by J. D. Robb
“It could be later.”
“Mmm.” He shifted so they stood hip-to-hip, his arm around her waist as he studied the sketches. “So there she is. No name to go with her yet?”
“Working on it.”
“She’s lucky to have you. As am I. We’ll have some wine while you tell me about it.”
She watched him as he went over, chose a wine. “You had a good day.”
“I had a fairly brilliant day, which ended with a verbal agreement to buy Bardov Construction.”
“He really did it. He really wants to sell out to you.”
“He does.” Roarke poured wine, rich and red, into glasses. “He admires you.”
“Step off.”
“No, I believe he does, and sincerely. Just as I believe he’s quite sincere about retiring. There may be at least a minor connection between the two.”
He handed her a glass, tapped his to it.
“You’ll have to do some house cleaning there.”
“He’ll be doing some of that before the sale. We discussed. It’s a good company and, after some adjustments, it’ll be a better one. Many details to work out, lawyers and accountants to weigh in, but we’ll come to terms.”
“Okay,” she said again. “Congratulations. How will this affect the partnership with Singer on any of their projects?”
“One of the details to work out. You’ve updated and adjusted your board and, knowing how you work, I see you’ve moved Elinor and J. Bolton Singer up your list.”
“They’re in the lead right now.”
“I’d love to hear why. How do you feel about a steak dinner?”
“I always feel very pro about steak dinners.”
“Let’s see to that, shall we? Then we can sit while this storm rolls out and the next—they’re promising another—rolls in, and you can tell me.”
She did, over a long meal, and an oddly relaxing one considering the subject matter and the rain.
“You’d suggested I ask around about J.B. Easy enough to bring it up in conversation with the murders. What we’ll call the old guard speaks of him as an entertaining sort, well-traveled, impeccable taste—a bit light on the business end of things, but game, if you will. I did get whiffs of a roving eye, which fit with what Bardov told you.”
Eve sat back with her wine. “I’m really glad I’m never going to have to scoop your eyes out and keep them in a glass box on the mantel.”
Roarke sat back with his own. “I’m trying to decide if I’m relieved or mildly disturbed to hear that.”
“You don’t take promises lightly. Number one Marriage Rule? It’s a promise.”
He reached over for her hand. “Why would my eye rove when everything I want’s in front of me?”
“You really do want the sex.”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t make it any the less true. What I know of Marvinia shows a steady sort of woman, one who recognizes her privilege and uses it to help those who don’t have the same. She’s chosen her causes, and she works them. Diligently.”
The eyes she wouldn’t have to scoop out flicked over to her board.
“I realize that doesn’t take her off your board, but it’s difficult for me to reconcile the woman I know, however superficially, with someone who would take a part in any of this.”
“My take’s the same, but we’ll see.”
“Men like Singer? They always, always look beyond what they have. I have all this, why shouldn’t I have more? More money, more fun, more women. And in looking for more, they don’t really value what they have. Bardov? He’s no doubt done more wicked deeds in his life than Singer. But he’s a man who values what he has. Bardov has a code—however that falls short of yours. But Singer has none.”
“And the mother?”
Considering the rainy night, Roarke poured more wine. “The terms that come up, depending on the person speaking, are formidable, regal, cold, ruthless. She’s credited with keeping the company alive during a very difficult period.”
“Seems to me the company might have gone down, or certainly suffered some losses, if the CEO got caught in a scandal like having a kid with a woman half his age while still married. And say that woman half his age worked for him.”
Roarke nodded. “The possibility of an ugly, public divorce, of paternity and civil suits. It would have shaken the foundations a bit. I don’t think it would have taken the company under, but there would have been repercussions—and a lot of money to stanch wounds.”
“It plays for me,” Eve said. “I can almost see it. He tells her to come with him to the site, to see what he’s trying to do. Trying to build. Let’s just keep all this quiet, private. Don’t destroy what my family’s worked for. He could tell her he needed to stay married because they needed the money to help make the city whole again.”
Roarke nodded, sipped his wine. “Trying the ‘This is so much bigger than you and me.’”
“But I don’t think he meant to let her live. He had to have done the prep. He did need money, and had already tapped Bardov. He couldn’t afford the scandal, the loss of revenue, the piles of legal fees.”
“And it would make him as cold as his mother.”
“Steel rod up her ass,” Eve commented. “And she’s proud of it. Plus, I get vanity, okay? But it seems to me when you’re a hundred and whatever, you might want to ease up on getting your skin stretched so tight it could split open if you sneezed.”
“That’s an image,” Roarke replied.
“I didn’t like her,” Eve admitted. “But that, the steel rod and the stretched skin, doesn’t make her a killer. It was the attitude, and the dynamic between her and her son. I’m betting she helped, or encouraged, or even told Singer what he had to do. What I know, absolutely, is neither of them are going to enjoy their time in the box, even with their fleet of fancy lawyers.”
“My money is, as always, on you.”
“Wicker didn’t enjoy his time. I haven’t told you about that one. Reeled him right in when—”
She broke off as her computer signaled.
“Son of a bitch, we got a hit.”
She leapt up, bolted over. “On-screen. Put the match on-screen. That’s her.” Eve smacked a fist into her open hand. “That’s her. Split screen with sketch of Jane Doe’s face.”
“It is her, yes.” Roarke walked over, laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “You’ve found her. Johara Murr.”
“Look at the DOB. She was twenty-two. DeWinter hit.”
“She was lovely.”
“Yeah, Kendrick hit, too. That’s a solid match. And on the Lebanese citizenship, one more hit. I’m not seeing a marriage. Give me more,” she muttered. “Here you go, a London address. Singer liked Europe. I bet he played in London plenty. Occupation, student. Okay, here’s another address, a residency in the States.”
She read the address, and both hands balled into fists. “Savannah, Georgia. Goddamn it. I’ve been looking at the wrong Singer.”
“Ah, I see.” Now Roarke’s hand trailed down Eve’s back. “She went to college with Bolton Singer. They were the same age.”
“He wants to be a rock star, but he gets this girl pregnant. She wants the baby, wants to get married—she wore a ring. He doesn’t have time for that. He’s damn near broke anyway.”
“She died in New York,” Roarke pointed out.
“Yeah, yeah.” She began to pace. “‘Let’s go to New York. You need to meet the family. Hey, let me show you what they’re building.’ Maybe the father was in on it, but I’m still damn sure the grandmother was. They shouldn’t have used good bricks. He goes back to Savannah—maybe claims it’s just to establish an alibi, but he wants the rock star. Fails, comes home.”
She whirled around to stare at Bolton Singer’s photo. “Family man, loving husband and father. Jesus, he had me with that. I didn’t even get a whiff.”
She drew in a breath. “Well, he’s about to have a really bad night.”
“I’ll drive, but if we don’t see
to those dishes, the cat will be all over them.”
“Fine, fine, fine. Deal with that, will you? I’m going to put this photo, the sketches together. I want him to look at her, to see her, then try to fucking lie to me.”
She was still steaming when Roarke got his topper, and hers, from the closet.
“You’re pissed you believed him. Pissed you saw what he wanted you to see.”
“I bought it. I bought it all, so, yeah, I’m pissed. But I’ll get over that. He’ll have a hard time getting over doing life in a cage.”
She used the drive to cool off, and to work out strategy.
“Sorry to disturb his evening,” Eve began. “Some follow-ups, and didn’t want to ask him to come into Central. Spoke with his parents, his grandmother, blah blah.”
“Friendly.” Roarke drove though the quieting rain. “Personable.”
“Exactly. We’ll probably have some coffee, and I can explain we have more information about the victim. How we have a sketch. I show him the sketch, gauge his reaction, his response. It goes from that.”
“Understood. I’m sorry it’s turned this way,” Roarke added. “In my dealings with Bolton I found him interesting, and committed to his family, his company. In that order.”
He glanced over at Eve’s set profile. “You’ll want his wife in the room.”
“Oh yeah, I do. No reason I can see she’d know about any of this. I want to see how she reacts to his reaction. Then we’ll see how he explains, when I pull out her photo, how it is they went to the same college—a pretty small college—at the same time.”
“Do you need Peabody? Reo?”
“Not yet. Let me corner him. When I take him in, he’ll lawyer up fast. Then I bring them in. I looked away from him because he loves his wife, his kids. That’s not fake.”
“You looked away from him because he was, as far as anyone believed, in Georgia when she was killed in New York. Because you had no connection between them. Because he was open and honest about his onetime dreams and failures. I’ve a good measure for bollocks, Eve, and I never saw it either.”
All true, Eve admitted.
“I’m getting over it. Somebody out there in Hudson River Valley knew about all this. Maybe all of them did. And if they did, they’re all going down.”
She had herself under control by the time they reached the double townhome. Eve hitched the file bag on her shoulder as they walked to the door in what had gone to a soft, drizzly mist.
Bolton answered himself—jeans, T-shirt, worn-out kicks.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Roarke. Come in out of the wet.” He poked his head out as they did. “Looks like the storm’s over.”
“For now,” Eve said with a careful smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home again, but I have more information and a few more questions. I thought it would be more comfortable for you here than asking you to come into Central.”
“I appreciate that.” He gestured them into the front room, one slightly more formal than where they’d talked before. “Hey, Lilith! Roarke and Lieutenant Dallas are here!”
Not a flicker, Eve noted. Just smooth and warm.
“Can I get you a drink? Lil and I had some nice wine with our very quiet dinner—our son’s out with friends. There’s plenty left.”
“I’m still on duty.”
“Coffee then. How about some coffee, Lil? Let me take your coats.”
“We’re fine. We hope not to take up much of your evening.”
“All you like.” He gestured again for them to sit. “I can’t believe how quickly you found the person responsible for Alva Quirk.” He sat himself, crossed a leg over his knee. “And for Carmine. Lilith’s spoken to Angelina. She’s going to go over there tomorrow, help her and their children with some of the arrangements.
“I know it doesn’t excuse what he did, but I think he was a victim, too. Of his gambling addiction, but of that man. Tovinski. Tovinski didn’t only kill him, he ruined him first. And now Carmine’s family has to live with that.”
He looked over, then popped up when his wife carried in a tray with four white mugs. “I’ll get that, babe.”
“I remember you both like it black.” Once Bolton set down the tray, Lilith passed two mugs to Eve and Roarke. “Thank you, so much, for all you did to find Alva Quirk’s killer. I wanted to ask if you think it’s all right that, in a few days, we contact her family. Offer condolences.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate it. Meanwhile I have more information about the remains we found on what’s now Roarke’s property.”
“Really?” Bolton looked surprised, and pleased with it. “That’s amazing. I have to admit I wondered if you’d ever find out anything about her. But you did.”
“Our forensic artist has a sketch.” Eve opened the file bag, drew it out. “We believe it’s very close to what she looked like when she was killed.”
“I can’t imagine what it takes to…”
He’d taken the sketch with one hand. The one holding his coffee went limp. The mug bounced on the floor, splattering the contents. His face went dead white.
“My God. My God. It’s Johara.”
Lilith had already jumped up to go to him. She froze with an arm around him and stared at the sketch. “That’s Johara? Bolt, are you sure?”
“It’s Johara.” Eyes glassy with shock stared into Eve’s. “Her name. Her name’s Johara Murr. Lil. Lil.”
“It’s all right. It’s okay. I’m going to get you some brandy.”
“I spilled the coffee.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up. Don’t worry. Give him a second, please. Give him a second. I’ll be right back.”
Eve jerked her head.
“Let me help you.” Roarke followed her out.
“You knew her.”
“Yes. Johara. I’m sorry. I can’t get my breath.” He lowered his head between his knees. “I can’t get my breath.”
“Stay down. Take it slow.” And if he was faking, Eve thought, he was in the wrong line of work. “How did you know her?”
“College. We were together. Oh Jesus.” Trembling, he lifted his head. “We were together nearly two years. We— I loved her.”
Lilith rushed back with a towel. Roarke followed with a snifter of brandy.
“Lil, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Stop.” She rubbed his leg with one hand as she mopped up the spill. “Roarke’s got your brandy. Slow sips now. It’s going to be all right. You’ll have answers, Bolt. After all these years.”
“I’m going to need some answers first,” Eve stated.
“Yes. You want to know about her. I need to tell you about her. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how this could be.”
He sipped some brandy, then closed his eyes for a moment.
“We met in college. She was a brilliant pianist. She was nearly as brilliant with the violin. She came to study, transferred from London. We were about nineteen when we met. It didn’t take long, not long at all. It should have—we were so different.”
“How?”
“She was shy—oh, steel under it, but a little shy. Very proper, too. She seemed older than nineteen, twenty. She’d grown up very strict, sheltered, I guess you’d say. Her parents were very devout Muslims, very traditional. But her talent persuaded them to let her come to study music at the conservatory. Classical music. I wasn’t much on classics, but when she played, you were transported. I think I fell in love with her when she played.”
His hand trembled a little when he picked up the sketch again.
“I was her first. She’d never been with anyone, so we took that part slow. Well, slow for me at nineteen. And we just … fell. Crazy about each other, wrapped up in ourselves and our music.”
Carefully, in a room crowded with regrets and grief, he laid the sketch down again. “After about a year, we moved off campus, got a little apartment together. If her parents had known, they’d have yanked her back, or tried. She’d say she couldn’t tell them.
And I’d say, you’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.”
He sat back, eyes closed again. “Arrogant, so arrogant. I didn’t understand how hard it was for her to stand up to her family when I was so busy pushing away from my own. But we were happy, we made it work. We were so young, and we were careless. She got pregnant.”
He straightened, reached for his wife’s hand as she perched on the arm of his chair.
“I was terrified and saw my life going up in smoke. We talked about choices, but in her heart, from her upbringing and beliefs, she didn’t have a choice. So, we’re going to have a baby.”
He pressed his wife’s hand to his cheek.
“What did your family say?” Eve asked him.
“Nothing. They didn’t know. I never told them about Johara. My business and fuck them.”
“Bolt.”
“That’s how I felt about everything back then. They wanted me back in New York, working sites or a desk. Carrying on the Singer legacy.”
He dragged his hands through his hair. “I wanted none of that. I wanted music, the stage. And Johara.
“We were going to get married. She said she needed to go back to London first. She needed to talk to her parents. She needed their blessing. I needed their blessing, after she’d spoken to them. I can tell you I didn’t want that. I fought that. We fought.”
He blew out a breath. “We made up long enough to exchange vows—not legal, which I didn’t want anyway. Who needs a contract? That’s all bullshit.”
He breathed out, then scrubbed his hands over his face. “Young and stupid, and selfish. I was so goddamn selfish. But we had a little ceremony, just the two of us. I didn’t realize she’d done that to soften leaving. She left me a note and said she had to do the right thing for her family, for the baby, for our future.”
“When was that?”
“Ah…” He set the brandy aside, pressed his fingers to his eyes. “In April. April of 2024. She was, um, about four months along. Just starting to show. And I don’t know, maybe she panicked a little. We weren’t going to be able to keep it just our thing much longer.”
“What did you do?”