Innocent in Death (In Death #24)(93)

“Are we going shopping?”

“Just going to check a few of the places that sell that make and model, in a ten-block radius.”

“You said radius. Does that make you a geek?”

“Smart-ass.”

He took her hand. “That’s more like it.”

It didn’t blow the investigation open for her. Like the majority of cop work it was routine—repetitious and tedious.

She spoke to clerks, to managers, to the clueless and the chirpy. The item in question was a popular model, not the cheapest or the priciest. A good value, she was told endlessly. Practical, attractive, and hard-wearing.

“We had to order in another shipment two weeks before Christmas,” Eve was told by an eager-to-help assistant manager. “Great stocking stuffer or emergency gift, and we had them on sale. Couldn’t keep them on the shelf. We’re still selling them briskly. Valentine’s Day. Free inscription inside a heart, or with heart motif.”

“Adorable. You’ve got records. I’m interested in one of these models inscribed to ‘Craig.’” She spelled it out.

“Sure, I’ll look it up. If they went credit or debit, we’d have a record. Cash, we wouldn’t. Most people don’t do cash because once they come in, they end up buying multiple items.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve glanced around, noticed that Roarke was roaming, browsing, examining. All the things that people who actually liked to shop ended up doing.

“I’m really sorry.” And the guy actually looked it. “We don’t have a sale of that model—or any other—with an inscription added that says ‘Craig’—any spelling—during the last thirty days.”

“Go back another thirty.”

“Oh. Um.” He looked distressed now. “That’ll take me a few minutes, and on the main unit in the back, since I’d have to go back into last year. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Done. I’ll wait.” She turned now and saw that Roarke wasn’t just shopping, he was buying. She crossed the store, winding around displays. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making a purchase.”

“How? Why?” It must be a kind of sickness, she decided. “You already own six of everything.”

He only smiled, and took the bag from the clerk. “Thank you. And now,” he said to Eve, “it appears I have more of everything. Any luck?”

“No. Still checking. It was always going to come down to cash. Killer thinks clearly. Not going to leave a paper trail. It’s easy to breeze into one of these places, buy something, add the fee for inscription, pass some paper money, and walk out. Nobody’s going to remember you.”

The clerk came back, dripping apology. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find what you’re looking for. I can ask around, see if any of the clerks remember.”

“Yeah, great. Thanks. You can contact me if you find out anything.” She dug out a card, passed it over.

“That’s one to cross off,” she said when they were outside. “Had to be done, though.”

“Here.” He took out a pair of gloves from the shopping bag. “To replace the ones you’ve lost since Christmas.”

“I haven’t lost them.” Why was she always losing them? “They’re just somewhere else.”

“Of course. These can go on your hands. And these”—he tapped the bag—“will go in your vehicle to replace the ones on your hands once you lose those.”

“And when I lose those?”

“Back to square one. Now, should we go out to dinner, or go back to work?”

“We could eat dinner while we work.”

“How strangely that sort of thing suits us.” He draped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll drive.”

Since she’d picked the place for takeout, she let him pick the meal. She should’ve known it would be fish. Maybe it came from being born on an island, though she knew it was more likely he picked it because it was good for her.

Still, it was tasty, as was the bed of spicy rice that almost disguised the vegetables mixed in it. Besides, it washed down just fine with a crisp glass of white.

She told him about the search at the Straffos’ penthouse. This was what she wanted from him now, impressions, comments, insights. Telling him what she knew, what she’d seen, heard, observed. And for now, leaving out the seed of certainty planted dead center of her gut.

“Sad,” he said.

“What is?”

“Who. Straffo’s wife. That’s how she strikes me. Keeping everyone’s records and schedules with her own—needs to know, doesn’t she, where everyone is, what they’re doing. Wouldn’t want to have her own schedule, interests, impulses conflict with theirs. Then there’s her memorial box.”

“Memorial. I thought memory.”

“It’s both, isn’t it? To keep his memory fresh for her, and to memorialize him. For herself. Just for her. That’s sad. It must be a terrible thing for a mother. Then you said she hid some of her meds. Doesn’t want her husband to know she’s taking them. Doesn’t want to—what, upset, disappoint, worry him? So she keeps her little secrets.”

“Yeah, she does,” Eve agreed. “She’s got secrets.”