In Death 22 - Memory in Death

the disc?”
    “I’ll get it. I’ll start on the shopping spree. Thanks. Really.”
    He handed her the coffee so she could take it with her. “How else would we spend our Christmas afternoon?”
    * * *
    She went to work, happy, she realized, to be back at it. With a hot pot of coffee and reams of data. Whatever she found, or didn’t, this angle was going to mean interviewing sales clerks. Which meant the horror of going into retail establishments on the day after Christmas when everyone and their mothers would be in them exchanging gifts, looking for bargains, arguing about credit.
    Trudy’d done pretty well for herself, Eve decided. Six pair of shoes in one spot. Jesus, what was it with people and shoes? Shipped all but two pairs home. Well, she was never going to wear them.
    She cross-checked her inventory list, and came up with six pairs.
    And here were three handbags from the same shop. Two sent home, one taken with customer. When
    she checked her list, she smiled.
    “Yeah, I bet it was hard to resist a six-hundred-dollar purse. Six bills.” She shook her head. “Just to lug stuff around in, most of which no rational human being has a need to lug anywhere. Let’s see what else you helped yourself to.”
    Before she could continue, Roarke beeped on the house ‘link.
    “I’ve got this for you, Lieutenant.”
    “What? Already? It’s only been about a half hour.”
    “I believe it was mentioned before: I’m good.”
    “On my way, and I seriously overpaid for this service.”
    “Pay to play,” he said and clicked off.
    She found him in the lab where he’d set up a group of units to handle individual commands. “This way,” he told her, “you can ask for any mix you want, or a combination. I’ve also got her voiceprint, in case
    you want to try to match it at some point.”
    “Might be handy. Let’s just run it through as it was first. I haven’t taken the time to listen to it all the
    way through.”
    Now she did, hearing the gaggle of voices. Her own, Baxter’s, Trueheart’s. Checks and rechecks.
    Zana’s, Bobby’s discussing where they might go. The rustling as they donned their outdoor gear.
    I’m so glad we’re getting out. It’ll do us both good. Zana.
    Hasn’t been much of a trip for you. Bobby.
    Oh, now, honey, don’t worry about me. I just want you to try to put all this awful business aside for
    just a couple hours. We’ve got each other, remember. That’s what counts.
    They went out with Zana chattering about Christmas trees.
    She heard New York as they went outside. Horns, voices, air blimps, the unmistakable belching of a maxibus. It was all a backdrop for more chatter. The weather, the buildings, the traffic, the shops. Interspersed were Baxter and Trueheart, commenting on direction, making small talk.
    Man, you see the rack on that one? God is a man, and he’s on my side.Baxter.
    God might be a woman, sir, deliberately tempting you with what you can’t have.Trueheart.
    “Not bad, kid,” Eve mumbled. “God, you could die of boredom listening to this crap. ‘Oooh, look at this, honey. Oh, my goodness,’ blah, blah, blah.”
    “Do you want to move forward?” Roarke asked her.
    “No. We’ll stick it out.”
    She drank coffee, and stuck, through the incessant shopping for and purchasing of a table tree, the extra ornaments. The giggles when Bobby made her turn around and close her eyes while he bought her a pair of earrings. Then the cooing about not opening them until Christmas.
    “This may make me sick.”
    They discussed lunch. Should they do this, do that?
    “Jesus, do something! Tourists,” she said. “They kill me.”
    More giggles, she thought, more excitement over soy dogs. Over a tube of fake meat, Eve thought in disgust, then straightened in her chair.
    “Wait, stop. Run that back. The bit she just said.”
    “If we must, but rhapsodizing about the menu of a glide-cart is a bit much, even for me.”
    “No listen, listen to what she says. How she says it.”
    “What makes a soy dog taste so good when it’s cooked outside on a cart in New York? I swear you
    can’t get a real grilled dog anywhere on the planet outside of New York-“
    “Stop record. How does she know that?” Eve demanded. “She doesn’t say, ‘I bet there’s no place.’ Or, ‘I’ve never tasted a damn dog that tastes like …’ whatever. She makes a statement: ‘You can’t get.’” Nostalgic, knowing. Not the statement, not the tone of a woman having her first