Fiction J. D. Robb Memory in Death

ISBN 13: 9780399153280

Memory in Death

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9780399153280: Memory in Death

Eve Dallas's "tough cop" exterior is shaken by her twisted former foster mother's demands for money in exchange for protecting secrets from Dallas's childhood, a situation that becomes more complicated when the woman is found murdered days later. By the author of Origin in Death. 500,000 first printing.

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About the Author:

J.D. Robb is the pseudonym for a number-one New York Timesbestselling author of more than 200 novels, including the futuristic suspense In Death series. There are more than 400 million copies of her books in print.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Memory in Death J. D. RobbI.death was not taking a holiday. new yorkmay have been decked out in its glitter and glamour,madly festooned in December of 2059, but Santa Clauswas dead. And a couple of his elves weren’t looking so good.Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood on the sidewalk with the insanityof Times Square screaming around her and studied what was left ofSt. Nick. A couple of kids, still young enough to believe that a fat guyin a red suit would wiggle down the chimney to bring them presentsinstead of murdering them in their sleep, were shrieking at a decibeldesigned to puncture eardrums. She wondered why whoever was incharge of them didn’t haul them away.Not her job, she thought. Thank God. She preferred the bloodymess at her feet. She looked up, way up. Dropped down from the thirty-sixth floor ofthe Broadway View Hotel. So the first officer on-scene had reported.Shouting, “Ho, ho, ho”—according to witnesses—until he’d gonesplat, and had taken out some hapless son of a bitch who’d beenstrolling through the endless party. The task of separating the two smashed bodies would be an unpleasantone, she imagined. Two other victims had escaped with minor injuries—one had simplydropped like a tree and cracked her head on the sidewalk in shockwhen the nasty spatter of blood, gore, and brain matter had splashed allover 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 theglassy eyes of Santa’s little helpers. She started toward them in a boot-length black leather coat thatswirled in the chilly air. Her hair was short and brown around a leanface. Her eyes were the color of good, aged whiskey and were long likethe 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 atthe moment. She couldn’t much blame them. She gauged them as latetwenties, and their upscale partywear indicated they were probably juniorexecs at the firm that had had its holiday bash rudely interrupted.“I’m going to arrange to have you both escorted downtown whereyou’ll give your statements. I’d like you to voluntarily agree to illegalstesting. If you don’t . . .” She waited a beat, smiled thinly. “We’ll do itthe hard way.” “Oh, man, oh, shit. Tubbs. He’s dead. He’s dead, right?”“That’s official,” Eve said and turned to signal to her partner.Detective Peabody, her dark hair currently worn in sporty waves,straightened from her crouch by the tangle of body parts. She wasmildly green herself, Eve noted, but holding steady. “Got ID on both victims,” she announced. “Santa’s Lawrence, Max,age twenty-eight, Midtown address. Guy who—ha-ha—broke hisfall’s Jacobs, Leo, age thirty-three. Queens.” “I’m going to arrange to have these two taken into holding, get a testfor illegals, get their statements when we finish here. I assume youwant to go up, look at the scene, speak with the other witnesses.” “I . . .” “You’re primary on this one.” “Right.” Peabody took a deep breath. “Did you talk to them at all?” “Leaving that for you. You want to take a poke at them here?” “Well . . .” Peabody searched Eve’s face, obviously looking for theright answer. Eve didn’t give it to her. “They’re pretty shaken up, andit’s chaos out here, but . . .We might get more out of them here andnow, before they settle down and start thinking about how much troublethey might be in.” “Which one do you want?” “Um. I’ll take the black guy.” Eve nodded, walked back. “You.” She pointed. “Name?” “Steiner. Ron Steiner.” “We’re going to take a little walk, Mr. Steiner.” “I feel sick.” “I bet.” She gestured for him to rise, took his arm, and walked a fewpaces away. “You and Tubbs worked together?” “Yeah. Yeah. Tyro Communications. We—we hung out.” “Big guy, huh?” “Who, Tubbs? Yeah, yeah.” Steiner wiped sweat from his brow. “Came in about two-fifty, I guess. So we figured it’d be a gag to havehim rent the Santa suit for the party.” “What kind of toys and goodies did Tubbs have in his sack today,Ron?” “Oh, man.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Jesus.” “We’re not on record yet, Ron. We will be, but right now just tell mewhat went down. Your friend’s dead, and so is some poor schmuckwho was just walking on the sidewalk.” He spoke through his hands. “Bosses set up this lunch buffet deal forthe office party. Wouldn’t even spring for some brew, you know?” RonMEMORY IN DEATH 3shivered twice, hard, then dropped his arms to his sides. “So a bunch ofus got together, and we pooled to rent the suite for the whole day. Afterthe brass left, we brought out the booze and the . . . the recreationalchemicals. So to speak.” “Such as?” He swallowed, then finally met her eyes. “You know, a little Exotica,some Push and Jazz.” “Zeus?” “I don’t mess with that. I’ll take the test, you’ll see. All I did was afew tokes of Jazz.” When Eve said nothing, merely stared into his eyes,he welled up. “He never used heavy stuff. Not Tubbs, man, I swear.I’d’ve known. But I think he had some today, maybe laced some of thePush with it, or somebody did. Asshole,” he said as tears spilled downhis cheeks. “He was juiced up, I can tell you that. But man, it was aparty. We were just having fun. People were laughing and dancing.Then Tubbs, he opens the window.” His hands were everywhere now. His face, his throat, his hair. “Oh,God, oh, God. I figured it was because it was getting smokey. Nextthing you know, he’s climbing up, he’s got this big, stupid grin on hisface. He shouts, ‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.’ Thenhe fucking dived out. Head first. Jesus Christ, he was just gone. Nobodyeven thought to grab for him. It happened so fast, so damn fast. Peoplestarted screaming and running, and I ran to the window and looked.”He mopped at his face with his hands, shuddered again. “And Iyelled for somebody to call nine-one-one, and Ben and I ran down.I don’t know why. We were his friends, and we ran down.” “Where’d he get the stuff, Ron?” “Man, this is fucked up.” He looked away, over her head, out to thestreet. Fighting, Eve knew, the standard little war between ratting outand standing up. “He must’ve gotten it from Zero. A bunch of us chipped in so wecould get a party pack. Nothing heavy, I swear.” “Where does Zero operate?” “He runs a data club, Broadway and Twenty-ninth. Zero’s. Sellsrecreationals under the counter. Tubbs, man, he was harmless. He wasjust a big stupid guy.” The big stupid guy and the poor schmuck he landed on were beingscraped off the sidewalk when Eve walked into party central. It lookedas she’d expected it would look: an unholy mess of abandoned clothes,spilled booze, dropped food. The window remained open, which wasfortunate as the stench of smoke, puke, and sex still permeated.Witnesses who hadn’t run like rabbits had given statements in adjoiningrooms, then had been released. “What’s your take?” Eve asked Peabody as she crossed the minefieldof plates and glasses scattered on the carpet. “Other than Tubbs won’t make it home for Christmas? Poor idiotgot himself hyped, probably figured Rudolph was hovering outsidewith the rest of the reindeer and the sled. He jumped, in clear view ofmore than a dozen witnesses. Death by Extreme Stupidity.” When Eve said nothing, only continued to look out the open window,Peabody stopped bagging pills she found on the floor. “You’ve gotanother take?” “Nobody pushed him, but he had help getting extremely stupid.”Absently, she rubbed her hip that still ached a bit now and then from ahealing wound. “There’s going to be something in his tox screen otherthan happy pills or something to give him his three-hour woody.” “Nothing in the statements to indicate that anyone had anythingagainst the guy. He was just a schmoe. And he’s the one who broughtthe illegals in.” “That’s right.” “You want to go after the pusher?” “Illegals killed him. The guy who sold them held the weapon.” Shecaught herself rubbing her hip, stopped, and turned around. “Whatdid you get from the witnesses regarding this guy’s illegals habit?” “He didn’t really have one. Just played around a little now and thenat parties.” Peabody paused a moment. “And one of the ways pushersincrease their business is to spice the deal here and there. Okay. I’ll see ifIllegals has anything on this Zero, then we’ll go have a talk with him.” She let Peabody run the show and spent her time getting the data onthe next of kin. Tubbs had no spouse or cohab, but he had a motherin Brooklyn. Jacobs had a wife and a kid. As it was unlikely any investigationwould be necessary into either victim’s life, she contacted a departmentalgrief counselor. Informing next of kin was always tough,but the holidays added layers. Back on the sidewalk, she stood looking at the police barricades, thethrongs behind them, the ugly smears left behind on the pavement. Ithad been stupid, and plain bad luck, and had too many elements offarce to be overlooked. But two men who’d been alive that morning were now in bags ontheir way to the morgue. “Hey, lady! Hey, lady! Hey, lady!” On the third call, Eve glanced around and spotted the kid who’dscooted under the police line. He carried a battered suitcase nearly asbig as he was. “You talking to me? Do I look like a lady?”“Got good stuff.” As she watched, more impressed than surprised,he flipped the latch on the case. A three-legged stand popped out of thebottom, and the case folded out and became a table loaded with muf-flers and scarves. “Good stuff. Hundred percent cashmere.”The kid had skin the color of good black coffee, and eyes of impossiblegreen. There was an airboard hanging on a strap at his back, and theboard was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges to simulate flames.Even as he grinned at her, his nimble fingers were pulling up variousscarves. “Nice color for you, lady.” “Jesus, kid, I’m a cop.” “Cops know good stuff.” She waved off a uniform hot-footing it in their direction. “I’ve got acouple of dead guys to deal with here.” “They gone now.” “Did you see the leaper?” “Nah.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “Missed it, but Iheard. Get a good crowd when somebody goes and jumps out the window,so I pulled up and came over. Doing good business. How ’boutthis red one here. Look fine with that bad-ass coat.” She had to appreciate his balls, but kept her face stern. “I wear a badasscoat because I am a bad-ass, and if these are cashmere, I’ll eat thewhole trunk of them.” “Label says cashmere; that’s what counts.” He smiled again, winningly. “You’d look fine in this red one. Make you a good deal.” She shook her head, but there was a checked one, black and green,that caught her eye. She knew someone who’d wear it. Probably. “Howmuch?” She picked up the checked scarf, found it softer than she’dhave guessed. “Seventy-five. Cheap as dirt.” She dropped it again, and gave him a look he’d understand. “I’ve gotplenty of dirt.” “Sixty-five.” “Fifty, flat.” She pulled out credits, made the exchange. “Now getbehind the line before I run you in for being short.” “Take the red one, too. Come on, lady. Half price. Good deal.”“No. And if I find out you’ve got your fingers in any pockets, I’llfind you. Beat it.” He only smiled again, flipped the latch, and folded up. “No sweat,no big. Merry Christmas and all that shit.” “Back at you.” She turned, spotted Peabody heading her way, andwith some haste stuffed the scarf in her pocket. “You bought something. You shopped!” “I didn’t shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, orgray-market goods. It’s potential evidence.” “My ass.” Peabody got her fingers on the tip of the scarf, rubbed. “It’s nice. How much? Maybe I wanted one. I haven’t finished Christmasshopping yet. Where’d he go?” “Peabody.” “Damn it. Okay, okay. Illegals has a sheet on Gant, Martin, aka Zero.I wrangled around with a Detective Piers, but our two dead guys outweighhis ongoing investigation. We’ll go bring him in for Interview.” As they started toward their vehicle, Peabody looked over hershoulder. “Did he have any red ones?” The club was open for business, as clubs in this sector tended to be,twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Zero’s was a slick stepup from a joint, with a circular revolving bar, privacy cubes, a lot of silverand black that would appeal to the young professional crowd. Atthe moment the music was tame and recorded, with wall screens filledwith a homely male face, fortunately half-hidden by a lot of lank purplehair. He sang morosely of the futility of life. Eve could have told him that for Tubbs Lawrence and Leo Jacobsthe alternative probably seemed a lot more futile. The bouncer was big as a maxibus, and his tunic jacket proved thatblack wasn’t necessarily slimming. He made them as cops the minutethey stepped in. Eve saw the flicker in his eyes, the important rollingback of his shoulders. The floor didn’t actually vibrate when he crossed the room, but shewouldn’t have called him light on his feet.He gave them both a hard look out of nut-brown eyes, and showedhis teeth. “You got a problem?” Peabody was a little late with the answer, habitually waiting for Eveto take the lead. “Depends. We’d like to talk to your boss.” “Zero’s busy.” “Gosh, then I guess we’ll have to wait.” Peabody took a long lookaround. “While we’re waiting we might as well take a look at your licenses.”Now she showed her teeth as well. “I like busywork. Maybewe’ll chat up some of your clientele. Community relations, and all that.”As she spoke, she pulled out her badge. “Meanwhile you can tell himDetective Peabody, and my partner, Lieutenant Dallas, are waiting.”Peabody strolled over to a table where a man in a business suit and awoman—who looked unlikely to be his wife due to the amount ofbreast spilling out of her pink spangled top—were huddled. “Good afternoon,sir!” She greeted him with an enthusiastic smile, and all theblood drained out of his face. “And what brings you into this fine establishmentthis afternoon?” He got quickly to his feet, mumbled about having an appointment.As he rabbited, the woman rose. As she was about six inches taller thanPeabody, she pushed those impressive breasts in Peabody’s face. “I’mdoing business here! I’m doing business here!” Still smiling, Peabody took out a memo book. “Name, please?” “What the fuck!” “Ms. What-the-Fuck, I’d like to see your license.” “Bull!” “No, really. Just a spotcheck.” “Bull.” She spun herself and those breasts toward the bouncer. “Thiscop ran off my john.” “I’m sorry, I’d like to see your companion license. If everything’s inorder, I’ll let you get back to work.” Bull—and it seemed the day for people to have names appropriateto their bodies—flanked Peabody, who now looked, Eve thought, likea slight yet sturdy filling between two bulky pieces of bread. Eve rolled to her toes, just in case. “You got no right coming in here rousting customers.” “I’m just using my time wisely while we wait to speak with Mr.Gant. Lieutenant, I don’t believe Mr. Bull appreciates police officers.” “I got better use for women.” Eve rolled onto her toes again, and her tone was cool as the Decemberbreeze. “Want to try to use me? Bull.” She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, the flash of coloron the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the second level. “Looks likeyour boss has time after all.” Another appearance-appropriate name, she decided. The man wasbarely five feet in height and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds.He used the short guy’s compensation swagger and wore a bright bluesuit with a florid pink shirt. His hair was short, straight, reminding herof pictures of Julius Caesar. It was ink black, like his eyes. A silver eyetooth winked as he offered a smile. “Something I can do for you, Officers?” “Mr. Gant?” He spread his hands, nodded at Peabody. “Just call me Zero.” “I’m afraid we’ve had a complaint. We’re going to need you to comedowntown and answer some...

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Book Description Putnam Pub Group, E Rutherford, New Jersey, U.S.A., 2006. Hard Cover. Book Condition: New. Dust Jacket Condition: New. First Printing. Futuristic romance mystery/murder hardback, Book condition is new, no wear, writing or stamps, Dust Jacket is also in new condition.*We have other titles in this genre in stock and give discounts in shipping on additional books sent in the same package, please contact us for more info.**.WRAPPED IN A PLASTIC BAG TO PROTECT CONDITION OF BOOK.Summary - "Eve Dallas is one tough cop. She's got no problem dealing with a holiday reveler in a red suit who plunges thirty-seven stories and gives new meaning to the term "sidewalk Santa." But when she gets back to the station and Trudy Lombard shows up, it's all Eve can do to hold it together. Instantly, she's thrown back into the past, to the days when she was a vulnerable, traumatized girl-trapped in foster care with the twisted woman who now sits in front of her, smiling. Trudy claims she just wanted to see how Eve was doing. But Eve's husband, Roarke, suspects otherwise-and his suspicions prove correct when Trudy arrives at his office, demanding money in exchange for keeping the ugly details of his wife's childhood a secret. Barely restraining himself, Roarke shows her the door-and makes it clear that she'd be wise to get out of New York and never bother him or his wife again. But just a few days later, Trudy's found on the floor of her hotel room, a mess of bruises and blood. A cop to the core, Eve is determined to solve the case, if only for the sake of Trudy's bereaved son. Unfortunately, Eve is not the only one to have suffered at this woman's hands, and she and Roarke will follow a circuitous, dangerous path to find out who turned this victimizer into a victim. Bookseller Inventory # 021309012

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