by J. D. Robb
His smile was all charm and dancing eyes.
Elinor Singer wore a white long-sleeved dress all but cracking with starch. Her hair, gold like her son’s, slicked back from her face to form a hard knot at the base of her neck.
She’d gone with a suite of rubies: bloodred orbs at her ears, another at her throat, a circle of them on one wrist, another on her finger.
On her left hand the bright white diamond cut the air like a knife.
Her eyes glinted, hard blue. Eve wondered how many treatments it took to get every line and wrinkle stretched and erased out of century-old skin.
“What a treat!” Singer patted his mother’s hand as they walked. “The famous Dallas and Peabody in our parlor. I’m J. B. Singer. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, let me introduce you to my mother, Elinor Bolton Singer.”
Elinor took the corner of the couch opposite her daughter-in-law. Singer sat between them.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Singer began.
“Don’t be a dolt,” Elinor snapped, and, like her skin, her voice was drum-tight. “They want us to gossip about the Bardovs. You’re wasting everyone’s time. We don’t gossip in this house.”
Strict and stern, Eve thought, came from the top.
“No point in wasting time,” Eve said in return. “So how about we talk about murder?”
19
Elinor’s expression didn’t change—then again, Eve wasn’t sure it could.
“As you’ve arrested Alexei Tovinski and the thief Carmine Delgato is dead, we have nothing more to say on the subject. The woman was trespassing, but her transgression exposed crimes against our company. We will, of course, take steps to ensure such difficulties don’t happen again.”
“Will you continue your association with Bardov Construction?” Eve asked.
She lifted an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. “That association is legal. The Bardov organization, like ours, was victimized. I would assume they, as we, will take all necessary steps to prevent any future thievery or exploitation. If you’ve come here to intimate that the Singer organization or any member of my family played a part in this thievery, exploitation, or the death of a trespasser, I would suggest you leave now. You may address your remarks to our attorneys.”
“Now, Mother.” Singer reached for Elinor’s hand. She swatted his away.
“Our victimization continues with honking media gossip and innuendo. I will not have it. An employee, one who should not have been trusted, stole from and conspired to steal from us. From the very people who provided him with employment, with the wherewithal to make a good living. And we’re to be questioned?”
“This is a very upsetting time for you,” Peabody began.
“You know nothing of it. Our reputation has been smeared by this. Our efforts to create a space of beauty and function will be forever besmirched by this woman’s death.”
“Her name was Alva Quirk,” Eve said, voice cold. “And I’d say her family’s finding this a pretty difficult time.”
“Perhaps if her family had done more to preserve family, she wouldn’t have lived on the streets, nor ended up dead in a dumpster.”
“Elinor, please!”
Elinor spared her daughter-in-law a glance. “You will make heroes of them. Your downtrodden and underserved. I have nothing more to say on the subject. So if that’s all—”
“It’s not,” Eve said as Elinor started to rise.
The butler and two women—also in black—filed in carrying trays. A coffee service, a tea service, china.
Without a word, they arranged it all on the table between the sofa and chairs. One of the women poured tea into a cup, passed it to Elinor.
“I’ll do the rest, thank you.” Marvinia rose. “Coffee, tea?”
“Coffee, black,” Eve said. “My partner takes cream and sugar. The Alva Quirk case is closed. Of course, if more information comes to light, we’ll reopen it. We’re here about another murder.”
She took the coffee from Marvinia, but she watched Elinor.
“A woman, early twenties, in the last trimester of pregnancy, murdered on another Singer construction site.”
“Nonsense,” Elinor decreed. “What site? We’ve heard nothing of this, and surely would have.”
“You no longer own the site. Roarke Industries does.”
Elinor managed a smirk. “Then I would suggest you look to your own.”
“That would be a waste of time.”
“I’d expect you to say so. But one does hear what one does hear about Roarke.”
Eve just sipped some coffee. “Since gossip isn’t allowed here, we’ll skip over that.”
She heard Marvinia choke back a laugh.
“But it would be a waste of time because the murder occurred thirty-seven years ago. And Singer was the owner and developer of record.”
“I did hear something about this.” Marvinia spoke again. “Something about human remains found on another development project in Hudson Yards. A woman, you said. And pregnant?”
“That’s right. We’re in the process of identifying her.”
Eve took out her PPC, brought up the sketch. Held it up.
“Oh, poor thing. So young!”
“Does she look familiar?”
“I can’t say I recognize her,” Singer said. “Thirty-seven years. A very long time.”
“She could be anyone.” Elinor dismissed it. “Likely a squatter, one who came to a bad end.”
“We recovered certain items that indicate she wasn’t squatting. My questions, at this point, center on the time frame, her identity, and how her body was concealed.”
“Concealed?” Marvinia shook her head. “I assumed she’d been buried.”
“Not exactly, no. Mr. Singer, you were running the company at that time. Though, of course, Mrs. Singer, you were still very much involved. Do either of you recall an employee or subcontractor going missing?”
“No,” Singer said immediately.
“It was difficult to keep good employees during that time,” Elinor added. “To find and keep the skilled and responsible. Many were transients, or simply unskilled and looking for any kind of work. Most of those didn’t last. We could hardly, considering the circumstances, remember who came and went.”
“It seems a young woman about thirty-two weeks pregnant would be more memorable than most. She was Middle Eastern, in excellent health.”
Singer stared. “How could you know all that? You said you hadn’t identified her.”
“Our forensic anthropologist has examined the remains. As has the chief medical examiner. This woman was shot, three times, with a thirty-two-caliber weapon.”
“Oh my God.” Marvinia pressed a hand to her mouth as her eyes glistened. “The baby. How horrible.”
“Part of your project on this site was a restaurant. The plans included a wine cellar, which required some excavation. We’ve established at the time of the murder, the foundation and the exterior cellar walls were in place. We haven’t located records of the specific work or the building inspections.”
Elinor let out a dismissive huff. “Study your history, girl. There was still considerable turmoil, and the building trade was rife with corruption. Those of us trying to rebuild the city the mobs had done their best to destroy did what we could and how we could. Most building inspectors expected cash payment if they troubled themselves to come to a site. It took months, years, for the system to right itself.”
“But you remember this project? Bardov was, again, a financial partner.”
“If you believe Yuri Bardov had some pregnant girl killed, speak to him.”
“I have, and I will again. Now I’m speaking to you. You remember this project, Mr. Singer?”
“I do, of course. We were more focused, and further along with the River Park project, the signature tower—which we’re proud still stands. The site you’re speaking of was more of a mix of quickly constructed affordable housing and commercial spaces. All making use—on both sites—o
f what we’d begun before the Urbans.
“But, as Mother said, post-war was a complicated, chaotic time.” With a sorrowful smile, Singer spread his hands. “In the end, the South-West project simply wasn’t profitable enough to continue. We sold off a considerable portion of it and, again, focused on River Park and other projects.”
“But before you sold a portion of the property, this restaurant—which opened spring of 2025 as the Skyline—and several other buildings were completed.”
“Oh yes. Several of the commercial spaces were occupied, if memory serves, and several of the low-rise residential buildings as well when we sold.”
“Who was in charge of the restaurant’s construction? The job boss, the foreman? The mason and so on?”
“Oh my goodness.” With a half laugh, he sat back. “Nearly forty years? Longer than either of you have been alive and nearly half my own life? My memory isn’t nearly that good.”
Eve turned to Elinor. “How’s yours?”
“As I said, it was difficult to find and keep skilled labor at that time. J.B. and I struggled over that very issue. But I do recall we decided to promote Joe Kendall—a longtime employee—to foreman on several buildings on that site. You remember Joe Kendall, J.B.?”
“A blast from the past,” he said with a laugh. “Yes, I remember Joe. Big as a house, smoked like a chimney. He may have handled the restaurant—the one with the wine cellar. We had several buildings earmarked for restaurant use, I think. I know Joe took on a few of the commercial buildings.
“God, I haven’t thought of Big Joe in years.”
“He no longer works for Singer?”
“He’s been gone twenty years—or nearly. Smoked like a chimney, loved food—especially fried—and carried at least thirty extra pounds.”
“I remember him,” Marvinia murmured. “From the holiday parties. He had such a big laugh. He always called me Miss Marvinia. He had a wife and a couple of children. He wouldn’t have hurt anyone, Lieutenant.”
“That’s not for us to say,” Elinor corrected.
“There was a discrepancy in materials.”
“Of what sort?” Elinor demanded.
“The exterior walls are concrete and block—substandard.”
“Material was hard to come by, and there was considerable price gouging. The goal was quick, and with hopes updating would be done at some point. As it is being done now.”
“An interior wall was constructed about three feet inside that exterior wall. Brick. Good-quality brick and mortar were used. The ceiling—or the floor of the main restaurant over just this area—was formed and poured using good-quality concrete.”
“She was…” Marvinia rubbed a hand over her heart. “They walled her in? Her and the baby?”
“Yes. They had to access the brick—much higher quality than anything on that site at that time. Where would they access it, and so quickly? You had other projects.”
Singer held up a finger. “I see! Someone who worked on, or perhaps even a supervisor on that site could have—would have—known where we had a supply of brick. Either warehouses, or on another site. But, dear, if you’re asking me to try to remember missing material from that time, a shortfall? I couldn’t possibly.”
“That’s what they counted on.” Marvinia turned to him. “Darling, that’s what they counted on. Someone stole it, they’d say, or like with Alexei, they doctored an invoice, or amount. Oh, this is just so sad. Think of that girl’s family. What they’ve gone through. Not knowing. All these years.”
“Stop fancifying,” Elinor ordered. “For all you know she had no family. Or they booted her when she got pregnant.”
“If they did, shame on them,” she bit back, and from the look in Elinor’s eye, Marvinia didn’t bite often. “And that doesn’t change what happened. J.B., you have to think back, look back.”
“Of course I will, my sweet. But honestly, nearly four decades. Sketchy records, lost records, workers coming and going. And I confess, my focus was much more on River Park at that time. The other?”
He looked at Eve, lifted his hands. “It was get it up as best we could. Businesses, ours included, were bleeding money. So we took partners, did what we could to increase revenue while trying to build. To give people some normality again. We did our best in a difficult time.”
“I’m sure you did. But if you would think back and if you have any records from that time we’ve so far been unable to access, we need them.
“Peabody.”
“Yes, sir. We have a warrant for records, invoices, inventory lists. I’ll print that out for you now.”
“A warrant.” Singer held up his hands again. “Hardly necessary. We’re more than willing to cooperate.”
“Even so.” Eve rose as Peabody used her PPC to print out the warrant. “We expect to have the victim’s identity verified within the next forty-eight hours. Employee records are also included in the warrant. She was on your property when she was killed, so she may have had business there.”
“Or she was trespassing.”
Eve nodded at Elinor. “We’ll find out. Trust me. This case is as important as Alva Quirk’s. Thank you for your time, your cooperation, and the coffee.”
“I’ll show you out.” Marvinia rose, walked them to the door. “I’m so sorry I can’t be more help. I’ve never taken an interest in the business. But I’ll do what I can to nudge J.B.’s memory.”
“And your mother-in-law’s?”
“Well, Elinor remembers what she chooses and how she chooses. But the company’s reputation is everything to her. She’ll do whatever she can to end this and move on from it.”
“I’m sure she will. Thanks again.”
As they walked to the car, Peabody glanced back at the house. “It must be hard.”
Eve got behind the wheel, took one last look herself. “What’s that?”
“I’m guessing in a house this size, they each have their own wing, but still, it must be hard to live in the same house as your mother-in-law when you really don’t like her.”
“And knowing the person you really don’t like is top of the food chain.” Eve did a three-point turn to head out. “They travel a lot, have a couple other homes in other places, but they use this as home base. Why do you figure?”
“Well, Elinor might have had her skin stretched so tight you could bounce a five-dollar credit off her cheek, but she’s still over the century mark. That’s one.”
“That’s one, but my take is it’s mostly habit. J.B. was never really head of the company, and didn’t want to be. All that shows in his background. She’s ruled right along. And when he took on a project, he was mostly crap at it. She let him be. That’s indulgence. He married money and status, so points in his favor. But Marvinia has her own life and interests.”
“I looked into her foundation a little, and they do good work.”
“Good work, and she’s not just a figurehead. She’s involved—and not involved in the Singer family business. Probably points for her on Elinor’s scale. So they maintain a polite if cool relationship because they both indulge J.B.”
Eve made a turn, following the computer’s prompts for the Bardov estate. “Even though he’s weak, spoiled, and a liar.”
“I felt like he was lying, but I couldn’t catch it.”
“Taps his foot—right foot—when he’s lying. Looks you straight in the eye, doesn’t evade or hesitate, but that foot tapping? Major tell.”
“I missed that! I hate when I miss stuff like that.”
“His mother’s a better liar. No tells there. Just icy contempt. Anyway, they knew the victim was down there, so they didn’t sell off that section of the property. I’m wondering now if Bolton Singer sold it to Roarke before they could stop him.”
“Or maybe they thought, after all this time, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Maybe. Whether they walled her up or not, that’s for us to find out. But what I know is they walled her right out of their minds. She didn’t matter
. Forget her, move on.”
“If they killed her or had her killed…”
“That’s an if, but one way or the other, they knew. I don’t care how much chaos or corruption was going on, Elinor Bolton Singer damn well knew if a freaking truckload of bricks went missing. And she knew a wall of high-quality bricks went up in a cheap build. I’m saying she knew why. She knew.”
Peabody shifted as Eve pulled up to another gate, gleaming black in the opening of the stone walls.
“Young, pregnant woman—pretty woman. J.B. has a little roll there, and oops. She decides to have the baby. Maybe he tries to pay her off, but as it gets closer to the time, she wants more. More support, acknowledgment. Maybe she loved him, or he promised the usual. Leave my wife, and all that bullshit.”
As her thoughts had run the same, Eve nodded. “Makes her a threat. He lures her up there. Maybe he planned to scare her, or threaten her back, or offer her more money. Whatever, it didn’t end well. He panics, or loses his temper, or he planned to get rid of her all along.”
“He gets the brick. It would be easy for him. I guess he could build a wall. I mean he grew up around construction.”
“Sloppy build. Solid enough, but sloppy. Yeah, he could’ve done it. Then he tells Mother all—or he tells her before and she tells him how to handle it. That works for me because they knew. They knew her face when they saw the sketch. They knew she was down there.”
She rolled down the window.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody to see Mr. Bardov.”
Instead of a computer-generated response, Eve watched a man—big and burly—walk to the gate.
She got out of the car, approached from her side.
“You’re not expected.”
“No.” But she expected he had a weapon under his suit coat. “We conducted an interview in the area and hoped Mr. Bardov would be available to speak with us. A follow-up to our conversation yesterday.”
“Wait.”
When he walked away, Eve took the time to study the view through the gate.
Trees, green and leafy with early summer. A winding drive, a green lawn with groupings of flowering shrubs, some sort of stone structure where water tumbled.