Memory in Death (In Death #22)(67)

The others—the others who'd been like her—were all chattering the way women do at girl parties.

She'd never been fluent in the language of fashion and food and men, so she drank the frothy wine and let the sounds roll over her.

Everyone was duded up. She herself was wearing the same outfit she'd donned for the holiday party. Even in the dream—even knowing it was a dream—her feet ached.

Part of the room was sectioned off, and there the children they'd been sat, watching the party. Hand-me-down clothes, hungry faces, hopeless eyes—all closed off from the lights, the music, the laughter by a sheer glass wall.

Inside it, Bobby served the children sandwiches, and they ate ravenously.

She didn't belong here, not really. She wasn't one of them, not quite. And the others sent her quick, sidelong glances, and whispered behind their hands.

Still, it was she who walked first to the body that lay on the floor in the middle of the celebration. Blood stained Trudy's nightgown and congealed on the glossy floor.

"She's really not dressed for it," Maxie said, and smiled as she chugged down more champagne. "All the money she carved out of us, you'd think she could afford a nice outfit. It's a fricking party, isn't it?"

"She didn't plan to be here."

"You know what they say about plans." She gave Eve an elbow nudge. "Loosen up. We're all family here, after all."

"My family's not here." She looked through that sheer glass, into the eyes of children. And wasn't so sure. "I've got a job to do."

"Suit yourself. Me, I'm going to get this party started." Maxie turned the bottle over, gripped the neck in both hands, and with a wild laugh smashed it against Trudy's already shattered head.

Eve leapt forward, shoved her back, but the others swarmed in. She was knocked down, kicked aside, trampled as they fell on the body like dogs.

She crawled clear, struggled to stand. And saw the children behind the glass. Cheering.

Behind them, she saw the shadow, the shape that was her father.

Told you, didn't I, little girl? Told you they'd toss you into the pit with the spiders.

"No." She jerked, struck out when someone lifted her.

"Easy now," Roarke murmured. "I've got you."

"What? What?" With her heart skittering, she shook herself awake in his arms. "What is it?"

"You fell asleep at your desk. Small wonder as it's nearly two in the morning. You were having a nightmare."

"It wasn't..." She took a moment to steady herself. "It wasn't a nightmare, not really. It was just weird. Just a weird dream. I can walk."

"I like this better." Still carrying her, he stepped onto the elevator. "We'd have headed for bed sooner, but I got caught up."

"I'm fuzzy." She rubbed her face, but couldn't scrape away the fatigue. "You get anywhere?"

"What a question. Three accounts so far. I suspect there are more. Feeney can take over with it in the morning. I've some work of my own to deal with."

"What are—"

"Morning's soon enough. It's nearly here, in any case." He stepped out of the elevator, took her straight to the bed. When he started to tug down her pants, she tapped his hands aside.

"I can do that. You might get ideas."

"Even I have limits, broad though they may be."

Still, when he slid into bed with her, he drew her close to his side.

She started to nag him into giving her some of the data. And the next thing she knew, it was morning.

He was having coffee in the sitting area, with the viewing screen split between stock reports and the morning bulletins. At the moment, she didn't care about either. So she grunted what passed for a morning greeting and slogged off to the bathroom.

When she came out, she smelled bacon.

There were two plates on the table. She knew his game. He'd fill her in if and when she ate. To expedite it, she plopped down across from him, grabbed the coffee first.

"So?"

"Good morning to you, too. Such as it is. Forecast is for sleet, possibly turning to snow by midmorning."

"The fun never ends. The accounts, Roarke."

He pointed a finger at the cat, who was trying to belly over toward the food. Galahad stopped, and began scratching his ears.

"The accounts the lawyer gave you were closed. Timing coordinates with the cutoff. I found others, off shore and off planet. Numbered, of course, but with some finessing, I unearthed the certified names. Roberta True and Robin Lombardi."

"Not very imaginative."

"I don't think imagination was her strong suit. Greed certainly was. She had close to a million in each. Tracing back, I've got the lawyer's transfers. And another six figures transferred from an account under the names Thom and Carly Tween."

"Yeah, I knew she'd been scalped some."

"Also a chunk from a Marlee Peoples."

"Peoples—that's the doctor, pediatrician, in Chicago. I wasn't able to reach her yesterday."

"There's more. I made you a list. Deposits that I've found so far go back about ten years."

"Round about the time she'd have lost the pro-mom status. You got a kid in college, you keep the status until he's done, or turns twenty-four."