Memory in Death (In Death 22)

As she headed for the elevator, she pulled out her communicator again. “Peabody, status.”

“Two blocks west. Got what we were looking for, first stop.”

“Meet me in front of the hotel.”

“Are we a go?”

“We’re a go,” Eve said. She switched over to Baxter. “We’re in place. You have the signals.”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Give them some room. Let’s see how they spend their day.”

On the street, she took a look around. If Trudy’s killer had tracked them to the new location—and anything was possible—where would he wait and watch? There were always places. A restaurant, another hotel room, even the street for a period of time.

But those chances were slim. Tracking them wouldn’t have been a cinch. That would take skill, smarts, and luck. Finding a spot to watch for a couple of days would take a great deal of patience.

And for what purpose? Money, if money was the object, would only come through them if she paid it out. Smarter, simpler, to try the direct blackmail route.

Smarter, simpler, to try to shake her rather than the victim’s daughter-in-law.

She leaned on her car as she waited for Peabody. If money was the motive for murder, why wasn’t the killer pushing harder for a payoff?

Peabody hiked up, rosy-cheeked from the cold and the walk.

“What if the money’s the beard?”

“Whose beard?”

“The beard, Peabody. I keep circling back to payback instead of payoff. It just slides in better. But if it’s payback, why do you wait until she’s in New York, coming after me? Why do you smash her head in after she’s made contact? Why don’t you wait until you see if she gets the dough first? Or you take her out at her home base, easier to make it look accidental.”

“Maybe the killer lives here. In New York. Maybe she was playing two at once.”

“Maybe. But so far, I’ve got nobody who’s local popping out of her file. If it was impulse, why hang around trying to threaten Zana into coughing up money she doesn’t have?”

“Because now you’re greedy.”

“Yeah, greed’s usually good.” But it wasn’t gelling for her.

She got in the car. She didn’t want to be loitering out front when and if the Lombards came out.

“What did you find out?” she asked Peabody.

“National Bank, a block from the boutique. One of the tellers made her photo straight off. She was in right before they closed, Friday afternoon. Wanted two hundred single-dollar credits. Snippy about it, so says the teller. Wanted them loose. No bag, no rolls. Just dumped them into her purse. Oh, they want a warrant before they turn over any security discs.”

“Get one. Let’s tie up all the threads.”

“Where are we heading?”

“Back to the murder scene. I’ve run re-enactments on the comp. I want to try it on the spot.” She dug out her homer, stuck it on the dash. “Baxter and Trueheart can handle the shadow, but we’ll keep an eye on them anyway.”

“Haven’t moved yet,” Peabody observed.

“They will.”

Eve took a second-level street slot at the West Side Hotel. “How could there be anything left in the city to buy?” She clambered down, scowling at the masses of people. “What more could they possibly want?”

“Speaking for myself, I want lots and lots. Piles of boxes with big shiny bows. And if McNab didn’t spring for something shiny, I’ll have to hurt him. Maybe we’ll get that snow.” She sniffed the air like a hound. “Smells like it.”