Haunted in Death Page 8

  The lovely, tragic face, the deep-set eyes, the full, pouty lips somehow radiated both youth and trouble.

  "Yes," Mira murmured. "It certainly looks like her. Something so sad and worn about her, despite her age."

  "Living on drugs, booze and sex tends to make you sad and worn."

  "I suppose it does. You don’t feel for her?"

  Eve realized she should have expected the question from Mira. Feelings were the order of the day in that office. "I feel for anyone who gets a bullet in the brain - then has their body closed up in a wall. She deserves justice for that - deserves it for the cops who looked the other way. But she chose the life she led to that point. So looking sad and worn at twenty-couple? No, I can’t say I feel for that."

  "A different age," Mira said, studying Eve as she’d studied the image on screen. "My grandmother always said you had to be there. I doubt Bobbie would have understood you and the choices you’ve made any more than you do her and hers."

  Mira flicked the screen off. "Is there more to substantiate identity?"

  "The bones we recovered had a broken left tibia, which corresponds with a documented childhood injury on Bray. We extracted DNA, and I’ve got a sample of a relative’s on its way to the lab. It’s going to confirm."

  "A tragic waste. All that talent snuffed out."

  "She didn’t live what you could call a careful life."

  "The most interesting people rarely do." Mira angled her head. "You certainly don’t."

  "Mine’s about the job. Hers was about getting stoned and screwing around, best I can tell."

  Now Mira raised a brow. "Not only don’t you feel for her, you don’t think you’d have liked her."

  "Can’t imagine we’d have had much in common, but that’s not the issue. She had a kid."

  "What? I’ve never heard that."

  "She kept it locked. Likelihood is it was Hop Hopkins’s offspring, though it’s possible she got knocked up on the side. Either way, she went off, had the kid, dumped it on her mother. Sent money so the family could relocate - up the scale some. Mother passed the kid off as her own."

  "And you find that deplorable, on all counts."

  Irritation shadowed Eve’s face, very briefly. "That’s not the issue either. Female child eventually discovered her heritage through letters Bray allegedly wrote home. The ones shortly before her death, again allegedly, claimed that she was planning to clean up her act - again - and come back for the kid. This is hearsay. The daughter relayed it to her two children. Purportedly the letters and other items were sold, years ago, to Radcliff C. Hopkins - the last."

  "Connections within connections. And this, you believe goes to motive."

  "You know how Hopkins was killed?"

  "The walls are buzzing with it. Violent, specific, personal - and somehow tidy."

  "Yeah." It was always satisfying to have your instincts confirmed. "The last shot. Here’s what he did to her. There’s control mere, an agenda fulfilled, even through the rage."

  "Let me see if I understand. You suspect that a descended of Bobbie Bray killed a descendent of Hopkins to avenge her murder."

  "That’s a chunk of it, buttonholed. According to Bray’s granddaughter, the murder, the abandonment, the obsession mined her mother’s health. Series of breakdowns."

  "You suspect the granddaughter?"

  "No, she’s covered. She’s got two offspring herself, but I can’t place them in New York during the time in question."

  "Who does that leave you?"

  "There was a grandson, reported killed in action during the Urbans."

  "He had children?"

  "None on record. He was pretty young, only seventeen. Lied about his age when he joined up - a lot of people did back then. Oddly enough, he was reported killed here in New York."

  Pursing her lips, Mira considered. "As you’re one of the most pragmatic women I know, I find it hard to believe you’re theorizing that a ghost killed your victim to avenge yet another ghost."

  "Flesh and blood pulled the trigger. I’ve got Yancy aging the military ID. The Urban Wars were a chaotic time, and the last months of them here in New York were confusing from a military standpoint. Wouldn’t be hard, would it, for a young man, one who’d already lied about his age to enlist in the Home Force, to put his official ID on a mangled body and vanish? War’s never what you think it’s going to be. It’s not heroic and adventurous. He could’ve deserted."

  "The history of mental illness in the family - on both sides - the horrors of war, the guilt of abandoning his duty. It would make quite a powder keg. Your killer is purposeful, specific to his goal, would have some knowledge of firearms. Rumor is the victim was shot nine times - the weapon itself is a symbol - and there were no stray bullets found on scene."

  "He hit nine out of nine, so he had some knowledge of handguns, or some really good luck. In addition, he had to reload for the ninth shot."

  "Ah. The others were the rage, that slippery hold on control. The last, a signature. He’s accomplished what he meant to do. There may be more, of course, but he has his eye for an eye, and he has the object of his obsession back in the light."

  "Yeah." Eve nodded. "I’m thinking that matters here."

  "With Bobbie’s remains found, identified, and her killer identified - at least in the media - he’s fulfilled his obligation. If the killer is the grandson - or connected to the grandson, as even if he did die in the Urbans, it’s certainly possible to have produced an offspring at seventeen - he or she knows how to blend."

  "Likely to just keep blending," Eve added.

  "Most likely. I don’t believe your killer will seek the spotlight. He doesn’t need acknowledgment. He’ll slide back into his routine, and essentially vanish again."

  * * *

  "I think I know where to find him."

  "Yancy does good work." Eve held the photos of John Massey - youth and maturity - side-by-side.

  "He does," Roarke agreed. "As do you, Lieutenant. I doubt I’d have looked at the boy and seen the man."

  "It’s about legacies. Redheads ran in Bray’s family. Her father, her daughter. Her grandson."

  "And Yancy’s work indicates he’s alive and living in New York."

  "Yeah. But even with this I’ve got nothing but instinct and theories. There’s no evidence linking the suspect to the crime."

  "You’ve closed a case on a murder that happened decades before you were born," Roarke reminded her.

  "Now you’re greedy."

  "My current suspect did most of the work there. Discovered the body, unearthed it, led me to it. The rest was basically lab and leg work. Since the perpetrator of that crime is long dead, there’s nothing to do but mark the file and do the media announcement."

  "Not very satisfying for you."

  "Not when somebody kills a surrogate figuring that evens things up. And plays games with me. So it’s our turn to play." Eve shifted in the limo. She felt ridiculous riding around in the big black boat.

  But no one would expect Roarke to ride the subway, or even use a common Rapid Cab. Perception was part of the game.

  "I can’t send you in wired," she added. "Never get a warrant for eyes or ears with what I’ve got. You know what to say, right? How to play it?"

  "Lieutenant, have a little faith."

  "I got all there is. Okay," she added, ducking down a little to check out the window when the limo glided to the curb. "Showtime. I’ll be cruising around in this thing, making sure the rest of this little play is on schedule."

  "One question. Can you be sure your suspect will hit his cue in this play of yours?"

  "Nothing’s a given, but I’m going with the odds on this. Obsession’s a powerful motivator. The killer is obsessed with Bray, with Number Twelve - and there’s a sense of theatrics there. Another legacy, I’d say. We dangle the bait, he’s going to bite."

  "I’ll do my best to dangle it provocatively."

  "Good luck."

  "Give us a kiss then."

/>   "That’s what you said last night, and look what happened." But she gave him a quick one. When he slipped out of the limo, she pulled out her ‘link to check on the rest of the game.

  * * *

  Roarke walked into Bygones looking like a man with plenty of money and an eye to spend it as he liked. He gave Maeve an easy smile and a warm handshake. "Ms. Buchanan? I appreciate you opening for me this afternoon. Well, it’s nearly evening, isn’t it?"

  "We’re happy to oblige. My father will be right out. Would you like a glass of wine? I have a very nice cabernet breathing."

  "I’d love one. I’ve met your father, though it’s been three or four years, I suppose, since we’ve done business."

  "I’d have been in college. He mentioned you’d bought a particularly fine Georgian sideboard and a set of china, among other things."

  "He has an excellent memory."

  "He never forgets a thing." She offered the wine she’d poured, then gestured to a silver tray of fruit and cheese. "Would you like to sit? If you’d rather browse, I can point you in a direction, or show you whatever you’d like. My father has the piece you inquired about. He wanted to make sure it was properly cleaned before he showed it to you."

  "I’ll just wait then, if you’ll join me." As he sat, he glanced toward the portrait of Bobbie on the far wall. "It’s actually Bobbie Bray who put me in mind to come here."

  "Oh? There’s always interest in her and her memorabilia, but in the last day it’s piqued."

  "I imagine." He shifted as he spoke so he could scan the black-and-white photographs Eve had told him about. And two, as she’d mentioned, were desert landscapes. "Just as I imagine it won’t ebb any time soon," he continued. "Certainly not with the publicity that will be generated from the case finally being solved."

  Maeve’s hands went very still for a moment. "It’s certain then?"

  "I have an inside source, as you might suspect. Yes, it’s certain. She’s been found, after all these years. And the evidence proves it was Hopkins who hid her body."

  "Horrible. I - Daddy." She got to her feet as Buchanan came into the shop. He carried a velvet case.

  "You remember Roarke."

  "I certainly do. It’s good to see you again." They shook hands, sat. "Difficult circumstances when you were here recently with your wife."

  "Yes. Terrible. I was just telling your daughter that they’ve confirmed the identity of the remains found at Number Twelve, and found Hopkins’s - the first’s - fingerprints on the inside of the wall, on several of the bricks."

  "There’s no doubt any longer then."

  "Hardly a wonder he went mad, locking himself up in that building, knowing what he’d done, and that she was behind that wall, where he’d put her. A bit of ‘The Telltale Heart,’ really."

  Keeping it conversational, Roarke settled back with his drink. "Still, it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Time and distance tend to give that sort of brutality an allure. No one can speak of anything else. And here I am, just as bad. Is that the necklace?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes." Buchanan unsnapped the case, folded back the velvet leaves. "Charming, isn’t it? All those little beads are hand-strung. I can’t substantiate that Bobbie made it herself, though that’s the story. But it was worn by her to the Grammy Awards, then given by her to one of her entourage. I was able to acquire it just last year."

  "Very pretty." Roarke held up the multistrand necklace. The beads were of various sizes, shapes, colors, but strung in a way that showed the craftsman had a clever eye. "I think Eve might like this. A memento of Bobbie, since she’s the one who’s finally bringing her some sense of justice."

  "Can there be, really?" Eyes downcast, Maeve murmured it. "After all this time?"

  "For my cop, justice walks hand-in-hand with truth. She won’t let the truth stay buried, as Bobbie was." He held up the beads again. "I’m hoping to take her away for a quick tropical holiday, and this sort of thing would suit the tropics, wouldn’t it?"

  "After this New York weather?" Maeve said with a laugh as she lifted her gaze once more. "The tropics would suit anything."

  "With our schedules it’s difficult to get away. I’m hoping we can find that window. Though with what they’ve found today, it may take a bit longer."

  "They found something else?" Buchanan asked.

  "Mmm. Something about a bank box, letters, and so on. And apparently something the former Hopkins recorded during his hermitage. My wife said he spoke of a small vault in Number Twelve, also walled in. Hopkins must have been very busy. They’re looking for it, but it’s a good-sized building. It may take days."

  "A vault." Maeve breathed the words. "I wonder what’s in it."

  "More truth?" But Buchanan’s voice was strained now.

  "Or the ramblings of a madman, one who’d already killed?"

  "Perhaps both," Roarke suggested. "I know my wife’s hoping for something that will lead her to Rad Hopkins’s killer. The truth, and justice for him as well."

  He laid the necklace on the velvet. "I’m very interested in this piece." Roarke sipped his wine. "Shall we negotiate?"

  Ten

  In Number Twelve, Eve stood in the area that had once held a stage. Where there had been sound and light and motion, there was silence, dark and stillness. She could smell dust and a faint whiff of the chemicals the sweepers used on-scene. And could feel nothing but the pervading chill that burned through the brick and mortar of an old building.

  Still, the stage was set, she thought. If her hunch was off, she’d have wasted a lot of departmental time, manpower and money. Better that, she decided, than to play into the current media hype that the curse of Number Twelve was still vital, still lethal.

  "You’ve got to admit, it’s creepy." Beside Eve, Peabody scanned the club room. There was a lot of white showing in her eyes. "This place gives me the jeebies."

  "Keep your jeebies to yourself. We’re set. I’m going up to my post."

  "You don’t have to go up right this minute." Peabody’s hand clamped like a bundle of live wires on Eve’s wrist. "Seriously. We’ve got plenty of room on the timetable."

  "If you’re afraid of the dark, Detective, maybe you should’ve brought a nice little teddy bear to hold onto."

  "Couldn’t hurt," Peabody mumbled when Eve pulled free. "You’ll stay in contact, right? I mean, communications open? It’s practically like you’re standing beside me."

  Eve only shook her head as she crossed to the stairs. She’d gone through doors with Peabody when death or certainly pain was poised on the other side. She’d crawled through blood with her. And here her usually stalwart partner was squeaking over ghosts.

  Her bootsteps echoed against the metal steps - and okay, maybe it was a little creepy. But it wasn’t creaking doors and disembodied moans they had to worry about tonight. It was a stone killer who could come for letters from the dead.

  There were no letters, of course. None that she knew of, no vault to hide them in. But she had no doubt the prospect of them would lure Rad Hopkins’s killer into Number Twelve.

  No doubt that killer was descended from Bray and Hopkins. If her hunch didn’t pay off tonight, she was going to face a media storm tomorrow - face it either way, she admitted. But she’d rather deal with it with the case closed.

  Funny how Bygones had old-timey photos of the desert. Maybe they were Arizona, maybe not, but she was laying her money that they were. There’d been old photos of San Francisco, too, before the quake had given it a good, hard shake. Others of New York during that time period, and of L.A. All of Bobbie’s haunts.

  Coincidence, maybe. But she agreed with one of the detectives in her squad on a case recently closed - a case that also included switched identities.

  Coincidences were hooey.

  She crossed the second tier, and started up to the old apartments.

  Eve didn’t doubt Roarke had played his part, and played it well. With the bait he’d dangled, she was gambling that Radcliff C. Hopkins’s killer, and Bobbie
Bray’s murderous descendent, would bite quickly. Would bite tonight.

  She took her position where she could keep the windows in view, put her back to the wall. Eve flipped her communications channel to Peabody’s unit, and said, "Boo."

  "Oh yeah, that’s funny. I’m rib-cracking down here."

  "When you’re finished with your hilarity, we’ll do a check. Feeney, you copy?"

  "Got your eyes, your ears and the body-heat sensors. No movement."