Memory in Death (In Death #22)(62)

"All right. I'll go back to the account, see what I can chisel out."

"Can I bounce some things off you after I line them up?"

"I'd be disappointed otherwise. Why don't we rendezvous in an hour, do that bouncing over dinner?"

"That'll work." She took his hand, squeezed. "This works." He kissed her knuckles. "It certainly does."

13

SHE TOOK HER HOUR AND WENT BACK TO THE beginning. She walked back through it, step by step, using the crime scene record, her own notes, the reports from the sweepers, the ME, the lab.

She listened to statements, judging inflection, expression, as much as the words themselves.

She stood in front of her board and studied each photograph, every angle.

When Roarke came in from his office, she turned to him. He acknowledged the light in her eyes with a grin and cocked brow. "Lieutenant."

"Goddamn right. I was acting like a cop, doing the cop walk, but I wasn't feeling like a cop. I'm back now."

"Welcome."

"Let's eat. What do you want?"

"Since you're feeling like a cop, I suppose it best be pizza."

"Hot damn. If I hadn't already rolled you, I'd probably jump you just for that."

"Put it on my account."

They sat at her desk, one on either side, with pizza and wine between them. He'd even put a tree in here, she thought. A small one, by his standards, but, by God, she liked looking at it over by the window, sprinkling light out into the dark.

"See, here's the thing," she began, "it doesn't make any sense."

"Ah." He gestured with his glass, sipped. "Glad that's cleared up."

"Seriously. Here's what you've got on the surface, when you walk cold into the scene: Dead woman, killed by multiple blows of a blunt instrument, head shots from behind. Previous bodily injuries indicating she'd been attacked and/or beaten the day before. Door locked from the inside, window not."

With a slice of pizza in one hand, she waved toward her board with the other. "Appearance, basic evidence points to intruder entering through the window, bashing her, exiting the same way. As there are no defensive wounds whatsoever, investigator would assume she probably knew her killer, or didn't believe she was in jeopardy. Now, somebody pounds on you one day, you're going to be a little concerned next time he pops around."

"Not if those initial injuries were self-inflicted."

"Yeah, but you don't know that—why would you think that— when you find the body? The killer had to be aware of at least the facial injury. It's right there. And the same weapon was used. So we go back over it, with that data, and we have the murder being set to look like she was killed by whoever tuned her up."

She took a huge bite of pizza, savored the spice. "We got the killer using the previous injuries as smoke. That's not bad. Not bad at all. It's good thinking, just like taking her 'link was good thinking."

"Exploiting the victim's greed and violent impulses."

"Yeah. But there's little things that blow that. Again, no defensive wounds. No indication she was bound when she was beaten, and no sign that she attempted, in any way, to fight back or shield herself. Doesn't wash. Then you add the angles of the bruising. Comes up self-inflicted."

"Which moves you to a different arena."

"Exactly. Then there's the crime scene itself, the position of the body, and TOD."

"Time of death."

"Yeah, somebody strange comes in the window middle of the night and you can get out of bed, you run and you scream. She didn't do either. So the killer came through the door. She let the killer in."

"The window's still viable. If indeed she and her partner were having differences, he may have chosen to come in that way rather than risk her not letting him in."

"The window was locked. That's the thing about memory. It's tricky." She took another bite of pizza, washed it down. "It's the thing about having a cop on an investigation who knew the victim—who, once that memory gets poked, clearly recalls how the victim always locked every door, every window. The world was full of thieves and ra**sts and bad business, according to the Bible of Trudy. Even during the day, when we were in the house, it was locked like a vault. I'd forgotten that. She's not going to leave a window unlocked in big, bad New York. It's out of character."

"She lets the killer in," he prompted. "Late-night visit."

"Yeah. Late. And she doesn't bother to put on a robe. She had one in the closet, but she doesn't bother with it and entertains her killer while wearing her nightgown."

"Indicating a certain level of intimacy. A lover?"

"Maybe. Can't dismiss it. She kept herself in tune. Face and body work. I can't remember any guys,"

Eve murmured, trying to look back into the past again. "It was only about six months I was there, but I don't remember any guys coming around, or her going out with any."

"From then to now would indicate a very long dry spell."

"Can't rule out a booty call," Eve continued, "but I went over the list of her possessions, everything she had in that room: no sex toys, no sexy underwear, no condoms or any shields against STDs. Still, could be a long-term relationship—I'm not finding indications, but could be. Not a partner, though. Not on equal terms."