." He glanced over as the door opened. "Now this one may bring out the rubber hoses. But I could learn to like it."

"Why didn't you tell me you'd contacted Feeney?" Eve demanded.

"I believe I just did."

"You could've—never mind. Peabody, let's start those runs, and do a quick check of the other guests at the hotel. I'll be a minute."

"See you later," Peabody said to Roarke.

"I'm going to—"

"Be a while." Roarke finished Eve's sentence. "I can find my way home."

"It's good you did this. Good it's done and out of the way. She could've pushed a little harder, but she got the details, and that's what counts."

"All right, then. About what you owe me? I've got my price."

She pursed her lips in thought. "We've probably got some rubber hoses in the basement somewhere."

And he laughed. "There's my girl. Go by Mira's when you're done."

"I don't know how long—"

"It won't matter. Go talk to Mira, then come home to me."

"Where else would I go?"

"The gifts? They're in the boot of your car."

"That's trunk in the U. S. of A., mick-boy."

"Right." He grabbed her arms, yanked her forward, kissed her good and hard. "I'll be waiting."

He would, she thought. She had someone waiting for her, and that was her miracle.

*  *  *

At her desk with an oversized mug of black coffee, Eve studied the official data on Lombard, Bobby.

Not Robert, she noted. He was two years her senior, the product of a legal cohab that had dissolved when he'd been two. His father, when she did a cross-run, was listed as Gruber, John, married since 2046, and residing in Toronto.

Bobby himself had graduated from business college and been employed at Plain Deal Real Estate from that time until eighteen months earlier, when he'd gone into partnership with a Densil K. Easton to form L and E Realtors, in Copper Cove, Texas. He'd married Kline, Zana, a year later.

No criminal.

Zana was twenty-eight, originally from Houston. No paternity listed on her record. She'd been, apparently, raised by her mother, who had died in a vehicular accident when Zana was twenty-four.

She, too, had gone to a business college, and was listed as a C.P.A. One, Eve noted, who'd been employed by L and E Realtors almost from the onset.

So she moved to Copper Cove, and married the boss, Eve thought.

No criminal, no previous marriage or cohab.

Officially, they came off as what they seemed, she decided. A couple of simple, ordinary people who'd had some extreme bad luck.

Finally, she pulled up Trudy Lombard.

She skimmed over what she already knew, and lifted her eyebrows at the employment record.

She'd been a health care assistant, a receptionist in a manufacturing firm. She'd applied for professional mother status after the birth of her son, and had worked part-time—reporting an income just under the legal limit to retain that status.

Retail clerk, Eve scanned. Three different employers. Data cruncher, two employers. Domestic coordinator? What the hell was that? Whatever it was, it hadn't lasted either.

She'd also lived in four different places, all in Texas, over a six-year period.

On the grift, Eve thought. That's what the pattern told her. Run the game, wring it dry, move on.

She'd applied for, tested for, and been approved for foster parenting. Had applied and been granted the retention of full pro-mom status under the fostering waiver—make every penny count, Eve thought. Austin area, Eve noted, for a full year, before she'd moved again, applied again, been approved again.

Fourteen months in Beaumont, then another move, another application. Another approval.

"Itchy feet? You know what, Trudy, you bitch? I don't think so. Then I came along, and look here, you pulled up stakes again three months after I went back inside. More applications, more approvals, and you just grifted your way around the big-ass state of Texas, taking the fostering fees, right up until Bobby graduated from college and your pro-mom status was up."