In Death 22 - Memory in Death

to the body first. “Coshed, back of the head. Blunt. Classic.” Her gaze came
    up, met Eve’s. “Time of death?”
    “Just after one-thirty this morning.”
    And Eve saw the flash of relief. “Sexual assault?” Peabody asked as she turned to the closet.
    “No evidence thereof.”
    “She robbed?”
    “It’s possible her killer was after something specific, had no interest in some jewelry and a quality wrist unit.”
    “Or funds,” Peabody added, holding up a large handbag. “Wallet’s in here. Couple of credit cards,

a debit, and some cash. No personal ‘link or PPC. A couple of good-sized shopping bags in the closet here.”
    “Keep looking.”
    Eve moved into the bath. The sweepers would go over the room, inch by inch. But she could see quite
    a bit without their particular brand of magic.
    She had, unfortunately, a solid working knowledge of hair gunk and face crap and body slathering stuff. The feared and dreaded Trina seemed to find a way to torture her with all of it every few weeks.
    Trudy, it seemed, hadn’t stinted on the productsquantity or quality. She had, by Eve’s estimation, a couple grand in vanity crowded onto the bathroom counter.
    The towels were still damp, Eve noted. In fact, the single washcloth was sodden. She glanced toward
    the tub. She’d bet the sweepers would find traces of bath products in the tub, face products on one of
    the towels.
    So where were the missing bath towel and washcloth? Should be two of each.
    She’d had a bath. Eve recalled how Trudy had enjoyed what she’d called her long soaks. If you’d disturbed her during that hour, you’d better have lopped off an appendage. Otherwise, you’d end up locked in a dark room.
    Took a beating sometime yesterday, or as far back as Friday evening, Eve thought. Closes herself up, long soaks and pills. Trudy had liked pills, too, Eve remembered.
    Take the edge off my nerves.
    Why didn’t she have Bobby or Zana tending to her? Being tended to had been another of Trudy’s favorites.
    Least you can do is bring me a cold drink-
    You’re going to eat me out of house and home, I expect you could fetch me a cup of coffee and a
    piece of that cake.
    You’re the laziest damn thing on two legs. Get your skinny butt moving and clean up around here.
    Eve blew out a breath, settled herself. If Trudy had suffered in silence, there was a reason for it.
    “Dallas?”
    “Yeah.”
    “No link.” Peabody stood at the bathroom door. “More cash in a security pack. More jewelry in pouches tucked into her clothes. Couple of transmissions, in and out, between her and either her son or her daughter-in-law. In-hotel trans. Bottle of blockers on the night table by the bed.”
    “Yeah, I saw that. Let’s check the kitchen, see if we can determine the last time she got food.”
    “Nobody breaks in, kills someone, for a ‘link.”
    “Depends what’s on the ‘link, doesn’t it?” Eve moved to the Auto-Chef, hit replay.
    “Chicken soup, just after eight last night. Chinese wrap about midnight. A lot of coffee on and off until seven p.m.” She opened the frig-gie. “Wine, good stuffabout a glass and a half left in the bottle. Milk, juiceboth openedand a quart, half gone, of chocolate frozen non-dairy dessert product.”
    She glanced at the sink and counter. “Yet there’s not a bowl, glass, spoon unwashed.”
    “She was tidy?”
    “She was lazy, but maybe she was bored enough to clean up after herself.”
    She heard Crime Scene arrive, took another minute. “Door’s locked from the inside.” Two clicks, she thought, when the maid had used her master. “Killer exited from the window. Possibly entered through same. Tourist hives like this one don’t go for soundproofing. Makes you wonder why she didn’t scream the place down.”
    She stepped out, saw not only the sweepers, but Morris, the Chief Medical Examiner.
    She remembered he’d worn a suit to the party, a kind of muted blue overlaid with a faint sheen. His long, dark hair had been intricately braided and he’d knocked back a few. Enough that he’d gotten up on stage with the band at one point and wailed away on the sax.
    His talents, she’d discovered, weren’t limited to deciphering the dead.
    Now he was in casual pants and a sweatshirt, and his hair was scooped back in a long, shiny tail. His eyes, slanted and oddly sexy, skimmed down the hallway and found her.
    “Have you ever considered, just for the hell of it, taking a Sunday off?”
    “Thought I