Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“Oh, yeah. Ick. Well, we’ll keep thinking. Catch you later.”

Imagining an enormous piece of fruit with eyes and legs inside her friend’s belly, Eve shuddered. To get rid of it, she contacted Whitney’s office.

“Commander,” she began when she was put through, “I’ve had a break in the Lombard homicide.”

* * *

She took the elevator straight up from the garage, taking on the body jam for the sake of speed. She wanted to move now, move fast. It must’ve shown on her face, as Peabody jumped up from her desk the minute Eve came into the bull pen.

“Sir. Reo’s on her way. I shot her the data, up to current, so she’d have a sense before you spoke with her. Aw, you’re wearing the sweater I made you.”

Baffled for a moment, Eve looked down. She’d been too distracted that morning to pay attention to something like wardrobe. But saw now she was wearing Peabody’s sweater.

“Ah… it’s warm, but light. I like it. It’s… You made it?”

“Yeah. Both of them—Roarke’s, too. And I made this really mag jacket for McNab. Worked on that up at Mavis’s, so he wouldn’t catch on. Been awhile since I did any serious weaving.”

She reached out to fiddle with Eve’s sleeve. “McNab sprang for the material, and we worked on the colors together. It looks good.”

Momentarily baffled, Eve looked down at the sweater, soft and warm and in shades of heathery blue. “It’s great.” She didn’t think anyone had ever made her a sweater, or much of anything else for that matter. Leonardo didn’t count, she decided. It was his business.

“It’s really great,” she added. “Thanks.”

“We wanted to do something unique, you know? Because you guys are. And personal. So I’m glad you like it.”

“I do.” Or did now that she knew it was Peabody’s own work. Before that, it had just been a sweater.

“Baxter, Trueheart. With me.” She headed into her office. It was too small for the four of them, but she didn’t want to take time to book a conference room.

“I’m working on warrants. Zana Lombard.”

“The Texas housewife?” Baxter interrupted.

“The Texas housewife, who I believe I can prove was once fostered by Trudy Lombard. Who changed her identity for the purpose—at least in part—of ingratiating herself with the victim’s son in order to exact revenge on the mother. I want this bumping, so when those warrants come through, I’m having the subject escorted here. Ostensibly to go over her statements, update her, blah, blah. Once her hotel room’s clear, I want you in there. Here’s what I’m looking for.”

She took out a disc. “Descriptions here of a handbag, perfume, a sweater, and some enhancements purchased by the victim. I think Zana, who is in actuality one Marnie Ralston, helped herself to them after she killed Trudy Lombard. Find them, and let me know when you do.

“Peabody.”

“We’re rolling.”

“Contact the investigators of the Miami bombing. Club Zed, spring of 2055. Data’s in the file. I want to know exactly how body was ID’d. Exactly. Send Reo through when she gets here.”

“She pushed him into the street,” Baxter said. “That’s why we didn’t see anybody tailing them, didn’t see anyone approach. She did it herself.”

“That’s what I get.” She saw, too, both relief and anger wash over his face. “And what happened there’s on me because I didn’t see that step. Find those goods, and anything else that puts her with Trudy the night of the murder.”

She shoved them out, shut her door. Sitting at her desk, she took a moment to smooth herself out, then contacted Zana at the hotel.

“Hey, sorry. I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sleeping very well. Gosh, it’s after nine.” She rubbed her eyes like a child. “I think Bobby’s going to get out of the hospital this afternoon. It may not be until tomorrow, but I’m hoping for today. They’re going to call me, so I can have everything ready for him.”

“That’s good news.”

“The best. We had a really nice Christmas.” She said it, Eve noted, with the tone of a brave little wife, making the best of the bad. “I hope you did, too.”

“Yeah, really nice. Listen, Zana, I hate to put you out, but I need to go over some things with you for reports. Paperwork, routine red tape that got bogged down with the holidays. It would really help me out if you could come down here. I’m buried under it. I can have you driven down.”