He’d been his mother’s pride and joy, and had gotten away with a great deal.
They hadn’t been friends. No, they hadn’t been friends. But he hadn’t been unkind.
So she crouched down, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Bobby.”
“What? Who…” His face was a sturdy kind of square, and his eyes were the blue of jeans that had faded from countless washings. She saw recognition layer over confusion.
“My God, it’s Eve, isn’t it? Mama’s going to get a thrill. Zana, come on, honey. We had an awful lot to drink last night. Maybe she’s… Zana, honey?”
“Bobby—”
The elevator opened, and the droid clerk came rushing out. “What happened? Who’s—”
“Quiet,” Eve snapped. “Not a word. Bobby, look at me. Your mother’s inside. She’s dead.”
“What? No, she’s not. God, almighty, she’s just feeling off. Sorry for herself, mostly. Sulking in there since Friday night.”
“Bobby, your mother’s dead. I need you to take your wife and go back to your room until I come to talk to you.”
“No.” His wife moaned, but he was staring at Eve now, and his breath began to hitch. “No. No. I know you’re upset with her. I know you’re probably not happy she came, and I tried to tell her so. But that’s no reason to say something like that.”
“Bobby?” With her hand on the side of her head, Zana tried to sit up. “Bobby. I must’ve… Oh, God. Oh, my God. Mama Tru! Bobby.” She flung her arms around him and burst into wild sobs.
“Take her back, Bobby. You know what I do? Then you know I’m going to take care of this. I’m sorry, but I need you to go back to your room and wait for me.”
“What happened?” Tears swirled into his eyes. “Did she get sick? I don’t understand. I want to see Mama.”
Eve got to her feet. Sometimes there was no other way. “Turn her around,” she said with a nod toward Zana. “She doesn’t need to see this again.”
When he had, pressing Zana’s face to his shoulder, Eve eased the door open enough for him to see what he needed to.
“There’s blood. There’s blood.” He choked and pulled himself up with his wife in his arms. “Did you do that? Did you do that to her?”
“No. I just got here, and now I’m going to do my job and find out what happened, and who did this to her. I need you to go wait for me.”
“We should never have come here. I told her.” He began to sob along with his wife as they helped each other back to their room.
Eve turned back. “Looks like she should’ve listened.”
She glanced over as the elevator clunked to a stop on the floor. One of the two uniforms responding looked familiar enough to have her nod in acknowledgment.
“Bilkey, right?”
“Sir. Howzit going?”
“Not so good for her.” She jutted her chin toward the open doorway. “I need you to stand by. My field kit’s on the way. I was here on personal, so my…” She hated to say “my husband” when she was on the job. But how else did you say it? “My, ah, husband’s gone back to our ride for it. My partner’s being tagged. Vic’s son and daughter-in-law are down the hall in four-twenty. I want them to stay there. You can start the knock-on-doors when…”
She trailed off as the elevator bumped to a stop again. “There’s my kit,” she said as Roarke stepped out. “Start knocking. Vic’s Lombard, Trudy, out of Texas.”
She took the kit from Roarke, opened it for a can of Seal-It. “You made good time.” She coated her hands, her boots. “Might as well say it so I can say I said it. You don’t have to stay for this.”
“And so I can say I said it, I’ll say I’ll wait. Do you want help?” He eyed the can of Seal-It with some disgust.
“Better not, not in there anyway. Anyone comes out or onto the floor, you can look stern and tell them to move along.”
“A boyhood dream of mine.”
That got a wisp of a smile out of her before she stepped inside.
The room was standard, which meant it was bland. Dull, washed-out colors, a few cheap prints in cheaper frames on the tofu-colored walls. There was a midget-sized kitchenette, which included a self-stocked AutoChef, minifriggie, and a sink the size of a walnut. A stingy entertainment screen was across from the bed, where the sheets were rumpled and a remarkably ugly spread was shoved down, draping its green leaves and red flowers at the foot.
The carpet was green, thin, and pocked with a few burn holes. It had soaked up some of the blood.
There was a single window, green drapes pulled tight, and a narrow bath where the short beige counter was jammed with various face and body creams and lotions, medications, hair products. There were towels on the floor. Eve counted one bath, one washcloth, and two hand towels.
On the dresser—a just-up-a-level-from-cardboard affair with a mirror above—were a travel candle, a disc holder, a pair of faux pearl earrings, a fancy wrist unit, and a string of pearls that might have been the genuine deal.
She studied, recorded, then stepped to the body that lay between the bed and a faded red chair.
The face was turned toward her, those eyes filmed over the way death did. Blood had trickled and dried on the hair and skin of the temple, running there from where she could see the death blow at the back of the head.
She wore rings—a trio of silver bands on her left hand, a blue stone in an ornate silver setting on the right. The nightgown was good quality cotton, white as snow where it wasn’t stained with blood. It was hiked up to the top of her thighs, and exposed bruising on both legs. The left side of her face carried a whopper that had blackened the eye.
For the record, she took out her Identi-pad and verified.
“Victim is identified as Lombard, Trudy. Female, Caucasian. Age fifty-eight. Vic was discovered by primary investigator, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, at this location. The body shows bruising on both thighs as well as facial bruising.”
And that was off, Eve thought, but continued.
“Cause of death appears to be a fractured skull caused by multiple blows to the back of the head. There’s no weapon near the body.” She took out her gauges. “Time of death is found to be one-thirty this morning.”
A part of her unclenched at that. Both she and Roarke had been at home, with a couple hundred people, at the time in question.
“Examination of the wound indicates your classic blunt instrument. There is no evidence of sexual assault. Vic’s wearing rings, and there is jewelry in plain sight on the dresser. Burglary is unlikely. There’s no evidence of struggle. No defensive wounds. The room is orderly. Bed’s been slept in,” she murmured as she re-examined the lay of the land from her crouch by the body. “So why is she over here?”
Eve rose, crossed to the window, opened the drapes. The window was half-open. “Window’s open, emergency escape is easily accessible. Possibly the perpetrator entered through this route.”
She turned around again, studied again. “But she wasn’t running toward the door. Somebody crawls in your window, and you’ve got time to get out of bed, you run—for the door, maybe the bathroom. But she didn’t. She was facing the window when she fell. Maybe he had a weapon, woke her, ordered her out of bed. Looking for a quick score. But he doesn’t take this very nice wrist unit? He smacks her around— an activity nobody hears, or at least reports—then bashes her over the head and leaves? It’s not like that. Nothing like that.”
She shook her head as she re-examined Trudy. “Bruises on the face and body are older than one-thirty this morning. Hours older. ME will verify. What were you into Trudy? What were you up to?”
She heard Peabody’s voice, just the rhythm of it out in the hall, then the muffled doing of airskids. “Peabody, Detective Delia, now on-scene. Record on, Peabody?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Check out the closet, and see if you can find her pocket ‘link. I’ll want the room ’link replayed.”
“On that.” She stepped to the body first. “Coshed, back of the head. Blunt. Classic.” Her gaze came up, met Eve’s. “Time of death?”