Haunted in Death (In Death #22.5)(8)

“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 f**k-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 besides 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.“