Memory in Death (In Death 22)

She jerked herself back, but didn’t turn. “I don’t know anything yet.”

Peabody simply stepped up beside her. Through the porthole of glass, Eve could see the emergency team working on Bobby. Why, she wondered, did places like this have glass? Why did they want people to see what they did in those rooms?

Hurting to heal.

Wasn’t it bad enough imagining without actually seeing the splash of blood, the beep of machines?

“Go back and check with Baxter,” Eve said. “I want whatever witness statements he has. Names of the wits. I want to verify the cabbie’s license. Then send him and Trueheart back. I want that record into the lab. You stay with Zana. See what else you can get out of her for now.”

“Should we get uniforms for his room? For when they finish in there?”

“Yeah.” Think positive, Eve decided. He’d be moved to a room, and not the morgue.

Alone, she watched, made herself watch. And wondered what the girl she’d been—lying in a room so much like the one beyond the glass—had to do with what was happening now.

One of the med team rushed out. Eve grabbed her arm. “What’s his status?”

“Holding. The doctor will give you more information. Family members need to stay in Waiting.”

“I’m not family.” Eve reached for her badge. “Your patient is a material witness in a homicide. I need to know if he’s going to make it.”

“It looks good. He’s lucky. If getting hit by a cab a couple days before Christmas counts as luck. Got some broken bones, contusions, lacerations. Some internal bleeding we’ve stopped. He’s stabilized, but the head trauma’s the main concern. You’re going to need to talk to the attending.”

“His wife’s in Waiting, with my partner. She needs to be updated.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve got a material witness on that table in there. I’m at the door.”

Irritation flashed over the nurse’s face, then she brushed a hand through the air. “Okay, okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Eve stood by. She heard the rush and confusion of the ER behind her, the beeps and the pages, the clop of feet with somewhere urgent to go.

At some point someone began to call out “Merry Christmas!” in slurred, drunken tones, laughing and singing as he was carted off. There was weeping, wailing, as a woman was hurried down the hall on a gurney. An orderly streamed by with a bucket that smelled of vomit.

Someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned, only to have homemade brew and poor dental hygiene waft into her face. The man responsible wore a filthy Santa suit with a white beard hanging off one ear.

“Merry Christmas! Want a present? Got a present for you right here!”

He grabbed his crotch, and flipped out his penis. At some more sober yet equally crazed time, he’d painted it up like a candy cane.

Eve studied the red and white stripes.

“Gee, that looks delicious, but I don’t have anything for you. Wait, yes, I do.”

His wide grin faded when she held up her badge.

“Aw, c’mon.”

“The reason I don’t haul you in for lewd and lascivious behavior, for indecent exposure—though, hey, nice paint job—and for possibly having the foulest breath on or off planet, is I’m busy. If I decide I’m not busy enough, you’re going to be spending Christmas in the tank. So blow.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“And put that thing away before you scare some kid,”

“Santa, there you are.” The nurse who’d come out earlier rolled her eyes at Eve, then got a good grip on Santa’s arm. “Let’s go over here.”

“Want a present? I got a present for you right here.”