Forgotten in Death(17)

“Did you work on anything related to the Hudson South-West project?”

Her brow furrowed again. “Yes. The Singers divested themselves of much of that property before I joined the firm, or certainly shortly thereafter. And in my position at that time, I wouldn’t have had any part in the larger projects. But I did assist Mr. Singer—Mr. Bolton Singer—with the sale of the remainder of that property to Roarke Industries two years ago.”

“Okay. Thanks for your time.”

She didn’t march out, but she did sort of sail. Eve had to give her credit for it.

“We’ll verify her alibi, but that’s going to check out. I wonder where Alva kept all her old books.”

“Backpack?”

“Depends on how many she had, doesn’t it? Something to ponder. Have Terry send in the next.”





4





Once she’d finished with the available interviewees, Eve considered those remaining on the list.

“See how many of the others we can get to come into Central, and juggle them in.”

She got into her car for the drive to the morgue.

“We can split those up, and hit any remaining at home or on a job site.” She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she braked at a light. A river of pedestrians flooded across the intersection.

New Yorkers doing the fast-clip dodge and weave; tourists doing the neck-craning goggle shuffle.

Everybody had somewhere to go, she thought. Where had Alva gone? A couple of shelters, maybe Sidewalk City, her little nest in Hudson Yards.

But like everybody had somewhere to go, everybody started somewhere else.

Where had Alva started?

While Peabody worked her ’link setting up more interviews, Eve used her in-dash.

“Search all state records for any and all data on Alva Quirk, female, Caucasian, age forty-six, New York City ID on record in 2048 through 2052, no fixed address, no employment listed.”

Acknowledged. Working …

It continued to work as she threaded through traffic, parked again. She transferred the search to her PPC.

“I’ve got the electrician, the IT team—three have access,” Peabody told her. “I couldn’t tag the head plumber, but I got the foreman on the job site he’s working now, and she said she’d have him contact me once he’s freed up. That’s as far as I got.”

Eve considered as they started down the white tunnel. “Find a place, stay on this. I’ll take Morris and the victim.”

“Works for me.”

Eve kept walking, her bootsteps echoing. The lemon-scented chemicals, the air filtration, never quite defeated the underlying scent of death. She wondered why she found visits to the morgue less fraught than stops at hospitals and health centers.

She pushed through the double doors of Chief Medical Examiner Morris’s autopsy suite to find him wrist-deep in Alva Quirk’s open chest cavity. On his music system, a throaty female voice sang about long, sweet goodbyes.

“I’m a bit delayed on your victim,” he told her.

“It’s no problem. I appreciate you getting to her this fast. Do you want me to step out? Or come back?”

“No need. Why don’t you get yourself a cold drink?”

It reminded her she’d yet to crack the tube of Pepsi from her car, so she went to his friggie, got a fresh one.

As she cracked it, he continued to work.

He wore a suit under his protective cape. She supposed the color was lavender or orchid or whatever they decided to call that palest of pale shades of purple. His shirt bumped that hue up a few more shades, and the precisely knotted tie took it back down again.

He’d braided his midnight-black hair into three sections, then braided those into one, using both shades in the cording. She supposed, like his musical talents, he considered the various ways he styled his hair a creative outlet.

“Do you know how long she was on the streets?” Morris asked her.

“Not yet. Working on that, but at a guess, at least ten or twelve years.”

He glanced up, his eyes dark and exotic behind his safety goggles. “She was in remarkably good health considering that length of time. I’d say the fact I’ve found no signs of illegals or alcohol abuse factors into that. She’s a bit underweight, marginally malnourished, but I’d say she made use of free dental clinics and screenings. She never gave birth to a child.”

He looked back down at Alva. “She took care of herself as best she could. She has a kind face.”

“She passed out paper flowers and animals—made them out of litter. Folded up from flyers and other litter.”

“Origami?”

“Yeah, I guess. And she kept record books on people she spotted breaking the law—the rules. Jaywalkers, litterers, street thieves, and so on.”

“A concerned citizen.”

“That’s what the beat cops called her. I’m thinking that’s what got her skull caved in.”

“Two strikes, and I agree with your on-site. A crowbar.”

He switched to microgoggles, gestured for Eve to take a pair from his counter. “You see the indentations from the prongs, how the killer struck downward, then pried out and up. She wouldn’t have felt the second blow. She fell forward, bruising her knees as you see, her body rolling slightly before the second strike to the temple. No defensive wounds, no sexual assault.