by J. D. Robb
“For the head shot, the victim—who as you say had considerable girth—had to be shoved or rolled over. At that time, the gun was pressed to the forehead. There’s not only burning and residue, but a circular bruising pattern. When I’m able to compare it, I’m betting my share that it matches the dimensions of the gun barrel. The killer pressed the gun down into the forehead before he fired.”
“See how you like that, you bastard,” Eve murmured.
“Yes, indeed. Other than being riddled with bullets, your vic was in reasonably good health, despite being about twenty pounds overweight. He dyed his hair, had an eye and chin tuck within the last five years. He’d last eaten about two hours prior to death. Soy chips, sour pickles, processed cheese, washed down with domestic beer.”
“The bullets?”
“On their way to the lab. I ran them through my system first. Nine millimeter.” Morris switched programs so that images of the spent bullets he’d recovered came on screen.
“Man, it messes them up, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t do tidy work on flesh, bone and organ either. The vic had no gunpowder residue on his hands, no defensive wounds. Bruising on the left knee, which would have been inflicted when he fell. As well as some scraping on the heels of both hands, consistent with the fall on the floor surface.”
“So he didn’t fight back, or have the chance to. Didn’t turn away.” She angled her own body as if preparing for flight. “No indication he tried to run when and if he saw the gun.”
“That’s not what his body tells me.”
Nor was it what it had told her on scene.
“A guy doesn’t usually snack on chips and pickles if he’s nervous or worried,” Peabody put in. “Run of his entertainment unit showed he last viewed a soft porn vid about the time he’d have had the nibbles. This meet didn’t have him sweating.”
“Somebody he knew and figured he could handle,” Eve agreed. She looked at the body again. “Guess he was dead wrong about that one.”
“Number Twelve,” Morris said as Eve turned to go.
“That’s right.”
“So the legend of Bobbie Bray comes to a close.”
“That would be the missing woman, presumed dead.”
“It would. Gorgeous creature, Bobbie, with the voice of a tormented angel.”
“If you remember Bobbie Bray, you’re looking damn good for your age, Morris.”
He flashed that smile again. “There are thousands of Web sites devoted to her, and a substantial cult following. Beautiful woman with her star just starting to rise vanishes. Poof! Of course, sightings of her continued for decades after. And talk of her ghost haunting Number Twelve continues even today. Cold spots, apparitions, music coming from thin air. You get any of that?”
Eve thought of the snatch of song, the deep chill. “What I’ve got, potentially, are her bones. They’re real enough.”
“I’ll be working on them with the forensic anthropologist at the lab.” Morris’s smile stayed sunny. “Can’t wait to get my hands on her.”
Back at Central, Eve sat in her office to reconstruct Hopkins’s last day. She’d verified his lunch meeting with a couple of local movers and shakers who were both alibied tight for the time in question. A deeper check of his financials showed a sporadic income over the past year from a shop called Bygones, with the last deposit mid-December.
“Still skimming it close, Rad. How the hell were you going to pay for the rehab? Expecting a windfall, maybe? What were you supposed to bring to Number Twelve last night?”
Gets the call on his pocket ’link, she mused. Deliberately spooky. But he doesn’t panic. Sits around, has a snack, watches some light porn.
She sat back at her desk, closed her eyes. The security disc from Hopkins’s building showed him leaving at 1:35. Alone. Looked like he was whistling a tune, Eve recalled. Not a care in the world. Not carrying anything. No briefcase, no package, no bag.
“Yo.”
Eve opened her eyes and looked at Feeney. The EDD captain was comfortably rumpled, his wiry ginger hair exploding around his hangdog face. “Whatcha got?”
“More what you’ve got,” he said and stepped into the office. “Number Twelve.”
“Jeez, why does everybody keep saying that? Like it was its own country.”
“Practically is. Hop Hopkins, Bobbie Bray, Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger.” For a moment, Feeney looked like a devotee at a sacred altar. “Christ, Dallas, what a place it must’ve been when it was still rocking.”
“It’s a dump now.”
“Cursed,” he said, so casually she blinked.
“Get out. You serious?”
“As a steak dinner. Found bricked-up bones, didn’t you? And a body, antique gun, diamonds. Stuff legends are made of. And it gets better.”
“Oh yeah?”
He held up a disc. “Ran your vic’s last incoming transmission and the nine-one-one, and for the hell of it, did a voice-print on both. Same voice on both. Guess whose it is?”
“Bobbie Bray’s.”
“Hey.” He actually pouted.
“Has to figure. The killer did the computer-generated deal, used Bray’s voice, probably pieced together from old media interviews and such. Unless you’re going to sit there and tell me you think it was a voice from, you know, beyond the grave.”
He pokered up. “I’m keeping an open mind.”
“You do that. Were you able to dig up any old transmissions?”
He held up a second disc. “Dug them out, last two weeks. You’re going to find lots of grease. Guy was working it, trying to pump up some financing. Same on the home unit. Some calls out for food, a couple to a licensed companion service. Couple more back and forth to some place called Bygones.”
“Yeah, I’m going to check that out. Looks like he was selling off his stuff.”
“You know, he probably had some original art from his grandfather’s era. Music posters, photographs, memorabilia.”
Considering, Eve cocked her head. “Enough to buy Number Twelve, then finance the rehab?”
“You never know what people’ll pay. Got your finger pointed at anyone?”
“Talked to one of his exes, and a son. They don’t pop for me, but I’m keeping an open mind. Going through some business associates, potential backers, other exes. No current lady friend, or recently dumped, that I can find. Fact is, the guy comes off as a little sleazy, a little slippery, but mostly harmless. A fuck-up who talked big. Got no motive at this point, except a mysterious something he may or may not have taken with him to Number Twelve.”
She eased back. “Big guy. He was a big guy. Easy for a woman to take him down if she’s got access to a gun, reasonable knowledge of how it works. Second ex-wife is the kind who holds a grudge, hence my open mind. I’ve got Peabody trying to run the weapon.”
“The thing is,” Peabody told her, “it’s really old. A hundred years back, a handgun didn’t have to be registered on purchase, not in every state, and depending on how it was bought. This one’s definitely from the Hop Hopkins/Bobbie Bray era. They discontinued this model in the Nineteen-eighties. I’ve got the list of owners with collector’s licenses in the state of New York who own that make and model, but . . .”
“It’s not going to be there. Not when it was deliberately planted on the scene. The killer wanted it found, identified. Lab comes through, we should know tomorrow if the same gun was used to kill Hopkins and our surprise guest.”
She considered for a moment, then pushed away from her desk. “Okay, I’m going to go by the lab, give them a little kick in the ass.”
“Always entertaining.”
“Yeah, I make my own fun. After, I’m going by this collectibles place, scope it out. It’s uptown, so I’ll work from home after. I’ve got Feeney’s list of transmissions. You want to take that? Check out the calls, the callers?”
“I’m your girl.”
Dick Berenski, the chief lab tech, was known as Dickhead for good reason. But besi
des being one, he was also a genius in his field. Generally, Eve handled him with bribes, insults or outright threats. But with her current case, none were necessary.
“Dallas!” He all but sang her name.
“Don’t grin at me like that.” She gave a little shudder. “It’s scary.”
“You’ve brought me not one but two beauties. I’m going to be writing these up for the trade journals and be the fair-haired boy for the next ten freaking years.”
“Just tell me what you’ve got.”
He scooted on his stool, and tapped his long, skinny fingers over a comp screen. He continued to grin out of his strangely egg-shaped head.
“Got my bone guy working with Morris with me running the show. You got yourself a female, between the age of twenty and twenty-five. Bobbie Bray was twenty twenty-three when she poofed. Caucasian, five-foot-five, about a hundred and fifteen pounds, same height and weight on Bobbie’s ID at the time of her disappearance. Broken tibia, about the age of twelve. Healed well. Gonna wanna see if we can access any medical records on Bobbie to match the bone break. Got my forensic sculptor working on the face. Bobbie Bray, son of a bitch.”
“Another fan.”
“Shit yeah. That skirt was hot. Got your cause of death, single gunshot wound to the forehead. Spent bullet retrieved from inside the skull matches the caliber used on your other vic. Ballistics confirms both were fired from the weapon recovered from the scene. Same gun used, about eighty-five years apart. It’s beautiful.”
“I bet the killer thinks so, too.”
Sarcasm flew over Dickhead like a puffy white cloud in a sunny blue sky. “Weapon was cleaned and oiled. Really shined it up. But . . .”
He grinned again, tapped again. “What you’re looking at here is dust. Brick dust, drywall dust. Samples the sweepers took from the secondary crime scene. And here? Traces of dust found inside the weapon. Perfect match.”
“Indicating that the gun was bricked up with the body.”
“Guess Bobbie got tired of haunting the place and decided to take a more active role.”
And that, Eve determined, didn’t warrant even sarcasm as a response. “Shoot the reports to my home and office units, copy to Peabody’s. Your sculptor gets an image, I want to see it.”
She headed out again, pulling out her ‘link as it beeped. “Dallas.”
“Arrest any ghosts lately?”
“No. And I’m not planning on it. Why aren’t you in a meeting about world domination?”
“Just stepped out,” Roarke told her. “My curiosity’s been nipping at me all day. Any leads?”
“Leads might be a strong word. I have avenues. I’m heading to one now. The vic was selling off his stuff—antique popular culture stuff, I gather—to some place uptown. I’m going to check it out.”
“What’s the address?”
“Why?”
“I’ll meet you. I’ll be your expert consultant on antiques and popular culture. You can pay my fee with food and sex.”
“It’s going to be pizza, and I think I’ve got a long line to credit on the sex.”
But she gave him the address.
After ending the transmission, she called the collectibles shop to tell the proprietor to stay open and available. On a hunch, she asked if they carried any Bobbie Bray memorabilia.
And was assured they had the most extensive collection in the city.
Interesting.
Four
He beat her there, and was being served coffee and fawning attention by a young, elegant redhead in a slick black suit.
Eve couldn’t blame the woman. Roarke was ridiculously handsome, and could, if it served him, ooze charm like pheromones. It seemed to suit him now as he had the redhead flushed and fluttering as she offered cookies with the coffee.
Eve figured she’d benefit from Roarke’s charisma herself. She hardly ever got cookies on the job.
“Ah, here’s the lieutenant now. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Maeve Buchanan, our hostess, and the daughter of the proprietor.”
“Is the proprietor here?”
“My wife. Straight to business. Coffee, darling?”
“Sure. This is some place.”
“We’re very happy with it,” Maeve agreed.
It was pretty, bright—like their hostess—and charmingly organized. Nothing at all like the cluttered junk heap Eve had expected. Art and posters lined the walls, but in a way she supposed someone might arrange them in their home if they were crazy enough to want things everywhere.
Still, tables, display cabinets, shining shelves held memorabilia in a way that escaped the jumbled, crowded stocking style many shops of its kind were victim to. Music was playing unobtrusively—something full of instruments and certainly not of the current era. It added an easy appeal.
“Please, have a seat,” Maeve invited. “Or browse if you like. My father’s just in the back office. He’s on the ‘link with London.”
“Late for business over there,” Eve commented.
“Yes. Private collector. Most of our business is from or to private collections.” Maeve swept a wave of that pretty red hair back from her face. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
“You’ve bought a number of pieces over the last several months from Radcliff C. Hopkins.”
“Mr. Hopkins, of course. Nineteen-sixties through Eighties primarily. We acquired a number of pieces from him. Is there a problem?”
“For Hopkins there is. He was killed last night.”
“Oh!” Her cheery, personal-service smile flashed into shock. “Killed? Oh my God.”
“Media’s run reports on it through the day.”
“I . . . I hadn’t heard.” Maeve’s hands were pressed to her cheeks, and her round blue eyes were wide. “We’ve been open since ten. We don’t keep any current screen shows or radio on in the shop. Spoils the . . . the timeless ambiance. My father’s going to be so upset.”
“They were friends?”
“Friendly, certainly. I don’t know what to say. He was in only a few weeks ago. How did he die?”
“The details are confidential.” For the moment, Eve thought. There were always leaks and the media couldn’t wait to soak them up, wring them dry. “I can tell you he was murdered.”
Maeve had a redhead’s complexion, and her already pale skin went bone white. “Murdered? This is horrible. It’s—” She turned as a door in the back opened.
The man who came out was tall and thin, with the red hair he’d passed to his daughter dusted with a little silver. He had eyes of quiet green, and a smile of greeting ready. It faded when he saw his daughter’s face.
“Maeve? What’s the matter? Is there a problem?”
“Daddy. Mr. Hopkins, he’s been murdered.”
He gripped his daughter’s arm, and those quiet eyes skimmed from Roarke to Eve and back again. “Rad Hopkins?”
“That’s right.” Eve held out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You and Mr. Hopkins had business?”
“Yes. Yes. My God, this is such a shock. Was it a burglary?”
“Why would you ask?”
“His collection. He had a very extensive collection of antique art.”
“You bought a good chunk of that collection.”
“Bits and pieces. Excellent bits and pieces.” He rubbed his daughter’s shoulder and drew her down to the arm of the chair as he sat. The gesture seemed to help both of them compose themselves.
“I was hoping to eventually do a complete appraisal and give him a bid on the whole of it. But he was . . .” He pushed at his hair and smiled. “He was canny. Held me off, and whet my appetite with those bits.”
“What do you know about Number Twelve?”
“Number Twelve?” He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. “Sorry, I’m feeling muddled by all this. Urban legend. Haunted. Some say by Hop Hopkins’s ghost, others by Bobbie Bray’s. Others still say both, or any number of celebrities from that era. Bad luck building, thou
gh I admit I’m always on the lookout for something from its heyday that can be authenticated. Rad managed to acquire the building a few months ago, bring it back into his family.”
“Do you know how it got out of his family?”
“Ah, I think Rad told me it was sold off when he was a boy. His father inherited it when his grandfather died. Tragically, a drug overdose. And it was Rad’s plan to bring it back to its former glory, such as it was.”
“He talked about it all the time,” Maeve added. “Whenever he came in. Now he’ll never . . . It’s so sad.”
“To be frank,” Buchanan continued, “I think he might have overreached a bit. A huge undertaking, which is why he found it necessary—in my opinion—to sell some of his artwork and memorabilia. And because I have a number of contacts in the business who might have been helpful when and if he was ready to outfit the club, it was a good, symbiotic relationship. I’m sorry this happened.”
“When was the last time you had contact with him?”
“Just last week. I joined him for a drink, at his invitation. That would be . . .” He closed his eyes a moment, held up a finger. “Wednesday. Wednesday evening of last week. I knew he was going to try to persuade me, again, to invest in this club of his. It’s just not the sort of thing I do, but he’s a good client, and we were friendly.”
When he sighed, Maeve covered his hand with hers. “So I met with him. He was so excited. He told me he was ready to begin the rehab again, seriously this time. He projected opening next summer.”
“But you turned him down, investmentwise.”
“I did, but he took it well. To be frank again, I did a bit of research when he first approached me months ago. Nothing thrives in that building. Owners and backers go bankrupt or worse. I couldn’t see this being any different.”
“True enough,” Roarke confirmed. “The owners before Hopkins had plans for a small, exclusive spa with restaurant and retail. The buyer fell, broke both his legs while doing a run-through with the architect. His brother and cobuyer were brutally mugged just outside the building. Then his accountant ran off with his wife, taking the bulk of his portfolio.”