Memory in Death (In Death #22)(47)

Tears streamed down her face, sparkled on her lashes. "I said, 'You killed Mama Tru, you killed her?' He said he'd do worse to me, and to Bobby, if we didn't get him the money. Two million dollars. We don't have two million dollars, Bobby. I told him, my God, where are we going to get that kind of money? He said, 'Ask the cop.' And he gave me what he said was a numbered account. He made me say it back, over and over, and said if I screwed it up, if I forgot the number, he'd come find me, and he'd carve it into my ass. That's what he said. 505748711094463. 505748711094463. 505—"

"Okay, we got it. Keep going."

"He said for me to just sit there. 'You sit there, little bitch,' that's what he said." She swiped at her wet cheeks. " 'You sit there for fifteen minutes. You come out before then, I'll kill you.' And he left me there. I just sat there in the dark. Afraid to get up, afraid he'd come back. I just sat until the time was up. I didn't know where I was when I came out. I was all turned around. It was so noisy. I started to run, but my legs wouldn't run, and I couldn't find my way back. Then the detective came, and she helped me.

"I left my purse. I must've left my purse. Or maybe he took it. I didn't get the coffee."

She dissolved into tears again. Eve gave her a full minute of them, then pushed. "What did he look like, Zana?"

"I don't know. Not really. I hardly got a look. He was wearing a hat, like a ski hat, and sunshades. He was tall. I think. He had on black jeans and black boots. I kept looking down, like he said, and I saw his boots. They had laces, and they were scuffed at the toes. I kept looking at his boots. He had big feet."

"How big?"

"Bigger than Bobby's. A little bit bigger, I think."

"What color was his skin?"

"I hardly saw. White, I think. He wore black gloves. But I think he was white. I only got a glimpse, and when he took me inside, it was dark. He stayed behind me the whole time, and it was dark."

"Facial hair, any scars, marks, tattoos?"

"I didn't see any."

"His voice? Any accent?"

"He talked down in his throat, low down. I don't know." She looked piteously at Bobby. "I was so scared."

Eve pressed a little more, but the details were getting hazier.

"I'm going to have you escorted to your new location, and I'm going to put a uniformed guard on you.

If you remember anything else, however slight, I want you to contact me."

"I don't understand. I don't understand any of this. Why would he kill Mama Tru? Why would he think we could give him so much money? "

Eve looked over at Bobby. Then she signalled for Peabody to arrange for the escort. "Bobby will tell you what we know."

10

TO EXPEDITE THE TRANSFER, EVE PERSONALLY escorted Bobby and Zana to their new location. She assigned two uniforms to canvass for the location Zana said she'd been taken, fanning out in a four-block radius from the original hotel. Rather than search the vacated room herself, she left it to Peabody and the sweepers before heading to the morgue.

At her request, Morris had Trudy waiting.

Nothing, Eve thought as she looked down at the body. There was still nothing inside her. No pity, no anger.

"What can you tell me?" Eve asked.

"Facial and bodily injuries sustained twenty-four to thirty-six hours before the head wounds. We'll get to them shortly." Morris handed her a pair of microgoggles, gestured. "Have a look here."

She stepped to the slab with him, bent to study the fatal injuries.

"Some ridges. And these circular or half-circular patterns."

"Good eye. Now let me bump it up for you." He brought the section of the skull onto his screen, magnified.

Eve shoved the goggles to the top of her head. "You said you found fibers in the head wound."

"Waiting for the labs on that."

"These patterns. Could be credits. Cloth sap filled with credits. Old-fashioned and dependable. You've got ridges, possibly from the edges, then those more circular shapes. Yeah, could be credits. Lots of them from the weight it would take to crush the skull."

She put the goggles back on, re-examined the wounds. "Three blows maybe. The first at the base—they'd be standing, vie with her back to the killer. Goes down, second blow comes from above—you've got more punch there, more velocity. And the third..."

She stepped back, shoving the goggles back up. "One," she said, miming a two-handed swing from her right and down. "Two." Overhead, this time and down. "And three." Swinging, still two-handed, from the left.

She nodded. "Fits the spatter pattern. If the sap was cloth—a bag, a sock, a small pouch—you could get those imprints. No defensive wounds, so she didn't put up a fight. Taken by surprise. From behind, so she's not afraid. If the killer had another weapon—a knife, a stunner to force her to turn around—why not use it? And it'd be a quiet murder. First blow takes the vie down, she wouldn't have time to scream."

"Simple, and straightforward." Morris set his own goggles down. "Let's go back, review our previous program."

With his sealed fingers, he tapped some icons on his diagnostic comp. He wore his long, dark hair in a braid today, and the braid curled up in a loop at the nape of his neck. His suit was a deep, conservative navy, until you added the pencil-thin stripes of showy red.