Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“I did.”

“On Christmas morning.”

“Guilty.”

She lowered the cup, grinned hugely. “We’re really sick people, aren’t we?”

“I prefer thinking we’re very healthy individuals who know what suits us best.” He rose, lithe as a cat in black jeans and sweater. “And what would suit us, I believe, is something light, up in the solarium where we can lord it over the city while you talk through your latest weird dream.”

“You know what I said last night?”

“Drunk or sober?”

“Either. I said I loved you. Still do.”

They had fresh fruit at the top of the house, looking through the glass at a sky that decided to give New York a break and coast over it bright and blue.

She didn’t argue with his notion that as it was Christmas they should have mimosas.

“You gave her—you, that is—your badge.”

“I don’t know why exactly. Mira’d probably have interpretations and all that shrink stuff. I guess it was what I wanted most. Or would, eventually, want most.”

“The tree ornaments are easy enough.”

“Yeah, even I can get that. They’re dead, so they’re mine. But Trudy wasn’t up there.”

“Because you haven’t finished with her. You can’t put her up with the others—I won’t say ‘aside’ because you never put them aside. You won’t put her up until you’ve closed the case.”

“This lawyer keeps showing up. She’s not in it. I know she’s not, but she’s the one I talked to. Both times.”

“She’s the one you understand best, I’d say. She was up-front with you on her feelings toward Trudy, didn’t quibble about them. And she fought back, eventually.”

He offered her a raspberry. “She stood up, as you would.”

“One of us. I knew it, or the kid did.”

“A cop even then, in some part of you.”

“She also knew people mostly aren’t any damn good.” She said it lightly, tried another raspberry. Then sat up straight. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. The presents. Let me think.”

She pushed out of the chair, roamed the solarium with its potted trees, musical fountain.

“Presents and greed and Christmas and shopping. She bought stuff. I know Trudy bought stuff before she hit on either of us. I went through her credits and debits. She went on a fast, hard spree.”

“And?”

“Bags in her room, shopping bags. I’ve got the stuff in inventory, but I never checked all the contents, one by one, with the accounts. She didn’t buy anything like, you know, diamonds. Clothes, some perfume, shoes. She wasn’t killed for new shoes, so I didn’t go through it all, do a checklist. Just a quick skim. Some of it wasn’t there, but she had some shipped from stores. I checked that. But I didn’t go through it all, every piece.”

“Why would you?”

“Greed, envy, coveting. Women are all the time, ‘Oooh, I love your outfit, your shoes, those earrings.’ Whatever.” She circled a hand in the air when he laughed. “They went shopping together, the three of them, when they got in. Zana knew what she bought. Some of the stuff got shipped. Why would we bother to make sure some damn shirt made it to Texas? Gives her open season, doesn’t it?”

She whirled back. “She’s vain, under it. Always puts herself together. I bet Trudy bought some nice things for herself, and they’re close enough to the same size. Who’s going to know if her killer helped herself to a couple of things she liked best? Bobby’s not going to notice. Men don’t. Present company excepted.”

“And you get that from dreaming about a corpse surrounded by presents.”

“I get that because I’m groping. And I don’t know, maybe my subconscious is working something out. The thing is, it fits with my sense of her, of Zana. Opportunistic. If she took something, if I can prove she had something from the room… it’s still wild circumstantial evidence any PD in his first week could blow holes in, but it’s something to needle her with.”