Memory in Death (In Death Series #22) by J. D. Robb: Book Cover

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Memory in Death (In Death Series #22) by J. D. Robb, Nora D. Roberts

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(Hardcover)

Pub. Date: January 2006
352pp

Reader Rating: (40 ratings)

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Product Details

Pub. Date: January 2006
Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
Format: Hardcover, 352pp

Series: In Death Series, #22
ISBN-13: 9780399153280
ISBN: 0399153284

Synopsis

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 plunged 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.

Publishers Weekly

After clashing with clones and killers in last year's Origin in Death, New York City police lieutenant Eve Dallas ("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") settles back into a more conventional mystery. In December 2059, a mysterious woman shows up in Eve's office claiming to be her "mama." It's Trudy Lombard, the cruel foster mom who took nine-year-old Eve in after Eve killed her abusive father. Trudy made Eve take cold baths and locked her in closets, among other torments, and now Trudy wants Eve to pay $2 million to keep her past a secret. Readers of the series will know how Roarke, Eve's rich, deadly husband, handles the situation; he tosses Trudy out on her ear. When Trudy is found murdered the next day, it's up to Eve to catch the killer and prove that neither she nor Roarke was behind the bludgeoning. All the action takes place over Christmas, and Eve, being Eve, complains about the foolishness of the holiday, but Roarke et al. continue to slowly teach Eve the virtues of love, family and friendship. This is number 22 in a series that still manages to feel fresh. (Jan.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

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Biography

One of the most prolific and popular writers in the world, Nora Roberts (who also writes as her edgier alter-ego J. D. Robb) publishes multiple books a year. Not that it�s enough for her fans, who tear through her unconventional romances. With her trademark mix of fantasy, mystery, and romance, Roberts has created her own genre -- and romance fans are grateful for it!

More About the Author

Customer Reviews

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Jennifer Wardrip - Personal Readby TeensReadToo

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November 04, 2008: I absolutely love the "...IN DEATH" series, and MEMORY IN DEATH was no exception. It's nearly Christmas 2059 in New York, and Eve and Roarke are planning another large holiday party. As Eve deals with her job with the police department, she suddenly gets a blast from her past.

Trudy Lombard, who served as Eve's foster mother for six months right after she was found bloody and alone in Dallas, Texas, has come to her office--supposedly to catch up on old times. When Eve panics and throws her out, Trudy makes her true motives known when she visits Roarke at his office, and demands two million dollars to keep quiet about Eve's troubled past. Roarke refuses, threatens Trudy into leaving them alone, and advises her that her best course of action would be to return, quietly, to Texas.

That, of course, isn't the end of Trudy Lombard. When Eve decides to face Trudy one last time, to insist that she'll get no monetary gain from either her or her husband, they find Trudy dead in her hotel room--and her distraught son, Bobby, and his wife, Zana, are both horrified and heartbroken.

Eve sets out to find out who killed her former foster mother, while battling with the horrendous memories that surface from Trudy's sudden reappearance into her life. As she struggles to balance her home life with Roarke with the death of a woman who only added to her pain and misery all those years ago, Eve is once again faced with her past, and forced to overcome it.

MEMORY IN DEATH is another winner in J.D. Robb's series. You don't want to miss the heartbreak, persistence, and tenacity of this latest thriller!

A reviewerby Anonymous

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March 18, 2008: The hardcover book jacket and a few pages in the middle grabbed me, so I took the book home... and a fan was born. Having now read a couple other 'In Death' titles 'totally out of sequence, mind you' I'm still a fan. Lately back into reading fiction, after about a 20-year hiatus during which I took up parenting and counted cross-stitch to pass the time, Robb's series is like tasting really good bourbon for the first time. Edgy and smooth, real and unreal. There's heat even when it's poured over ice. She's just a pleasure to read. Seriously thinking about starting at the beginning with 'Naked in Death' and reading them all, in order... and why not? 20 titles with these magnetic characters, the melding of futuristic language, equipment, possibility, and old-fashioned humanness, and only as much waiting in between as I want to take. How fun is THAT? Also on my recent reading list include works by Brad Meltzer, Joseph Finder, Janet Evanovich, J.R. Moehringer, Kate Atkinson, Barbara Kingsolver, Tom Wolfe, Daniel Silva, Bill Bryson, Jane Austen, Victor Hugo, Gene Wilder, Edward Klein, Peter Robinson, Anita Shreve, Thomas Payne, Hester Browne, David Maine, Bonnie Ramthun... and I'm having a blast.

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Fact File

Name:
Nora Roberts

Also Known As:
J. D. Robb; Sarah Hardesty; Jill March; Eleanor Marie Robertson (birth name)

Current Home:
Keedysville, Maryland

Date of Birth:
1950

Place of Birth:
Silver Spring, Maryland

Awards:
Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, 1986; Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, 1991; Romance Writers of America Centennial Award, 1997; Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award (seven times); Quill Award for Blue Smoke, 2006

* Nora Roberts's official web site

Biography

Not only has Nora Roberts written more bestsellers than anyone else in the world (according to Publishers Weekly), she�s also created a hybrid genre of her own: the futuristic detective romance. And that�s on top of mastering every subgenre in the romance pie: the family saga, the historical, the suspense novel. But this most prolific and versatile of authors might never have tapped into her native talent if it hadn't been for one fateful snowstorm.

As her fans well know, in 1979 a blizzard trapped Roberts at home for a week with two bored little kids and a dwindling supply of chocolate. To maintain her sanity, Roberts started scribbling a story -- a romance novel like the Harlequin paperbacks she'd recently begun reading. The resulting manuscript was rejected by Harlequin, but that didn't matter to Roberts. She was hooked on writing. Several rejected manuscripts later, her first book was accepted for publication by Silhouette.

For several years, Roberts wrote category romances for Silhouette -- short books written to the publisher's specifications for length, subject matter and style, and marketed as part of a series of similar books. Roberts has said she never found the form restrictive. "If you write in category, you write knowing there's a framework, there are reader expectations," she explained. "If this doesn't suit you, you shouldn't write it. I don't believe for one moment you can write well what you wouldn't read for pleasure."

Roberts never violated the reader's expectations, but she did show a gift for bringing something fresh to the romance formula. Her first book, Irish Thoroughbred (1981), had as its heroine a strong-willed horse groom, in contrast to the fluttering young nurses and secretaries who populated most romances at the time. But Roberts's books didn't make significant waves until 1985, when she published Playing the Odds, which introduced the MacGregor clan. It was the first bestseller of many.

Roberts soon made a name for herself as a writer of spellbinding multigenerational sagas, creating families like the Scottish MacGregors, the Irish Donovans and the Ukrainian Stanislaskis. She also began working on romantic suspense novels, in which the love story unfolds beneath a looming threat of violence or disaster. She grew so prolific that she outstripped her publishers' ability to print and market Nora Roberts books, so she created an alter ego, J.D. Robb. Under the pseudonym, she began writing romantic detective novels set in the future. By then, millions of readers had discovered what Publishers Weekly called her "immeasurable diversity and talent."

Although the style and substance of her books has grown, Roberts remains loyal to the genre that launched her career. As she says, "The romance novel at its core celebrates that rush of emotions you have when you are falling in love, and it's a lovely thing to relive those feelings through a book."

Good to Know

Roberts still lives in the same Maryland house she occupied when she first started writing -- though her carpenter husband has built on some additions. She and her husband also own Turn the Page Bookstore Café in Boonsboro, Maryland. When Roberts isn't busy writing, she likes to drop by the store, which specializes in Civil War titles as well as autographed copies of her own books.

Roberts sued fellow writer Janet Dailey in 1997, accusing her of plagiarizing numerous passages of her work over a period of years. Dailey paid a settlement and publicly apologized, blaming stress and a psychological disorder for her misconduct.

Feature Interview

Excerpted from the March/April 2002 issue of Book magazine.

One afternoon when Nora Roberts was four, her two oldest brothers broke into a violent argument while they were baby-sitting her. "I peeked out of the bedroom, and they're beating the hell out of each other," Roberts says. Then her mother walked in, with a grocery bag in each hand. "One bag goes here, one bag goes there, she steps right in the middle of these two six-foot guys and she goes, boom, bam. Two backhands. And both of them go, 'Maaaaaawwwmm.' I thought right then, There's the power. She's the power."

Elly, as her family still calls her, the youngest of five and the only girl, was a quick study. "She bossed her brothers around," says her mother, Eleanor; today, "her brothers have got her on a throne." Roberts reigns over more than her family, which now includes her husband and two sons. Since her writing debut in 1981, she has helped lead American romance away from its clichés of simpering heroines and heroic rapists toward more complex characters and contemporary, multifaceted plots. Of course, sex -- passionate, tender, delayed, avoided, forced, in castles, in fields, in treetops -- continues to be a central hook. And often, the prose remains purple; Roberts herself has a propensity for phrases like "she rocked them both toward madness." But the genre with which her name is synonymous is one -- the only one -- that always puts women at the center of the universe.

***

Two Mercedes -- a Kompressor convertible and an M-Class SUV -- and a Chrysler PT Cruiser are parked outside the rural Keedysville, Maryland, home Roberts shares with her husband. Inside, several gauzy photographs of nude models hang above the bed in the ground-floor master bedroom, and a rendition of the Casablanca movie poster -- with the couple painted in as Ilsa and Rick -- is prominent above the fireplace. Three ebullient dogs and one gnarled old mutt track in dirt and litter the house with deer bones that they've found outside.

Since moving here twenty-nine years ago, Roberts has divorced her first husband, raised their two sons (Dan, now twenty-nine, lives with his wife down the lane; Jason, twenty-six, is just over an hour away) and remarried. She has also added on a few rooms and an indoor pool; a few years ago, she bought twenty adjoining acres so she could continue to shoo deer out of the garden in her underwear without worrying about neighbors. She and her husband own a tiny bookshop in nearby Boonsboro, but Roberts spends most of her time in an upstairs office where she types, smokes and drinks diet colas eight hours a day, five days a week. It's a routine that's produced an average of seven books a year since 1981, many of them bestsellers.

Roberts knows that her work is commercial fiction and doesn't lose any sleep waiting for National Book Award nominations. The high-art literary tradition isn't what's gotten her to where she is; what has is her "real talent for storytelling," as author Jennifer Crusie (Fast Women; Welcome to Temptation) says, and a commensurate skill with plot and pacing. Readers are pulled into her story lines (which often bounce from one continent to the next) and her well-drawn characters. Fans especially admire Roberts' tough, independent heroines. "When they fit with your own circumstances," says Elizabeth Mayfield, a database administrator from Norwalk, Connecticut, "you think, Gee, there's hope for me." Roberts, however, contends that she's not writing to provide role models for anyone. "I'm gonna tell a good, entertaining story," she says. "I'm not looking to change the world."

Roberts was born Eleanor Marie Robertson, and she grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland, about an hour from where she lives now. Her father worked as a projectionist at the local movie theater and as a stagehand until 1964, when he started a lighting company -- which is where most of the Robertson family still works. Her mother ran the family. "Mom was a very strict disciplinarian," says Roberts' brother Buzz, who is now the president of his dad's company, "but as long as you followed the rules and were polite, you didn't have a problem." He says Nora had it a little easier than her brothers. "Us boys, we knew we were low men on the totem pole. Mom was tickled pink when she had Nora."

"Her daddy worked two jobs all his life, and during the Depression, I took in roomers," says Eleanor Robertson, who at eighty-five still lives in Silver Spring and is now secretary-treasurer of the company her husband started (Bernie Robertson died in 2000). "She knows how hard we worked to give them an education and a nice home." Roberts went to Catholic schools as a child and credits much of her success to the nuns who taught her -- the discipline and guilt in her formative years did her a lot of good.

In her sophomore year of high school, Roberts transferred to public school, where she met Ronald Aufdem-Brinke; she married him at seventeen, in 1968, right after graduation. The young couple moved to Keedysville and had a small house built in the woods. While Aufdem-Brinke worked at his father's sheet-metal business and later the Robertson lighting company, Roberts took care of their two children and the house. "Oh God, I had craft addictions," Roberts says, taking a drag on a cigarette. (She runs through a pack of Winstons at a pace that doesn't quite catch up to chain-smoking but runs several steps beyond casual.) "You name it, I made it. I macraméd two hammocks once. I did ceramics, I sewed the kids' clothes. I even put flies into overalls -- that is sick. I was a sick woman. I baked bread once a week. I canned jellies and made my own spaghetti sauce using my own tomatoes."

Sometime during the next decade (she calls the period her "Earth Mother" years), Roberts started to read Harlequin novels -- the short books were easy for her to finish while the kids were napping. During a blizzard in 1979, trapped inside with little more than her three- and six-year-old sons and a game of Candy Land, Roberts sat down with a pencil and wrote a manuscript of her own, a romance that she's since described as "very bad." In the next year and a half, while her kids were napping or at T-ball practice, she wrote at least six manuscripts in longhand. She submitted some of them to Harlequin, which at the time was using mainly British writers. Roberts didn't hear back, but her enthusiasm wasn't subdued. "I became a writing junkie," she says. Although she was rejected several times, she continued to write -- but started filing her manuscripts in a back drawer rather than submitting them.

Roberts then heard that a new romance publisher, Silhouette, was looking specifically for American writers, so she sent in her work. In 1980 she got a call from Nancy Jackson, a Silhouette editor, saying she had plucked one of Roberts' manuscripts -- Irish Thoroughbred, a slender love story about an Irish stable hand and her boss -- out of the slush pile. Jackson told Roberts she wanted to publish it. Eleanor Aufdem-Brinke changed her name to Nora Roberts because she says she assumed all romance authors used a nom de plume. The book "didn't make waves when it first came out," says Isabel Swift, her current editor, but it sold well in reprint. Roberts was hooked on the process, though, and published five more books the following year, eight the following and ten the year after that.

Roberts hit it big in 1985 when she wrote the first of her MacGregor family series, Playing the Odds. The book, which focuses on a matchmaking Scottish patriarch and his brood, became an immediate bestseller. Romance readers began associating the name Nora Roberts with multigenerational sagas: In addition to the MacGregors, she has written about the Donovans, a modern family of Irish magicians; the Calhouns, a family of pigheaded sisters in Maine; and the Stanislaskis, tempestuous Ukrainian immigrants.

***

From the beginning, Roberts' heroines were not content to wear aprons or take dictation. In Irish Thoroughbred, though Roberts' heroine was young (early twenties) and virginal (well, she was a virgin), she was a horse groomer with an independent streak. Roberts wasn't alone in giving her female characters more authority in the workforce; other American romance authors -- like Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown and Elizabeth Lowell -- were doing the same. "I think one of the great things the American writer has brought to the romance novel," Krentz says, "is a modern interpretation of women's roles and women's values." Author Janet Evanovich adds, "The genre reflects the increased power and opportunity afforded today's women. We see more variety in the genre in terms of heroine age and occupation. And today's heroine is stronger, more self-reliant. Of course, Nora was always ahead of the pack. Her heroines were always strong."

Rebecca Sullivan, a heroine in Roberts' latest romantic suspense, Three Fates, is a quintessential Nora Roberts lead: She runs the family business (giving boat tours off the western coast of Ireland) and engineers the search for the family's lost treasure. Rebecca's a smart, capable lady with a sense of humor. In the course of the story, she falls in love with a computer expert who eventually marries her -- the book ends in Ireland with the assumption that the husband will help her with the business. "I'm not interested in telling stories about weak women," Roberts says. "Or if they're weak, I want to show how they grow and how they become strong. I'm not writing about Cinderella sitting waiting for her prince to come and take her away. She'll get out of it herself. The prince is a bonus, a completion, another element -- but it's not the answer to all of her problems."

***

Perched on a stool next to her kitchen counter, Roberts doesn't look like a purveyor of dreams. She could be any of a million women, taking a break from a million jobs, looking toward the end of a million days. Right now, her husband is outside, working in the yard before heading to town. Later on, he'll pick up groceries, and Nora will cook dinner; favorites are pasta with red sauce or Cajun chicken. Around 7:30, the two will retire for the evening, probably settling down for a while in front of the television -- it's Thursday, so they'll probably tune in for some of Friends or ER. And that's a typical end to a typical day for the world's most popular romance author. "I always wonder if they asked Agatha Christie if she was homicidal," Roberts says with a laugh. "I don't have a romantic lifestyle."

Still, she says, it's romance books she turns to when she wants to escape reality, so maybe the queen of the realm is, finally, one of its true citizens as well. Roberts, after all, spends her days holed up in her office, writing, researching and investigating the backgrounds for her books. She loves it, she says, but it's work. And when she's done, she's done. "When I read for pleasure," she says, "give me a story."

If today's romance is escapism, millions of its readers would argue that it is also girl-power between pastel covers: adventures that belong to characters who are at their strongest -- and sexiest -- because they are women. So Roberts essentially shrugs off the contempt reserved for romance novels as sexist and ignorant. Still, she recognizes that the genre carries a lot of baggage -- even she finds herself sneaking reads when she's out in public. A lot of the embarrassment, she says, has to do with the way the books look. "It's mostly hard for me when she's falling out of her dress, and he has his mouth on her tit," Roberts says, describing what she calls "nursing mother" covers. She taps her lighter against the counter and rolls her eyes. "To sit on an airplane and read that?"

From Barnes & Noble

The Barnes & Noble Review
This installment of J. D. Robb's (a.k.a. Nora Roberts) futuristic suspense saga featuring hard-nosed New York City Police and Security Department lieutenant Eve Dallas begins with a bang -- or more appropriately, a splat -- when a corpulent man dressed as Santa falls 36 floors to his death in Times Square. The already bizarre holiday season gets even stranger when Dallas is visited by a ghost from the past -- her former foster mother, whose sadistic psychological abuse, over a period of five and a half months, deeply scarred the nine-year-old Eve.

The Yuletide spirit of giving doesn't seem to extend to the crusty old "Mama Tru," who threatens to reveal explicit details about traumatic events in Eve's childhood, unlesss she is paid $2 million by Eve and her husband, Roarke. He tells her, in no uncertain terms, to take her evil behind back to whatever hole she crawled out of. But when Mama Tru is found beaten to death in her apartment the next morning, Eve vows to solve the murder -- and overcome some personal demons at the same time.

Set in 2059 New York City, Robb's compendious Eve Dallas saga (Memory in Death is the 22nd installment) is a genre-transcendent suspense series that blends science fiction, mystery, and romance into something totally unique. While the focus is more on down-and-dirty detective fiction, the technical science fiction and steamy romantic elements make this series an absolute delight to read -- for science fiction, mystery, and romance fans alike. Paul Goat Allen

From the Publisher

Publishers Weekly

Library Journal

Memory in Death opens another window into Lt. Eve Dallas's childhood, which she tries so hard to forget. Eve's last case won her national prominence and brought her to the attention of an abusive foster mother from her Texas past, Trudy Lombard, who, accompanied by her son, Bobby, and daughter-in-law, comes to New York to blackmail Eve. Her mere appearance puts Eve into an emotional tailspin, but Eve's husband, Roark, understands Trudy's evil intentions immediately. He not only refuses to pay, he also promises to kill her should she spread tales about Eve's past. Trudy is found dead two days later, and Eve is relieved when the time of death was during a huge Christmas party Eve and Roark were hosting. Still, the death is uncomfortably close, and Eve knows she must solve the crime in order to come to terms with this part of her past. Narrator Susan Ericksen is in top form. In addition to her fine interpretation of the recurring characters, she has fun with the three Texans in the Big Apple. Especially obnoxious is the high-pitched Southern helplessness that Ericksen projects into every word uttered by Bobby's wife, Zana, the absolute antithesis of Eve. Recommended for all mystery collections.-Juleigh Muirhead Clark, John D. Rockefeller Jr. Lib., Colonial Williamsburg Fdn., VA Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Just what Lt. Eve Dallas needed to make Christmas in the 2050s complete: a visit from the wicked witch who made her life hell when she was in foster care. The holiday season kicks off with Santa opening a window on an office party and taking a header onto the pavement 36 stories below, killing a bystander in a hard landing. It was drugs, his shocked coworkers admit to Lt. Dallas of New York Police and Security Department, who promptly collars the dealer and thinks she's ready for anything. Well, one thing she's not ready for is Trudy Lombard, the foster mother who terrorized the eight-year-old Eve back in Texas until she ran away. Now Trudy's made the journey to the big city, her son Bobby and his accountant/bride Zana in tow, and she wants nothing more than to coo over her former charge, now world-famous as a homicide dick (Origin in Death, 2005, etc.), and incidentally to put the squeeze on Trudy's billionaire husband Roarke. It seems that Trudy's been following her protegee's career with rapacious interest and is ready to go public with her every misstep on the way to success and celebrity. Roarke tosses her out with brusque counterthreats, of course, and when Eve pays her a call the next day to repeat the brush-off in person, she finds Trudy beaten to death in her hotel room. The setup promises to land Robb's answer to the Jetsons in hot water-but it doesn't, because they both have ironclad alibis and nobody believes they'd hire a hit. So the case at the center of the futuristic trimmings and the connubial romance comes down to nothing more weighty than figuring out whether Trudy's relatives got rid of her, or whether the perp was some other survivor of her unique brand of nurturingwho decided enough was enough. Middling for this venerable, well-regarded series.

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MEMORY IN DEATH

By J. D. ROBB

G. P. Putnam's Sons

Copyright © 2006 Nora Roberts
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-399-15328-4

Chapter One

I 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, smiled thinly. "We'll do it the 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 was mildly 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 his fall's Jacobs, Leo, age thirty-three. Queens."

"I'm going to arrange to have these two taken into holding, get a test for illegals, get their statements when we finish here. I assume you want 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 the right answer. Eve didn't give it to her. "They're pretty shaken up, and it's chaos out here, but ... We might get more out of them here and now, before they settle down and start thinking about how much trouble they 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 few paces 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 have him 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 me what went down. Your friend's dead, and so is some poor schmuck who was just walking on the sidewalk."

He spoke through his hands. "Bosses set up this lunch buffet deal for the office party. Wouldn't even spring for some brew, you know?" Ron shivered twice, hard, then dropped his arms to his sides. "So a bunch of us got together, and we pooled to rent the suite for the whole day. After the brass left, we brought out the booze and the ... the recreational chemicals. 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 a few 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 the Push with it, or somebody did. Asshole," he said as tears spilled down his cheeks. "He was juiced up, I can tell you that. But man, it was a party. 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. Next thing you know, he's climbing up, he's got this big, stupid grin on his face. He shouts, 'Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.' Then he fucking dived out. Head first. Jesus Christ, he was just gone. Nobody even thought to grab for him. It happened so fast, so damn fast. People started screaming and running, and I ran to the window and looked."

He mopped at his face with his hands, shuddered again. "And I yelled 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 the street. Fighting, Eve knew, the standard little war between ratting out and standing up.

"He must've gotten it from Zero. A bunch of us chipped in so we could get a party pack. Nothing heavy, I swear."

"Where does Zero operate?"

"He runs a data club, Broadway and Twenty-ninth. Zero's. Sells recreationals under the counter. Tubbs, man, he was harmless. He was just a big stupid guy."

The big stupid guy and the poor schmuck he landed on were being scraped off the sidewalk when Eve walked into party central. It looked as she'd expected it would look: an unholy mess of abandoned clothes, spilled booze, dropped food. The window remained open, which was fortunate as the stench of smoke, puke, and sex still permeated.

Witnesses who hadn't run like rabbits had given statements in adjoining rooms, then had been released.

"What's your take?" Eve asked Peabody as she crossed the minefield of plates and glasses scattered on the carpet.

"Other than Tubbs won't make it home for Christmas? Poor idiot got himself hyped, probably figured Rudolph was hovering outside with the rest of the reindeer and the sled. He jumped, in clear view of more 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 got another 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 a healing wound. "There's going to be something in his tox screen other than happy pills or something to give him his three-hour woody."

"Nothing in the statements to indicate that anyone had anything against the guy. He was just a schmoe. And he's the one who brought the illegals in."

"That's right."

"You want to go after the pusher?"

"Illegals killed him. The guy who sold them held the weapon." She caught herself rubbing her hip, stopped, and turned around. "What did you get from the witnesses regarding this guy's illegals habit?"

"He didn't really have one. Just played around a little now and then at parties." Peabody paused a moment. "And one of the ways pushers increase their business is to spice the deal here and there. Okay. I'll see if Illegals 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 on the next of kin. Tubbs had no spouse or cohab, but he had a mother in Brooklyn. Jacobs had a wife and a kid. As it was unlikely any investigation would be necessary into either victim's life, she contacted a departmental grief counselor. Informing next of kin was always tough, but the holidays added layers.

Back on the sidewalk, she stood looking at the police barricades, the throngs behind them, the ugly smears left behind on the pavement. It had been stupid, and plain bad luck, and had too many elements of farce to be overlooked.

But two men who'd been alive that morning were now in bags on their way to the morgue.

"Hey, lady! Hey, lady! Hey, lady!"

On the third call, Eve glanced around and spotted the kid who'd scooted under the police line. He carried a battered suitcase nearly as big 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 the bottom, and the case folded out and became a table loaded with mufflers and scarves. "Good stuff. Hundred percent cashmere."

The kid had skin the color of good black coffee, and eyes of impossible green. There was an airboard hanging on a strap at his back, and the board was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges to simulate flames.

Even as he grinned at her, his nimble fingers were pulling up various scarves. "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 a couple 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 I heard. Get a good crowd when somebody goes and jumps out the window, so I pulled up and came over. Doing good business. How 'bout this red one here. Look fine with that bad-ass coat."

She had to appreciate his balls, but kept her face stern. "I wear a badass coat because I am a bad-ass, and if these are cashmere, I'll eat the whole 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. "How much?" She picked up the checked scarf, found it softer than she'd have guessed.

"Seventy-five. Cheap as dirt."

She dropped it again, and gave him a look he'd understand. "I've got plenty of dirt."

"Sixty-five."

"Fifty, flat." She pulled out credits, made the exchange. "Now get behind 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'll find 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, and with some haste stuffed the scarf in her pocket.

"You bought something. You shopped!"

"I didn't shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, or gray-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 Christmas shopping 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 outweigh his ongoing investigation. We'll go bring him in for Interview."

As they started toward their vehicle, Peabody looked over her shoulder. "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 step up from a joint, with a circular revolving bar, privacy cubes, a lot of silver and black that would appeal to the young professional crowd. At the moment the music was tame and recorded, with wall screens filled with a homely male face, fortunately half-hidden by a lot of lank purple hair. He sang morosely of the futility of life.

Eve could have told him that for Tubbs Lawrence and Leo Jacobs the alternative probably seemed a lot more futile.

The bouncer was big as a maxibus, and his tunic jacket proved that black wasn't necessarily slimming. He made them as cops the minute they stepped in. Eve saw the flicker in his eyes, the important rolling back of his shoulders.

The floor didn't actually vibrate when he crossed the room, but she wouldn't have called him light on his feet.

He gave them both a hard look out of nut-brown eyes, and showed his teeth.

"You got a problem?"

Peabody was a little late with the answer, habitually waiting for Eve to 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 look around. "While we're waiting we might as well take a look at your licenses." Now she showed her teeth as well. "I like busywork. Maybe we'll chat up some of your clientele. Community relations, and all that."

As she spoke, she pulled out her badge. "Meanwhile you can tell him Detective Peabody, and my partner, Lieutenant Dallas, are waiting."

Peabody strolled over to a table where a man in a business suit and a woman-who looked unlikely to be his wife due to the amount of breast spilling out of her pink spangled top-were huddled. "Good afternoon, sir!" She greeted him with an enthusiastic smile, and all the blood drained out of his face. "And what brings you into this fine establishment this 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 than Peabody, she pushed those impressive breasts in Peabody's face. "I'm doing 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. "This cop ran off my john."

"I'm sorry, I'd like to see your companion license. If everything's in order, I'll let you get back to work."

Bull-and it seemed the day for people to have names appropriate to their bodies-flanked Peabody, who now looked, Eve thought, like a 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 December breeze. "Want to try to use me? Bull."

She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, the flash of color on the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the second level. "Looks like your boss has time after all."

Another appearance-appropriate name, she decided. The man was barely five feet in height and couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds. He used the short guy's compensation swagger and wore a bright blue suit with a florid pink shirt. His hair was short, straight, reminding her of 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 come downtown and answer some questions."

"What sort of complaint?"

"It involves the sale of illegal substances." Peabody glanced to one of the privacy cubes. "Such as the ones currently being ingested by some of your clientele."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from MEMORY IN DEATH by J. D. ROBB Copyright © 2006 by Nora Roberts. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Memory in Death (In Death Series #22) by J. D. Robb, Nora D. Roberts

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MEMORY IN DEATH

G. P. Putnam's Sons

Chapter One

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