Memory in Death (In Death #22)(101)

"There's that. Of course, you'd get it all if Bobby's gone. More important, if he has an accident, fatal or otherwise, the cops're going to investigate, looking for that invisible man again. Meanwhile, you play it like it was an accident altogether. Gee, it had to be an accident, and it's all my fault for making him go shopping. I spilled my coffee. Boo-hoo."

He had to laugh. "You really dislike her."

"From the get. Just one of those itches between the shoulder blades." She moved them now as if to relieve it. "Now you've got Bobby in the hospital, and everyone—including him—is all there. So you're center, just where you deserve to be. Taken a backseat to that bitch long enough, haven't you?"

She looked back at him. Jeans and a sweater today, she thought. Day off, easy does it. Well, hell.

"Listen, I'm going to ask, and it's crappy to ask, but I'm going to. The record from the tail. I'll be lucky to get them on it tomorrow. If I could just hear it clean, individual voices, tones, separate the sounds."

"Computer lab."

"Look, I'll make it up to you."

"How? And be specific."

"I'll play that game with you. Holo-mode."

"There's a start."

"I'll wear the getup."

"Really?" He expanded the word, lasciviously. "And to the victor will go the spoils?"

"Which would be me."

"It's medieval at the moment. You'll have to call me Sir Roarke."

"Oh, step back."

He laughed. "That may be going too far. We'll see how it goes." He pushed to his feet. "Where's the disc?"

"I'll get it. I'll start on the shopping spree. Thanks. Really."

He handed her the coffee so she could take it with her. "How else would we spend our Christmas afternoon?"

* * *

She went to work, happy, she realized, to be back at it. With a hot pot of coffee and reams of data. Whatever she found, or didn't, this angle was going to mean interviewing sales clerks. Which meant the horror of going into retail establishments on the day after Christmas when everyone and their mothers would be in them exchanging gifts, looking for bargains, arguing about credit.

Trudy'd done pretty well for herself, Eve decided. Six pair of shoes in one spot. Jesus, what was it with people and shoes? Shipped all but two pairs home. Well, she was never going to wear them.

She cross-checked her inventory list, and came up with six pairs.

And here were three handbags from the same shop. Two sent home, one taken with customer. When she checked her list, she smiled.

"Yeah, I bet it was hard to resist a six-hundred-dollar purse. Six bills." She shook her head. "Just to lug stuff around in, most of which no rational human being has a need to lug anywhere. Let's see what else you helped yourself to."

Before she could continue, Roarke beeped on the house 'link.

"I've got this for you, Lieutenant."

"What? Already? It's only been about a half hour."

"I believe it was mentioned before: I'm good."

"On my way, and I seriously overpaid for this service."

"Pay to play," he said and clicked off.

She found him in the lab where he'd set up a group of units to handle individual commands. "This way," he told her, "you can ask for any mix you want, or a combination. I've also got her voiceprint, in case you want to try to match it at some point."

"Might be handy. Let's just run it through as it was first. I haven't taken the time to listen to it all the way through."

Now she did, hearing the gaggle of voices. Her own, Baxter's, Trueheart's. Checks and rechecks. Zana's, Bobby's discussing where they might go. The rustling as they donned their outdoor gear.

I'm so glad we're getting out. It'll do us both good. Zana.

Hasn't been much of a trip for you. Bobby.

Oh, now, honey, don't worry about me. I just want you to try to put all this awful business aside for just a couple hours. We've got each other, remember. That's what counts.

They went out with Zana chattering about Christmas trees.

She heard New York as they went outside. Horns, voices, air blimps, the unmistakable belching of a maxibus. It was all a backdrop for more chatter. The weather, the buildings, the traffic, the shops. Interspersed were Baxter and Trueheart, commenting on direction, making small talk.

Man, you see the rack on that one? God is a man, and he's on my side. Baxter.

God might be a woman, sir, deliberately tempting you with what you can't have. Trueheart.

"Not bad, kid," Eve mumbled. "God, you could die of boredom listening to this crap. 'Oooh, look at this, honey. Oh, my goodness,' blah, blah, blah."

"Do you want to move forward?" Roarke asked her.

"No. We'll stick it out."

She drank coffee, and stuck, through the incessant shopping for and purchasing of a table tree, the extra ornaments. The giggles when Bobby made her turn around and close her eyes while he bought her a pair of earrings. Then the cooing about not opening them until Christmas.

"This may make me sick."

They discussed lunch. Should they do this, do that?

"Jesus, do something! Tourists," she said. "They kill me."