Memory in Death (In Death #22)(81)

For the next half hour, she sat in the relative quiet, studied her murder board, her notes, and let it all circle.

Before she left, she hung the prism Mira had given her.

Maybe it would help.

She left it shimmering dully against the dark window as she pulled out her 'link, tucked the presents under her arm, and left the office. I'm clear.

"What are you hungry for?" Roarke asked her.

"That's a loaded question." She held up a hand, acknowledging Baxter, and stopped. "Let's keep it simple."

"Just as I thought. Sophia's," he told her, and rattled off an address. "Thirty minutes."

"That'll work. If you get there first, order a really, really big bottle of wine. Big. Pour me a tumbler full."

"Should be an interesting evening. I'll see you soon, Lieutenant."

She pocketed her 'link, turned to Baxter.

"Don't suppose I could tag along, share that really, really big bottle."

"I'm not sharing."

"In that case, can I have a minute? Private?"

"All right." She walked back to her office, called for lights. "I'll spring for coffee if you want it, but that's my best offer."

"I'll take it." He went to the AutoChef himself. He was still wearing his soft clothes, Eve noted. Light gray sweater, dark gray pants. He'd gotten some blood—Bobby's blood, she imagined—on the pants.

"I don't know what to think," he told her. "Maybe I was too loose. Maybe I'm just f**king losing it.

I've gone over it in my head. I wrote it up. I still don't know."

He took out the coffee, turned. "I let the kid take point. Not blaming him, it was my call. I sent him down for dogs, for Christ's sake. Figured they were just getting theirs, and it put him in a decent position. And screw it, Dallas, I was hungry."

She knew guilt when she saw it, and at the moment, it was like looking in a mirror. "You want me to ream you for it? I've got some left."

"Maybe." He scowled into the coffee, then downed some. "I'm listening to them, and there's nothing. Just chatter. Can't get a full visual, but he's tall enough I can see the back of his head, his profile when he turns to her. I moved forward when she spilled the coffee, then I relaxed again. If they're at noon, Trueheart's at ten o'clock. I'm at three. Then she's screaming in my ear."

Eve sat on the edge of her desk. "No vibe?"

"None. Blimps are blasting overhead. One of those street-corner Santas ringing his damn bell. People are streaming by, or crowding in to get the light."

He drank more coffee. "I pushed in, soon as she screamed. I didn't see anybody take off. Bastard could've stood there. Could be one of the wits, far as I know. Or he could've just melted back. It was a freaking parade on Fifth today. And some people slipped, tumbled."

Her head came up, lips pursed. "Before or after?"

"Before, during, after. Putting it back, I see this woman—red coat, big blonde 'do. She slips a little. Right in back of where Zana was standing. That'd be the initial bump. Spilled coffee. I can see the male sub turn. I hear him ask her what happened. Anxious. Then he relaxes when she says she got coffee on her coat. So do I. Then he pitches forward. Chaos ensues."

"So maybe we're both beating ourselves up because the guy lost his footing."

"Coincidences are hooey."

"Hooey." At least she got a short laugh out of it. "Yeah, they are. So we'll run the record backward and forward. He's tucked up. Nobody's getting near him. So's she. We'll run it when the damn lab stops playing Christmas carols. No point slapping ourselves, or me slapping you, until we know if this is the one in a million that actually is coincidence."

"If I screwed this up, I need to know."

She smiled thinly. "On that, Baxter, I can promise you. I'll let you know."

16

ROARKE WATCHED HER COME IN, HIS TALL, lanky cop in the rather spectacular black leather coat. Her eyes were tired, the stress showing in them even as he noted the way she scoped the room.

Cops were cops, he knew, 24/7. She'd be able to tell him, should he ask, how many were in the booth at the opposite corner, what they were wearing, possibly what they were eating. And she'd be able to do so with her back to them.

Fascinating.

She checked her coat, brushed off the waiter who must have offered to escort her to their table. And crossed the restaurant alone, in that long, loose stride he loved.

"Lieutenant," he said, rising to greet her, "you make a picture."

"A picture of what?"

"Confidence and authority. Very sexy." He kissed her lightly, then gestured to the wine he'd poured when he'd seen her come in. "It's not a tumbler, but you can consider it a bottomless glass."

"Appreciate it." She took a good slug. "Crappy day."

"So I gathered. Why don't we order, then you can tell me about it?"

She glanced up at the waiter who materialized at her side. "I want spaghetti and meatballs, with the red sauce. You got that here?"

"Of course, madam. And to start?"

She lifted her wine. "I've started."