Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“You got it.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Del rose. “I’ll be right back.”

He went out with Eve, took a few steps away from the door. “She has anxiety attacks if she tries to remember any more, any real details. And every time she sleeps without aid, she has nightmares. Right now she trusts me, so I can calm her down.”

“Mira will help there.”

“I know it. Physically, she’s healing well. Emotionally, it’s going to be a longer road.”

He glanced back at the door, toyed with the stethoscope hanging out of his pocket. “She won’t give me permission to contact her family. Her parents were killed when she was a kid, but she was raised by friends of theirs, grew up with their daughter like a sister.”

“I know. I’m a cop.”

“But she won’t budge on that. She could use family, but my hands are tied.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. “And you’re implying mine aren’t.”

“I’m just saying that maybe, during the course of your investigation, you’d have reason to contact them.”

“Actually, it’s on my list. I’d prefer that she give the nod, but I’ve got some questions.”

“Sooner the better. That’s my medical and personal opinion. She’ll have to be released in a couple days, even if I postpone it. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll feel out the family, get a gauge.”

“Great. Now, speaking as a medical professional, I advise you to go home, get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Good advice. Bill me,” Eve said and walked away to take it.

7

Eve started her drive on auto to do a quick search of Olsen’s and Tredway’s files for a mention of the caterer. If she stayed on auto, she’d likely nod off, then end up sleeping in the car parked outside the house.

She’d rather be in bed.

She drove across town, cursing the traffic to help stay alert. Then let out a long sigh of relief when she drove through the gates.

Night had fallen when she’d done her second round in the crime scene, and low, sulky clouds smothered moon and stars. But the house, with all its turrets and towers, its dignified gray stone, glowed in welcome.

She wound up the drive, parked in front of the entrance, and let out one more sigh before grabbing her file bag. She stepped out of the car into the bitter wind and thought: Winter sucks. Pushed her way through the wind to the door, and stepped inside to warmth and light and quiet.

Where the bony figure of Summerset loomed in the foyer with the pudge of a cat at his feet.

Galahad trotted to her to slip and slide through her legs.

As she shrugged out of her coat, she eyed Summerset and thought of the ghoul costume.

“Where were you on the night of November twenty-eight?” she demanded.

He arched one elegant eyebrow. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”

“Never mind.” She pulled off her hat, her scarf, tossed them on the newel post with her coat. “That asshole needed makeup to pull off the ghoul. You’re a natural.”

Ridiculously pleased she’d had the energy and brainpower for some decent snark, she started upstairs. The cat bounded up with her.

She thought of her newly redone office with its already beloved command center—with an AutoChef that would provide coffee right there. But calculated she didn’t have the energy or brainpower to so much as set up her murder board, much less review her notes or add to them.

Instead, she aimed for the bedroom.