Memory in Death (In Death 22)

She grumbled, but got up. “You’re lucky I’ve got some holiday spirit and didn’t clock you for the ‘deal with those dishes’ crack.”

“Ho, ho, ho.” He sat in her place and rolled up his sleeves. “Coffee’d be nice.”

“Thin ice, Ace. Cracking under your expensive shoes.”

“And a cookie. You ate most of my gelato.”

“Did not,” she called from the kitchen. Well, yes, she had, but that was beside the point.

Still, she wanted coffee herself, so she could as easily get two mugs. To amuse herself she got out a single minicookie, barely the size of her thumb. She put it and his mug on a plate.

“I guess the least I can do is get you coffee and a cookie when you’re putting the time in for me.” She came up behind him, leaned down to plant a wifely kiss on the top of his head.

Then she set the plate down. He glanced over at it, then up at her. “That’s cold, Eve. Even for you.”

“I know. And fun, too. What’ve you got?”

“I’m accessing her account, to determine what transportation company she used for her trips. When I have that, I’ll do a search on the dates that coordinate for her passport. Then I’ll get your manifests, and run a search there. I think that deserves a bleeding cookie.”

“Like this one.” From behind her back she pulled a decorated sugar cookie. Whatever else she could say about Summerset, and there was plenty, the man could bake.

“That’s more like it. Now why don’t you come and sit on my lap?”

“Just get the data, pal. I know it’s insulting to ask, but are you going to have any trouble with CompuGuard on this?”

“I’m ignoring that as you provided the cookie.”

She left him to it, set up at her auxiliary comp.

What, she wondered, did other married couples do after dinner? Hang and watch screen maybe, or go to their separate areas and fiddle with their hobbies or work. Talk on the ‘link to pals or family. Have people over.

They did some of that. Sometimes. Roarke had gotten her hooked on vids, especially the old black-and-whites from the early and mid-twentieth century. There were nights, here and there, they whiled away a couple hours that way—the way, she imagined, most considered normal.

If it was normal to while away a couple hours in a home theater bigger—certainly lusher—than most of the public ones.

Before Roarke had come into her life, she’d spent most nights alone, going over notes, gnawing at a case. Unless Mavis had pried her out for fun and games. She couldn’t have imagined herself like this, socked in with someone. So in tune with someone despite some of their elemental differences.

Now she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

With marriage on her mind, she moved to Bobby and Zana. They hadn’t been married long, so the assumption would be they’d spend a good deal of their time together. They worked together, lived together. Traveled, as least on this fatal trip, together.

Her search turned up a passport for Bobby. The last stamp four years earlier. Australia. A couple of other, earlier trips, each spaced about a year apart. One to Portugal, one to London.

Vacations, she decided. Annual jaunts. But nothing that required a passport since Australia.

Other travel, maybe. Starting a new business—maybe shorter, cheaper trips.

No passport for Zana, maiden name or married. Well, a lot of people never left the country. She hadn’t herself, before Roarke.

But she sat back, considered. Wouldn’t Bobby want to take his new bride on some big trip? Honeymoon, whatever. Show her some part of the world, especially one he’d traveled to and enjoyed.

That was one of Roarke’s deals, anyway. Let me show you the world.

Of course, maybe they hadn’t had the time, or wanted to spend the money. Not yet. Maybe he’d decided to start with New York once the idea was popped by his mother. It made sense enough.

But it was something to wonder about.

She poked at the other fosters again, looking for some connection, some click. One in a cage, one dead, she thought.