by J. D. Robb
As they drove back to the heliport, Eve pushed forward.
“Find out if any of the Singers have a gun collector’s license.”
Peabody shifted the little container of cookies as she pulled out her PPC. “You have to take these cookies. I had three damn cookies, and that’s it. You take them. A gun collector’s license?”
“If we treat this theory as fact, there had to be a gun, a thirty-two. Maybe they kept it after the gun ban, got licensed as a collector, then we can at least try to find out if any of them had a license for the weapon thirty-seven years ago.”
“That’s a stretch, plus plenty of unregistered and illegal possession of firearms back then.”
“We look, then maybe we know. Like we asked, and now we know—because that’s a credible source—J. B. Singer had affairs and liked younger women.”
“Men always like younger women.”
The sour tone had Eve glancing over. “McNab’s only got a couple years on you.”
“Because we’re both young. But say when we hit like fifty, he could start eyeballing twenty-year-olds. Of course, if he does, I’ll spoon out his eyeballs and keep them in a glass box on the mantel. That’ll stop that shit.”
“I like that one. I’m keeping that one in reserve.”
“Happy to share.” Peabody looked up from her PPC. “No collector’s license for any of them.”
“Okay, that was too easy anyway. They could’ve gotten rid of it, or reported it stolen, or it was never registered so they’ve still got it somewhere. Start searching for incident reports, involving any of them. Intruders, theft, domestic disturbance, vandalism, anything that involved a police report.”
“All the way back, thirty-seven years?”
“Go forty.”
“Once I go back over twenty, twenty-five, it’s going to get murky. Can I pull McNab in to help?”
“Do that. Prioritize anything that involved violence or a weapon, but get it all. Global.”
“Jesus, Dallas.”
“Yeah, yeah, but they traveled. After that, it’s civil suits. Let’s start putting their history together. And how big a financial hole did J.B. dig back then? Our profile says the victim was Middle Eastern, and from a solid background. Maybe he hoped to squeeze some money there. Rich parents, potential investors, romance the daughter. Oops.”
“It’s a big oops.”
“It wasn’t piddly shit that put her in that cellar. Yeah, Bardov’s right. People will kill for all sorts of reasons, but not the way this went down. Too much purpose.”
As she pulled into the heliport, she comforted herself that at least on the return trip she had work. Plenty of work to get her through.
She intended to dive straight back into the work when she got to Central. Armed with coffee, she read Reo’s roundup of the Wicker deal.
He took the ten.
She checked the facial rec on her victim and found the problem wasn’t a lack of matches, but a bounty of them.
Not enough detail, she reminded herself, and started to contact DeWinter when she got the word Alva’s siblings had come in for her effects.
She took them to the lounge, spent the next twenty minutes with them. On the way back through the bullpen, Peabody hailed her.
“I’ve got a handful of incidents on J.B.”
“Really?”
“Nothing recent yet, and nothing in New York. What I did was do a run through global media for, well, gossip, and when I hit, cross-checked. What we’ve got is mostly in Europe, and mostly two or three decades back. So far.”
“Such as?”
“Reckless driving, disorderly conduct, trespassing, creating a disturbance, an assault—assault with a martini. He tossed his martini in this guy’s face, and the skewer of olives hit the guy in the eye.”
“You’re not making this up?”
“Hand to God.” Peabody put one over her heart. “This one also led to a civil suit, settled out of court for an undisclosed amount. It’s all partying related. McNab’s giving workplace incidents a shot.”
“Huh. Good idea.”
“Yeah, he figured if Singer had a history of screwing around, he maybe screwed around in the office, or tried to. Maybe some sexual harassment. Nothing’s popped yet on anybody but J. B. Singer.”
“Keep at it.”
“The Elliots?”
“They’re going to be shaky for a while, but knowing their sister’s killer’s put away, knowing Wicker’s doing ten will go a long way to steadying them up.”
“That’s good.”
“I want any hits on the workplace incidents. One of them might have been our vic.”
She went back to her office, sat to contact DeWinter. Her comp signaled an incoming.
She studied the completed sketches of her unknown victim.
To Lieutenant Eve Dallas from Dr. Garnet DeWinter:
Attached is the completed reconstructed images of Jane Doe based on our analysis. Holo-imagery is available now in the lab, or can be sent to an authorized holo-portal on written request.
Also attached is my final report on the remains of Jane Doe and Baby Doe.
We will secure the remains until such time as the victim is identified and/or the disposition or transfer of said remains are authorized.
Eve updated her board with the sketches, the reports. She considered ordering the holo, but didn’t think she needed it.
“Damn good work,” she muttered and wondered if her go-to police artist, Yancy, ever talked shop with Elsie Kendrick.
She saw a young woman, a pretty—edging toward beautiful—face made up of delicate features. High forehead, long, wide eyes—dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. Defined but not prominent cheekbones, a small bow-shaped mouth.
Not quite petite, but small-boned, slender—in the full-body pre-pregnancy reproduction. Long fingers, long, narrow feet.
In pregnancy, the belly ballooned to accommodate a life that would never be.
She went back to her desk, programmed a global facial recognition search.
It would be harder, she thought, considering the search had to go back nearly four decades. But.
“We’ll find you.”
She tried another angle. Given her age, the victim could have come to New York to work or go to college. For that, she’d have needed a visa. Taking a leap of faith DeWinter hit on the country of origin, Eve started the process of searching for visas issued to females from 2020 through 2025 from Lebanon.
It took her under a minute to hit the bureaucratic wall.
She considered going to Whitney and asking him to cut through it, then decided to make use of a contact.
She hit on Agent Teasdale, formerly Homeland and now FBI—and, in Eve’s opinion, on track for the top slot there.
Ten minutes later, she had Teasdale on board and the assurance she’d have the information by morning.
Morning would have to do.
Had she been Muslim—had she been religious enough to go to a mosque? A couple of uniforms could show the sketches around—but then again, she had no guarantee the victim had lived in New York.
Still, another angle to work.
She walked out to the bullpen.
“Peabody, I sent you the completed sketches on the Jane Doe. Grab a couple uniforms, have them take copies around to mosques in the city. Look for older, longtime members who might have seen her.”
“It’s a line to tug,” Peabody agreed. “Is OT authorized?”
Frowning, Eve checked the time, saw it was nearly end of shift. And she weighed the benefits against the budget.
“Have them start in the morning. You can hook up with McNab—”
“Every chance I get.”
“Funny. You can put the searches on auto at home. I want to know when you get hits. Just put them together and send them to me. I’m running facial rec on the sketches, and I’ll do the same. Teasdale’s working on getting me data on work and education visas within our parameters.”
“Anoth
er good angle. We’ll keep them running on portables. We’re going by the house, doing another walk-through with our landlords, then grabbing some dinner together. We can skip the dinner part.”
“No, go ahead. Just keep it running.”
“Can do. Are you heading home, too?”
“I will be.”
“Got a second first, boss?”
She looked over at Baxter. “I have a few of them.”
He made an eye slide toward her office, added a little head nod.
“Let’s take it in my office so I can get my things.”
When he followed her in, he took a look at her board. “Pretty young thing, and a baby, too.”
“Yeah. Problem, Baxter?”
“Not really. Trueheart and I are clear, so if you need any legwork, we’re available.”
She edged a hip on the corner of her desk. He hadn’t needed her office to volunteer. “We’re covered, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“The boy and I, we’re heading out for a brew, maybe some chow. There’s a mosque a couple blocks from where we’re going. We could take that one on the way.”
“All right. Computer, print out sketches A, B, and C from current file.”
Acknowledged. Working …
“And you wanted to come in here to tell me this?”
“The reason we’re heading out for a brew, maybe chow, isn’t just because we’re clear. Trueheart’s girl’s taking a transfer to East Washington—comes with a promotion.”
Baxter slid his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit pants. “He’s bummed about it. They’re making noises about long-distance relationship, but that’s not going to fly long. It’s not everlasting love, but he’s bummed. He could use a little busywork.”
“Tell me he’s not thinking about following her down there.”
“Oh hell no. His job’s here, his mom’s here, his life’s here. That wasn’t ever on the table.”
“When does she leave?”
“Left this morning. It’s why he’s low right now. So busywork.”
She handed him the sketches. “Get busy. You were a good trainer to him, and you’re a good partner now. Don’t get him too drunk.”
Baxter grinned. “Just a little drunk. Trust me, it doesn’t take much with my boy.”
She’d been right, Eve thought, to assign the green, earnest, upright Trueheart to Baxter. And Baxter had the way of systematically rubbing off the green without losing too much of the earnest and none of the upright.
Eve looked back at the board. “I’m right about you, too. Just need a little more time.”
She gathered what she needed to take some of that time at home. The rumble of thunder and the lightning flash outside her window reminded her to grab the topper on her way out.
She ran into Mira on the glide.
“Leaving on time?”
“Looks like it. You, too.”
“Sternly scheduled. I’m meeting Dennis and some friends for drinks. Just a few blocks from here, so I planned to walk.”
She smiled as more thunder rolled. “Not anymore. I’m calling my car service. I’d never get a cab in this.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“Are you sure? Do you have time?”
“Yes, and yes. Plus, I can run something by you on the way.”
They switched to the elevators for the garage levels, and Eve found the downside of leaving on time when they squeezed in.
“Interviews in Hudson Valley on my Jane Doe. Elinor Singer and J. B. Singer are both lying.”
“About your victims?”
“They both know something. I’m not sure about Marvinia Singer. She struck as straight, but some lie better than others. I think they both—mother and son—knew about the body, the wall, the cover-up. And may have been part of the murder.”
“Motive?”
“J.B. liked, at least for a stretch of time, young side pieces.”
“Ah.”
“A marital separation, likely more about his mother—she’s a piece of work—went down during the period my victim would have been pregnant, would have been killed.”
“Can’t trust a guy who’ll step out on you,” came the opinion of a female uniform behind Eve. “Take my word.”
“There’s that.” Relieved, Eve muscled off on her level, waited for Mira to exit more elegantly. “He’s got some minor dings—party style. Reckless, stupid shit. The ‘I’m rich so I can do what I want’ shit. It fits him like a tailored suit.”
“Violence?”
“Not really, unless we count a martini olive in the eye. But he’s a liar, he’s a cheat, he’s—what’s that word?—feckless.”
“So.” Mira slid into Eve’s car. “The theory is, a rich older man with a history of extramarital activity has a fling, an affair, a relationship with a young woman—one young enough to be his daughter—resulting in pregnancy. From the personality profiles of the two of them, I’d say fling on his side and the illusion of a relationship on hers.”
“Agreed. Where to?”
“Oh, Du Vin. One of Roarke’s—and one of your earlier crime scenes.”
“Yeah, I know where it is. Maybe she worked for Singer, or he met her at a party, a bar, whatever. Then she’s knocked up. Maybe he makes some promises, gives her money, makes some threats—whatever he thinks will cover him. Covering himself would be priority.”
She pushed out into the hard rain and insane traffic.
“She was nearly full term,” Mira said. “Why would he wait so long?”
That one kept circling around in Eve’s brain.
“Maybe she believed the promises, took the money, or believed the threats. But now reality’s setting in. Pretty soon the baby’s going to be that reality, and she’s practically a kid herself. She wants him to make good on the promises, cough up more money, or she’s going to hit him with threats of her own. Meanwhile, he’s trying to get back with his wife—the timing works. He can’t afford some, you know, indiscretion to get in the way.”
She braked at a light, watched the stream of pedestrians splash by.
“Maybe he told himself he was taking her up there to just scare her, but if so, he lied to himself. He had the weapon, he had the bricks. He had to have those bricks waiting.”
“He would have known the status of that building, the cellar,” Mira continued. “He was in charge of the company—at least in name—and, yes, could have ordered bricks.”
“So he covers himself by getting rid of her, walling her up. But his mother had to know.”
She streamed through the green light, made her turn where a skinny guy in a hoodie hawked cheap umbrellas for inflated prices.
“I’m not sure he could’ve done it if she didn’t give him the nod. And she’d have known about the order of bricks, the wall, because he was mostly name only.”
“It’s very tidy, actually.” After using the vanity mirror to check her face, Mira took out a tube of lip dye. She painted it on with experienced precision.
“If she didn’t have family or close friends,” Mira continued as she took out some sort of compact and blotted what Eve considered a pretty perfect face with invisible powder, “or that family and friends didn’t know she was in New York at that time, if she didn’t reveal the name of the baby’s father, tidier yet.”
“I need to shut down those ifs.”
“There was always a reason the remains were found on a Singer property—or what was a Singer property.”
Once again Mira reached into her bag that apparently held all things, took out a little tube, and uncapped the rolling ball at the top. Eve caught a subtle whiff of spring as Mira dabbed it on pulse points.
“Your theory proposes a very solid reason.”
“Just have to prove it.” Eve pulled up in front of Du Vin. “I’ve got her completed sketch now, so I’m running it, and we’ll find her. Once we do, I’ll find the connection.”
“Send me the rest of what you have. I�
�m interested. I’ll read it over later, see if I can add anything.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“A fair trade for a ride on a very stormy night. Dennis would love to see you if you want to join us for a drink.”
“I want to keep on this, but tell him I said hi.”
Mira reached into the Bag That Held All Things, pulled out a collapsible umbrella. She opened the door, popped the red-and-white-striped umbrella, and shot back a smile.
“Best to Roarke,” she said as she dashed out on her red-and-white-striped heels.
“Her umbrella matches her shoes.” Eve shook her head. “I mean, who thinks of that?”
Pondering it, she inched her way home in the deluge.
21
Since she didn’t have a Bag That Held All Things, or an umbrella that matched her footwear, Eve sprinted through the rain to the front door of home.
She slammed the door behind her on the next boom of thunder, then raked her fingers through her wet hair.
“You have an umbrella in the storage unit in your car,” Summerset informed her.
Did she know that? Had she forgotten that? Either way.
“It’s only water. Actual humans don’t dissolve in the rain like zombies.”
“Don’t put that there, it’s damp.” He snatched her topper from the newel post. “And, in lore, zombies don’t dissolve in the rain.”
“They should.”
She jogged up the stairs with the cat keeping pace.
In her office, she checked the facial recognition run. With no results as yet, she programmed coffee before updating her board and book.
When Roarke came in, Galahad took a moment to go over and greet him, rubbing his pudgy body against the leg of Roarke’s perfect suit.
Eve noticed Roarke’s hair remained dry.
“I bet you remembered an umbrella.”
“It’s a night for one.” So saying, he pulled open the doors to the little balcony. The room filled with the sound of driving rain and a crackling snap of thunder. “And a fine storm it is.”
Then he walked over, pulled her in, and kissed her like a man going off to war.
When her brain stopped spinning, she drew back. “Okay.”
“It puts me in the mood to cuddle up with my wife and have wild sex.” He looked at the board over her shoulder. “Which I see isn’t a current option.”