Memory in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

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?"
    "Just after one-thirty this morning."
    And Eve saw the flash of relief. "Sexual assault?" Peabody asked as she turned to the closet.
    "No evidence thereof."
    "She robbed?"
    "It's possible her killer was after something specific, had no interest in some jewelry and a quality wrist unit."
    "Or funds," Peabody added, holding up a large handbag. "Wallet's in here. Couple of credit cards, a debit, and some cash. No personal 'link or PPC. A couple of good-sized shopping bags in the closet here."
    "Keep looking."
    Eve moved into the bath. The sweepers would go over the room, inch by inch. But she could see quite a bit without their particular brand of magic.
    She had, unfortunately, a solid working knowledge of hair gunk and face crap and body slathering stuff. The feared and dreaded Trina seemed to find a way to torture her with all of it every few weeks.
    Trudy, it seemed, hadn't stinted on the