Memory in Death (In Death #22)(103)

"Yeah, you got that. Didn't think that far ahead. Didn't think we'd look there. Why bother when she'd left that nice blood trail leading down the emergency escape?"

"And now?"

"Now I dodge the laser stream of hassling with store clerks the day after Christmas." Now she did do a quick dance. "The prints are going to be enough to get me a search warrant. Enough for me to bring her into Interview. I just want to check on a couple other things first, settle on my initial approach."

"Busy day for you."

"I'm ready for one. I'm going to start out here, where it's quiet. Peabody's not due in for a few hours anyway."

"I'll leave you to it. I need to go." But he crossed to her first, cupped her chin to kiss her. "It was nice having you to myself for a couple of days."

"Nice being had."

"Remember that, because I'm going to wheedle you into a few days away. Sun, sand, sea."

"That doesn't sound like a hardship."

"Why don't you mark down January second, then. We'll make it work."

"Okay."

He started out, stopped at the door. "Eve? Will you ask her why? Does it matter?"

"I'll ask. It always matters."

Alone, she brought up the data and images on all former fosters. Once again, she looked for any connection between them. A school, a job, a case worker, a teacher. But there was only Trudy at the core of it.

"One dead," she said softly. "Everyone else alive and accounted for."

So she worked with the dead.

Ralston, Marnie, mother deceased, father unknown. Just, she thought, as Zana's records listed her mother deceased, with father unknown. It was smart to keep data close to the truth when switching IDs.

She ordered Marnie's files on-screen.

Diverse juvenile record, Eve noted. Shoplifting, petty thefts, vandalism, malicious mischief, possession. Raised those stakes to grand theft auto at the tender age of fifteen.

Psychiatric eval claimed recalcitrant, pathological liar with sociopathic tendencies. Strong IQ.

She read the psychiatrist's notes.

Subject is extremely bright, clever. Enjoys pitching her wits against authority. She is an organized thinker who excels at becoming what she believes is most expedient to her goals.

"That's my girl," Eve murmured.

While she can and does appear cooperative for periods of time, this has proved to be a deliberate and conscious adjustment of behavior. Though she understands right from wrong, she chooses whatever course she believes will gain her the most, i.e., attention, privileges. Her need to deceive is twofold:

One, for gain. Two, to illustrate her superiority over those in authority, which would be rooted in her history of abuse and neglect.

"Yeah, maybe. Or maybe she just likes lying." People like lying to cops, she remembered. For some, it was almost knee-jerk.

Eve brought up the history, including the medical.

Broken hand, broken nose, contusions, lacerations. Black eyes, concussions. All of which, according to reports—medical, police, child protection—were eventually hung on the mother. Mother did time, kid was tossed into the system. Landed in Trudy's lap.

But those injuries had been suffered before the psychiatric report. Before the worst of the criminal offenses. And Marnie Ralston had spent nearly a year with Trudy from the age of twelve to thirteen.

Ran away, eluded authorities for nearly two years before the pop on GTA. Yeah, yeah, clever girl. A young girl had to be smart, resourceful, and just plain lucky to last on the streets that long.

And when they'd snapped her up, the clever girl—despite the shrink's findings—was placed in another foster home. Ran off weeks later, and stayed underground until turning eighteen.

Kept out of trouble—or off the radar, Eve noted. Several short-term employments. Stripping, dancing, club work, bar work.

Then, according to the records, boom.

"I just don't think so."

Eve brought up the last known ID image of Marnie Ralston, split-screened it with Zana's. Brown hair on Marnie, worn short and straight, she mused. And there was a hard look to her, a kind of edge that said she'd been there and done it, and wouldn't mind doing it all again.

She toyed with the idea of calling in Yancy or another police artist, but decided to fiddle awhile on her own.

"Computer, magnify eyes only, both images."

When the task was complete, she sat back, studied. The eye color was nearly the same—and any variant could be attributed to fluctuations in the imaging, or the subject's enhancements. The shape was different. Downturned on Marnie, wide, more rounded on Zana's.

She tried the eyebrows—more of an arch on Zana's. The nose— more narrow, slight uptilt.

Was it reaching, she thought, to see those changes as improvements? The sort a vain woman might pay for if she believed they'd make her more attractive? Especially one who might want to change her appearance for other reasons?

But when she tried the mouths, her own curved up. "Oh, now, I guess you liked your lips. Computer, run comparison of current images. Are they a match?"

Working... Current images are a match.

"Changed your hair, your eyes, your nose. Planed down the cheeks, but you left your mouth alone. Put on a few pounds," she said aloud as she checked height and weight. "Softened yourself up. But you couldn't do anything about your height."