In Death 01 - Naked in Death

Finestein sitting on the living room sofa with her tiny white hands folded in her lap. Her hair was white as well, a snowfall around a face that was beginning to line despite antiaging creams and treatments.
    The old woman smiled gently at Eve.
    "I'm so sorry to trouble you, dear."
    "It's okay. Are you all right?"
    "Yes, I'm fine." Her soft blue eyes stayed on Eve's. "It was our weekly game, the girls and mine. When I got home, I found him in the kitchen. He'd been eating a custard pie. Joe was overly fond of sweets."
    She looked over at Hennessy, who stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I didn't know quite what to do, and went knocking on Mr. Hennessy's door."
    "That's fine. If you'd stay with her for a minute please," she said to Mr. Hennessy.
    The apartment was set up similarly to her own. It was meticulously neat, despite the abundance of knickknacks and memorabilia.
    At the kitchen table with its centerpiece of china flowers, Joe Finestein had lost his life, and considerable dignity.
    His head was slumped, half in, half out of a fluffy custard pie. Eve checked for a pulse, found none. His skin had cooled considerably. At a guess, she put his death at one-fifteen, give or take a couple of hours.
    "Joseph Finestein," she recited dutifully. "Male, approximately one hundred and fifteen years of age. No signs of forced entry, no signs of violence. There are no marks on the body."
    She leaned closer, looked into Joe's surprised and staring eyes, sniffed the pie. After finishing her prelim notes, she went back to relieve Hennessy and interview the deceased's widow.
    It was midnight before she was able to crawl into bed. Exhaustion snatched at her like a cross and greedy child. Oblivion was what she wanted, what she prayed for.
    No dreams, she ordered her subconscious. Take the night off.
    Even as she closed her eyes, her bedside 'link blipped.
    "Fry in hell, whoever you are," she muttered, then dutifully wrapped the sheet around her naked shoulders and switched it on.
    "Lieutenant." Roarke's image smiled at her. "Did I wake you?"
    "You would have in another five minutes." She shifted as the audio hissed with a bit of space interference. "I guess you got where you were going all right."
    "I did. There was only a slight delay in transport. I thought I might catch you before you turned in."
    "Any particular reason?"
    "Because I like looking at you." His smile faded as he stared at her. "What's wrong, Eve?"
    Where do you want me to start? she thought, but shrugged. "Long day -- ending with one of your other tenants here croaking in his late night snack. He went facedown in a custard pie."
    "There are worse ways to go, I suppose." He turned his head, murmured to someone nearby. Eve saw a woman move briskly behind Roarke and out of view. "I've just dismissed my assistant," he explained. "I wanted to be alone when I asked if you're wearing anything under that sheet."
    She glanced down, lifted a brow. "Doesn't look like it."
    "Why don't you take it off?"
    "No way I'm going to satisfy your prurient urges by interspace transmission, Roarke. Use your imagination."
    "I am. I'm imagining what I'm going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you. I advise you to rest up, lieutenant."
    She wanted to smile and couldn't. "Roarke, we're going to have to talk when you get back."
    "We can do that as well. I've always found conversations with you stimulating, Eve. Get some sleep."
    "Yeah, I will. See you, Roarke."
    "Think of me, Eve."
    He ended the transmission, then sat alone, brooding at the blank monitor. There'd been something in her eyes, he thought. He knew the moods of them now, could see beyond the training into the emotion.
    The something had been worry.
    Turning his chair, he looked out at his view of star splattered space. She was too far away for him to do any more than wonder about her.
    And to ask himself, again, why she mattered so much.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Eve studied the report of the bank search for Sharon DeBlass's deposit box with frustration. No record, no record, no record.
    Nothing in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. Nothing in East Washington or Virginia.
    She had rented one somewhere, Eve thought. She'd had diaries, and had kept them tucked away someplace where she could get to them safely and quickly.
    In those diaries, Eve was convinced, was a motive for murder.
    Unwilling to tag Fenney for another, broader search, she began one herself, starting with Pennsylvania, working west and north