Forgotten in Death(10)

“Yeah, we can, and when we do, we’ll take the roll for full analysis.”

“Over to you then, Yee. Peabody, let’s go have a conversation with the job boss.”

“Good hunting, Dallas,” Yee called out.

“Same to you.”

“Geraldi, Paulie,” Peabody began. “Officer Urly tagged me and said with the shutdown order, he was going to Singer HQ to talk to his boss.”

“Two for one. We’ll have a conversation with Bolton Singer, too.”

“His office is walkable. Just a couple blocks east, another couple north.”

“You looking for loose pants again?”

“That could be a side benefit. It’s just a really nice morning.”

Eve couldn’t, and wouldn’t, deny the appeal of New York in the spring.

“Maybe so, but we need the car. After the conversations—unless they lead to immediate arrests or further conversations—we’ll go by the morgue, see what we’ve got on Quirk. Then we’re at Central, doing a full run on the vic—again, she came from somewhere. Her ID has gaps, so we need to fill them.”

She reached the stairs, started down with Peabody clanging along with her.

“And digging back into the missing persons on our other vic. We need more background on the partners, on the sales of the second site. We don’t have time for strolling.”

“When you put it that way.”

When they reached Eve’s DLE, Peabody slid in. “Can I get a diet fizzy? It got warm up there.”

“Go.”

“Coffee?”

Eve started to say yes before she pulled out because coffee was always a yes. But it had gotten warm up there. “Tube of Pepsi.”

While Peabody programmed the drinks from the in-dash AutoChef, Eve ordered a run on Geraldi.

Geraldi, Paul Tomas, age sixty-two, her computer began. Caucasian, male. Married Theresa Angela Basset, age sixty, June 2032. Three offspring, Paul, male, age twenty-eight; Carla, female, age twenty-six; Anthony, male, age twenty-five. Employed by Singer Developers 2023 to present. Demolition expert, supervisory position.

Eve listened to the employment record, the financial data, education data, the criminal—small change in Geraldi’s early twenties.

“He’d’ve been with the company in 2024,” she commented. “Puts him on that list if those dates line up. Let’s see about the big boss. Computer, run Bolton Kincade Singer of New York City.”

Acknowledged. Working. Singer, Bolton Kincade, age fifty-nine. Caucasian, male. Married Lilith Anne Conroy, age fifty-five, December 2033. Three offspring, Harmony, female, age twenty-seven; Layla, female, age twenty-four; Kincade, male, age twenty-two. President and CEO of Singer Family Developers, based in New York City. Employed by Singer Family Developers 2026 to present.

“Pause,” Eve ordered. “Where was subject employed and/or residing prior to 2026?”

Subject attended Irving Allen Conservatory from 2020 to 2024 as full-time student. He resided in Savannah, Georgia, from August 2020 to February 2026.

To save time, Eve zipped into a loading zone a half block from Singer HQ. “Degrees and employment during that period.”

Subject earned degrees, with honors, in music composition, instrumental arts, and vocal arts. He was self-employed as a musician/performer during this period.

“Hold the rest. An odd education for the head of an urban development company.”

“My guess would be he had other plans for his future. Singer wanted to be a singer.”

Eve nodded, then realized she hadn’t cracked the tube of Pepsi. She let it sit where it was as she flipped up the On Duty light. “That’s my take. Guess he changed his mind, or his finances ran thin.”

“He gave it a decent shot,” Peabody said as they got out of the car. “Either way, it lowers the likelihood he was here when our unidentified woman was murdered.”

“Or he was here on a college break, hoping to butter up his wealthy parents so they’d fork over more dough. They gave him his shot. A year or so after college to make it or break it. You don’t make it, it’s time to face the real world, earn your keep.”

“I looked up the conservatory. They don’t take just anybody. You have to take written tests, and audition, then they have a panel that votes on your admission. It’s pricey, and it’s exclusive.”

“And it would’ve been away from the hot spots still flaring up during the Urbans. You could pull some strings to get your one and only son in, I bet.”

“Cops are cynics, because I can see that.” Peabody paused outside the entrance of the Singer Building to take stock.

“It’s impressive,” Peabody decided, “and it’s got that old-timey New York and dignified look to it. But it’s not as big or impressive as Roarke’s Midtown HQ.”

“What is?”

Eve swung in, crossed the marble-tiled and, yes, old-timey New York and dignified lobby to the security desk.

She held up her badge. “Paulie Geraldi and Bolton Singer.”

“Are either expecting you, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t think they’ll be surprised.”

“One moment.” Security turned away to consult with someone on his earbud.

While she waited, Eve scanned the lobby. Activity coming off or going on elevators. No shops or cafés, but a large screen displaying various Singer projects—completed, projected, under construction.