Memory in Death (In Death #22)(39)

Unless it was what was down the hall that hurt you. Possible, she thought. But if so, why stay where they could so easily get to you, hurt you again

She glanced over as Roarke came in through his adjoining office.

"You get yourself beat up," she began, "you don't want the cops involved."

"Certainly not."

"Right, okay, I get that. You don't tell your son?"

"I don't have one to tell at the moment." He eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. "But pride might very well prevent me."

"That's guy thinking. Think like a woman."

"A stretch for me," he said with a smile. "How about you?"

"If I'm thinking like this woman, I whine ASAP to anyone who'll listen. But she doesn't, which gives me a couple of possibilities."

"One, she doesn't have to tell her son, because her son's the one who used her as a punching bag."

"That's one," she agreed. "One that's not fitting so well into my memory of their relationship. If that relationship soured since, why does she stay where he can get to her again?"

He picked up the little statue of the goddess, a symbol of mother, he thought, from her desk. He toyed with it idly as he spoke. "We both know relationships are thorny areas. It's possible that he made a habit out of knocking her about. She was used to it, and didn't consider telling anyone, or getting out of his way."

"There's the daughter-in-law. No marks on her, no typical signs of an abusive relationship there. A guy who pounds on Mommy is likely to smack the little woman around, too. It doesn't fit very well for me."

"If you bump that down the list"—he set the statue back on her desk—"what leapfrogs over it?"

"She doesn't want anyone to know. Which isn't pride, it's planning, it's precaution. She had an agenda, a personal one." And yeah, Eve thought, she liked that a lot better.

"But it doesn't explain why she drank a lot of wine, took blockers, got herself impaired."

She shuffled the close-up still of Trudy's face to the top of her pile. And took a hard look at it. "That doesn't say fear to me. She's afraid, she uses her son as a shield, she locks herself up tight, or she runs. She didn't do any of those things. Why wasn't she afraid?"

"There are some who enjoy pain."

Eve shook her head. "Yeah, there's that. But she liked being tended to. Run me a bath, get me a snack. She'd used the tub, and I got a prelim sweeper's report that tells me there was some blood in the bathroom sink, in the drain. So she washed up after she got tuned."

Missing towels, she remembered, and made another note of it.

"And she turns her back on her killer. Blow came from behind. She's not afraid."

"Someone she knows and mistakenly—as it turns out—trusts."

"You don't trust somebody who smashes your face the day before." Love them, maybe. She knew there was a kind of love that ran to that. But trust was different. "Morris thinks the same weapon was used throughout, but I'm thinking two different hands on it, two different times. You've got the run from your building security."

"A copy, yes. Feeney has the original."

"I want to see it."

He took a disc from his pocket. "Thought you might."

She plugged it in, ordered the review on the wall screen.

"I've had the whole business put on here," he said as Eve watched Trudy enter Roarke's Midtown building. She crossed the acres of marble, passed animated screens, rivers of flowers, sparkling little pools, and moved straight to the information desk that handled the offices.

That suit, she noted, had been in the closet of the hotel room. Neatly hung. The shoes had been tucked in there, too. She hadn't been wearing that outfit when she was beaten.

"Done her research," Eve mused. "No fumbling around, no looking around to get her bearings."

"She presses at information, as you see. 'No, I've no appointment, but he'll want to see me,' and so on. Look confident, look friendly, and as though you belong. She's very good."

"She got upstairs, anyway."

"They called through, got to Caro, who passed the request on to me. I had them make her wait a bit. I'm good as well. She doesn't care for it, as you can see by the way her face tightens up, but she has a seat in one of the lobby waiting areas. Unless you want to watch her twiddle her thumbs for the next bit of time, you can move forward."

Eve did, then slowed it down when a young woman approached Trudy.

"Caro, who knows the ropes, sent one of the assistants down to escort her up on one of the public elevators. Takes her round about, up to my level, through outer areas, down the skyway. A goodly hike, and when she arrives, well, she can wait a bit more. I'm a busy man, aren't I?"

"She's impressed," Eve commented. "Who wouldn't be? All that space, the glass, the art, the people at your beck and call. Good job."

"Here you see Caro coming to get her at last, to walk her back. Then Caro goes out, shuts the doors, and we have our little chat."

Eve ran the disc forward, marked the time elapsed at twelve minutes before Trudy came hurrying out.

And there was fear, Eve noted, a hint of wildness in the eyes, a jerkiness to the walk that was nearly a trot.