In Death 22 - Memory in Death

Yeah, she’s full of herself. But how’s she going to squeeze you when she’s holed up in a hotel room?”
    “I’ve considered that already. You were off your rhythm,” he reminded her when she frowned at him. “Documented the injuries, I imagine, with a shaky, perhaps teary, account of the attack. An attack
    which would implicate either or both of us as the assailant, orif she were more cleverwhich had
    the unknown assailant warn her that either or both of us would see she got worse unless she did what
    she was told.”
    He topped off the wine in Eve’s glass. “There would be a statement that this record was made to protect herself, in the event of her untimely death. Or further injury. In which case the record would be sent to the media, and the authorities. This documentation would be sent to me, as she’d trust me to decipher
    the subtext: Pay, or this goes public.”
    “Yeah, well.” She took another slice of pizza. “Did all this considering tell you where that record might be?”
    “With her killer, no doubt.”
    “Yeah, no doubt. So why wasn’t it brought up along with the numbered account during Zana’s
    abduction? Why haven’t you received a copy of the documentation?”
    “The killer may have assumed the record would do the talking. And may have been foolish enough to trust it to regular mail.”
    “See.” She shook the slice at him, then bit in. “Smart, sloppy, smart, sloppy. And that doesn’t work
    for me. There’s no sloppy here. It’s all smartsmart enough to try to look sloppy. Crime of passion, covering it up, little mistakes. Bigger ones. But I think … I’m starting to wonder if some of those
    mistakes are purposeful.”
    She looked back at the board. “Maybe I’m just circling.”
    “No, keep going. I like it.”
    “She was a difficult woman. Even her son said so. And yeah,” she added, reading Roarke’s expression,
    “I haven’t eliminated him as a suspect. I’ll come back to why he’s not higher on my list. So you’re doing grunt work for a difficult woman. You’re going to get a cut, but no way you’re getting half. Maybe she tells you she’s going for a million, and you can have ten percent for your trouble. That’s not bad for
    grunt work. Maybe that’s the play, and she gives you the record to deliver or send.”
    “Sure of herself to do that,” he commented.
    “Yeah, and sure of her grunt. But it also takes her a step back if anything goes wrong. It all fits her profile.”
    “But her grunt isn’t as obedient as she assumed,” Roarke continued. “Instead of being a good doggy and delivering, you take a look at it first. And start thinking this is worth more.”
    Here was her rhythm, Eve realized. Batting it back and forth with him, seeing the steps, the pieces, the possibilities.
    “Yeah. Maybe you come back, tell her you want a bigger cut. Maybe you point out they could squeeze for more than a measly million.”
    “That would piss her off.”
    “Wouldn’t it.” Eve smiled at him. “And she’s loose. Been drinking, taking meds. Could be her tongue got away from her and it comes out she was going for two. Oops.”
    “Or she just flat out refuses to widen the slice of the pie.”
    “That’s a pisser either way. And any way it plays, you’re back in that room with her late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. She turns her back on you. You’ve got the record, you’ve got the weapon.
    You’ve got motive, you’ve got opportunity. You take her out. You bag up her ‘link, her copy of the documentation, her disc files, anything else that might implicate you or help you out. You unlock the window, and you’re gone.”
    “Now you’ll get the whole pie.” Roarke glanced down at the pizza between them. They’d fairly well demolished it, he noted. Hungry work.
    “Then it angles back.” Eve licked a little sauce from her thumb. “Bright and early Monday morning, you’re right there, right on the spot to snatch Zana when she comes out. Happy coincidence for you
    that she’s out hunting bagels on her own.”
    “Maybe Trudy wasn’t the one with the lover.”
    “That’s a thought, isn’t it?” She inclined her head, and shoved the pizza away before she made herself sick. “Going to take a closer look at Bobby’s pretty little wife.”
    “Not Bobby?”
    “I’ll go down a few layers. But the thing with matricide is it’s usually uglier. More rage.”
    As was patricide, she thought. She’d all but swam in the blood when