Memory in Death (In Death #22)(38)

"Do you?"

"Sometimes, this kind of time, and I can't really get a handle on it. I don't even know how many zeros that is because my brain goes fuzzy. And I don't know the number that goes ahead of them because once you have all those zeros it's just ridiculous anyway. She tried to shake him down."

"Yes, he gave me the basics. I'm sure he handled it appropriately. Would you have wanted him to pay her off?"

"No." Her eyes went hot. "Not one cent out of the billions. She used to tell me I didn't have a mother or a father because I was so stupid that they'd tossed me away because I wasn't worth the trouble."

Mira lifted her wine, sipped, to give herself a chance to push back her own anger. "She should never have passed the screening. You know that."

"She was smart. I look back now, and I see she was smart, the way you have to be to run long cons or quick scams successfully. She played the system, figured the ins and outs. I think, well, you're the head doctor, but I think she believed her own bullshit. You have to believe the lie to live it, to make others see you the way you need to be seen."

"Very possibly," Mira agreed. "To have lived it for so long."

"She had to figure she deserved the money, had earned it. Had to believe she'd worked and sacrificed, and given me a home out of her humanitarian nature, and now, hey, how about a little something for old times' sake? She was a player," Eve said, half to herself. "She was a player, so maybe she played too deep with somebody. I don't know."

"You could pass this off. In fact, you may be asked to do so."

"I won't. I think I've got that covered. I'll call in favors if I have to, but I'm going to see it through. It's necessary."

"I agree. That surprises you?" Mira asked when Eve stared at her. "She made you feel helpless and worthless, stupid and empty. You know better than that, but you need to feel it, to prove it, and to do that you'll need to take an active part in resolving this. I'll say just that to Commander Whitney."

"That has weight. Thanks."

* * *

When she stepped through the door of her home, Summerset was looming like a black crow in the foyer, fat Galahad at his feet. She knew by the gleam in his beady eyes he was primed.

"I find myself surprised," he said in what she figured he considered droll tones. "You're out for several hours, yet you return—dare I say— almost fashionably dressed, with nothing torn or bloodied.

A remarkable feat."

"I find myself surprised that no one's bothered to beat you into a pulpy mass just on the general principle of your ugliness. But the day's young yet, for both of us."

She whipped off her coat, dumped it on the newel post just because she could, and strutted up the stairs. The quick and habitual sally made her feel marginally better. It was just the thing to take Bobby's devastated face out of her head, at least temporarily.

She went straight to her office. She would set up a murder board here, set up files and create a secondary base, on the off chance Whitney vetoed both her and Mira. If she was ordered to step aside, officially, she intended to be ready to pursue the work on her own time.

She engaged her 'link to touch base with Morris.

"I'm going to come by in the morning," she told him. "Am I going to get any surprises?"

"Head blow did the job, and was incurred about thirty hours after the other injuries. While those were relatively minor in comparison, it's my opinion they were caused by the same weapon."

"Got anything on that?

"Some fibers in the head wounds. I'll be sending them over to our friend Dickhead at the lab. A weighed cloth sack would be my preliminary guess. Tox screen's come back positive for legal, over-the-counter pain meds. Standard blockers. She took one less than an hour before death, chased it with a very nice Chablis."

"Yeah, there was a bottle of that in her room, and blockers on the bed table."

"She had some soup, mostly chicken broth, and some soy noodles about eight, and some soft meat in a wrap closer to midnight. Treated herself to some chocolate frozen dessert, more wine with her late supper. She was, at time of death, nicely buzzed on wine and pills."

"Okay, thanks. I'll catch you in the morning."

"Dallas, are you interested in the fact that she's had several sculpting procedures over the last, I'd say, dozen years? Face and body, tucks and nips. Nothing major, but considerable work, and good work at that."

"Always good to know the habits of the dead. Thanks."

She ended the transmission, sat back at her desk to study the ceiling.

So she'd gotten herself roughed up sometime Friday after leaving Roarke's office. Doesn't, by their statements, tell her son or daughter-in-law, doesn't report same to the authorities. What she does, apparently, is hole up with wine and pills and easy food.

Either leaves her window unlocked, or opens the door to her killer.

Now why would she do that if the killer had already played a tune on her the day before? Where was her fear, her anger? Where was her survival instinct?

A woman who could run a game on CPS for over a decade had damn good survival instincts.

Even if you're in some pain, why would you get buzzed alone in a hotel room when someone's hurt you, and obviously can hurt you again? Especially when you have family right down the hall.