Promises in Death (In Death 28)

“I don’t have a sister, so the supposition is—”

“Christ, Peabody, maybe he is just an oblivious idiot.” Eve pulled out Cleo Grady’s photo, tossed it on the table. “Not much family resemblance, but that’s understandable with half sibs.”

Alex stared at the photo, and Eve watched his color fade shade by shade. “Get out,” Alex said to the lawyers. “All of you, get out.”

“Mr. Ricker, it’s not in your best interest to—”

“Get out now, or you’re fired.” He stared at Eve as the lawyers packed up their briefcases and left the room. “If you’re lying about this, if you’re playing me on this, I’ll use every means at my disposal to have your badge.”

“Now I’m scared.”

“Don’t fuck with me!”

It was the anger, the raw emotion through it, that gave Eve some of the answers she’d wanted. “We’ll remain on record. You have dismissed your attorneys?”

“Yes, I’ve damn well dismissed them. Tell me who this is, and what she has to do with me.”

Morris opened the door of Ammy’s apartment for Cleo Grady. She stepped forward, said only, “Morris,” and gave him both her hands.

“I’m sorry I pulled you into this, Cleo. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t be. You shouldn’t try to do this alone. She was my friend. I want to help.”

She sounded so sincere, he thought. With just the slightest catch in her voice. How easy it would be to believe her, if he didn’t know. He shifted to let her inside, closed the door. “I don’t know if I could do it alone. But when her family asked, I . . . They don’t want to come back here. I can’t blame them. But going through her things, packing them up . . . There’s so much of her. And none of her.”

“I can take care of it. I’ve got the personal time coming. My LT knows I’m here today. Why don’t you let me deal with this, Morris? You don’t have to—”

“No, I said I would. I’ve started, but I keep, well, bogging down.” Successful lies, Morris thought, were wrapped in truth. “The police still have her electronics, her files, but I started on her clothes. Her family told me to keep whatever I wanted, or to give what I thought appropriate to her friends here. How do I know, Cleo? How can I?”

“I’ll help you.” She stood, looked around the living room. “She always kept her space nice. Here, at work. Made the rest of us look like slobs. She’d want us to put her things away, nice, if you know what I mean.”

“With care.”

“Yeah, with care.” She turned to him. “We’ll do that for her, Morris. Do you want to finish the clothes first?”

“Yes, that’s probably best.” He led the way into the bedroom where he had painfully begun the process of packing Ammy’s things. Now he continued the task with the woman he believed had murdered his lover.

They spoke of her, and other things. He looked straight into Cleo’s eyes as she folded one

of Ammy’s favorite sweaters. He could do that, Morris thought. He could let this woman touch Ammy’s things, speak of her, move around the room where he and Ammy had been intimate, had loved each other. He could do whatever he needed to do, and for now—at least for now—feel nothing.

A twinge, just a twinge cut through when she began to box and wrap jewelry.

“She always knew just what to wear with what.” Cleo’s eyes met his in the mirror, smiled. “It’s a talent I don’t share. I used to admire . . . oh.” She held up a pair of small, simple silver hoops. “She wore these a lot, for work anyway. They’re so her, you know? Just exactly right, not too much, not too little. They’re just . . . her.”

It hurt, heart and gut. But he did what he had to do. “You should have them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. Her family—”

Bitch, he thought as he watched her. You cold bitch. “Her family told me to give what was appropriate to friends. She’d want you to have those since they remind you of her.”

“I’d really love to, if you’re sure. I’d love to have something of hers.” Tears sheened her eyes as she smiled. “I’ll treasure them.”

“I know you will.”

There were so many ways to kill, he thought, as they closed and sealed boxes. Slow, painful ways, quick, merciful ways. Obscene ways. He knew them all. Did she? How many ways had she killed?

Had she felt anything when she’d taken Ammy’s life? Or had it been simply a task to be done, like sealing a box for shipment? He wanted to ask her that, just that single thing. Instead, he asked if she’d like coffee.