Memory in Death (In Death #22)(84)

"It would take some time, but I could find out if she made inquiries about property with a realtor over there."

"She'd know something about the ins and out, wouldn't she, with a son in the business."

She sat back, sighed. "So here's one way. She's looking to relocate, plop herself down to live the high life after she skins you."

"I object to the term. No one skins me."

"Yeah, but she doesn't get that. Time to start enjoying her hard-earned nest egg. Deck herself out in all those glitters she's been paying insurance premiums for. Time to kick up her heels. Got herself in tune for it. She's tapped out a couple of her income sources, but they're finite anyway. She hits the jackpot, and she can move on. Retire."

"What does she tell her family?"

Think like her, Eve ordered herself. It wasn't so hard to do. "Her son's replaced her with a wife. Ungrateful bastard. Doesn't have to tell him a damn thing. If she intended to tell him, you can bet she's got something worked out: She won the lottery, got some inheritance, something out of the blue. But she doesn't need Bobby anymore because she's got someone on her string, someone who can do the grunt work when she needs it. They should be with her in New York, just in case."

She rolled her shoulders. "Or she's going to shake her minion off, hire somebody fresh when she relocates. Who do you know in that area of Italy who handles real estate, could give us a hand with this?"

"One or two people. However, it's after one in the morning there."

"Oh, right." She scowled at the clock. "I hate the whole time difference crap. It's irritating. Okay, that waits until the morning."

"I hate to remind you, tomorrow's Christmas Eve. We're unlikely to find offices open, particularly in Europe where they believe in taking holidays. I can pull strings, but unless this is urgent, I hate to push this into someone's holiday."

"See, see"—she waved her spoon—"Christmas is bogging me down. It can wait, it can wait," she repeated. "More important to find out if she had a travel companion. It could just be the one little mistake. One little detail that moves this along."

"Then I'll help you with that."

"What I want is to plug in all her flights."

"All?"

"Yeah, all. Then we're going to run the manifest through, each one, see if any dupe names pop. Or any name on my case file list." She licked ice cream off her finger. "And yeah, I'm aware the transpo company offices are closed. Lazy bastards. And that accessing passenger information generally requires authorization."

He smiled, easily. "I didn't say a thing."

"I'm just looking is all I'm doing. And if anything pops, then I'll backtrack, go through channels. But I'm sick to f**king death of running in place."

"Still said nothing."

"But you're thinking it."

"What I'm thinking is you need to move. I want your chair."

"Why?"

"If I'm going to get this data, and we both know I can access it faster than you, I want the chair and the desk. Why don't you deal with those dishes?"

She grumbled, but got up. "You're lucky I've got some holiday spirit and didn't clock you for the 'deal with those dishes' crack."

"Ho, ho, ho." He sat in her place and rolled up his sleeves. "Coffee'd be nice."

"Thin ice, Ace. Cracking under your expensive shoes."

"And a cookie. You ate most of my gelato."

"Did not," she called from the kitchen. Well, yes, she had, but that was beside the point.

Still, she wanted coffee herself, so she could as easily get two mugs. To amuse herself she got out a single minicookie, barely the size of her thumb. She put it and his mug on a plate.

"I guess the least I can do is get you coffee and a cookie when you're putting the time in for me." She came up behind him, leaned down to plant a wifely kiss on the top of his head.

Then she set the plate down. He glanced over at it, then up at her. "That's cold, Eve. Even for you."

"I know. And fun, too. What've you got?"

"I'm accessing her account, to determine what transportation company she used for her trips. When I have that, I'll do a search on the dates that coordinate for her passport. Then I'll get your manifests, and run a search there. I think that deserves a bleeding cookie."

"Like this one." From behind her back she pulled a decorated sugar cookie. Whatever else she could say about Summerset, and there was plenty, the man could bake.

"That's more like it. Now why don't you come and sit on my lap?"

"Just get the data, pal. I know it's insulting to ask, but are you going to have any trouble with CompuGuard on this?"

"I'm ignoring that as you provided the cookie."

She left him to it, set up at her auxiliary comp.

What, she wondered, did other married couples do after dinner? Hang and watch screen maybe, or go to their separate areas and fiddle with their hobbies or work. Talk on the 'link to pals or family.

Have people over.

They did some of that. Sometimes. Roarke had gotten her hooked on vids, especially the old black-and-whites from the early and mid-twentieth century. There were nights, here and there, they whiled away a couple hours that way—the way, she imagined, most considered normal.