The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [142]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Memory in Death
A G. P. Putnam’s Sons Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2006 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0548-8
A G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS BOOK®
G. P. Putnam’s Sons Books first published by The G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS and the “P” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: January, 2006
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
—NURSERY RHYME
Memory, the warder of the brain.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
1
DEATH WAS NOT TAKING A HOLIDAY. NEW YORK may have been decked out in its glitter and glamour, madly festooned in December of 2059, but Santa Claus was dead. And a couple of his elves weren’t looking so good.
Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood on the sidewalk with the insanity of Times Square screaming around her and studied what was left of St. Nick. A couple of kids, still young enough to believe that a fat guy in a red suit would wiggle down the chimney to bring them presents instead of murdering them in their sleep, were shrieking at a decibel designed to puncture eardrums. She wondered why whoever was in charge of them didn’t haul them away.
Not her job, she thought. Thank God. She preferred the bloody mess at her feet.
She looked up, way up. Dropped down from the thirty-sixth floor of the Broadway View Hotel. So the first officer on-scene had reported. Shouting, “Ho, ho, ho”—according to witnesses—until he’d gone splat, and had taken out some hapless son of a bitch who’d been strolling through the endless party.
The task of separating the two smashed bodies would be an unpleasant one, she imagined.
Two other victims had escaped with minor injuries—one had simply dropped like a tree and cracked her head on the sidewalk in shock when the nasty spatter of blood, gore, and brain matter had splashed all over her. Dallas would leave them to the medical techs for the moment, and get statements when, hopefully, they were more coherent.
She already knew what had happened here. She could see it in the glassy eyes of Santa’s little helpers.
She started toward them in a boot-length black leather coat that swirled in the chilly air. Her hair was short and brown around a lean face. Her eyes were the color of good, aged whiskey and were long like the rest of her. And like the rest of her, they were all cop.
“Guy in the Santa gig’s your buddy?”
“Oh, man. Tubbs. Oh, man.”
One was black, one was white, but they were both faintly green at the moment. She couldn’t much blame them. She gauged them as late twenties, and their upscale partywear indicated they were probably junior execs at the firm that had had its holiday bash rudely interrupted.
“I’m going to arrange to have you both escorted downtown where you’ll give your statements. I’d like you to voluntarily agree to illegals testing. If you don’t . . .” She waited a beat,