Forgotten in Death(26)

“Or yours.”

“Or mine.”

She looked back at the board. “But they have an interest in this particular urban development. Makes me wonder why.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll find out.”

“What do you know about J. Bolton Singer? I haven’t run him yet.”

“Not a great deal, though I’ve met his wife a few times. Her Open Hearts Foundation does good work.”

“‘Not a great deal’ means you know some.”

He sighed a little. “Relentless, you are. All right then, if the historical gossip is valid, he stood as more of a figurehead and his mother ran things after his father’s death, and continued well into his tenure as well.”

“I wondered about that. So his mother still ran the show?”

Roarke shrugged. “From what I know, or heard, that suited J.B. quite well. His father, I’m told, was canny and clever and knew the business from the digging of footers and up. His own father had him work as a laborer, so he learned how to build.”

“And generation three?”

“J. B. Singer, so it’s said, was born into wealth and privilege and liked it very well. Squandered quite a bit of what he had, and was bailed out by his parents more than once when a deal went south. Preferred the, well, you know, the swanning about, and the talking of big deals—and making poor ones, or running them into the ground. So his mother kept the reins while indulging him.”

“Indulging him into cash flow problems, and partnerships with Russian gangsters?”

Roarke lifted his shoulders. “This is, as I said, talk and gossip. I’ve never met the man.”

“It’s interesting talk and gossip. If you keep making poor deals, swanning, running things into the ground, money starts to be an issue, right?”

“One would think.”

“And one might have to bring in a shady partner or two to keep things going.”

“Very possibly.”

“Enter Bardov.”

“Deep pockets there.”

“Filled with ill-gotten gains.”

Still eating, she walked around her board. The yesterday, the today.

“Mother and son would have been in charge of Singer, most likely, when the old murder went down. Cash flow issues, Urban War delays. An outside loan, a silent partner, might’ve seemed just the thing. I’d like to see those records.”

“At that point in time, there might not be any but what I’ve dug up already, and what there are doesn’t—officially—include such partnerships.”

“I’d like to see them anyway.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll warn you going as far back as you’re thinking, they’re likely spotty at best.”

It pulled at her, fascinated her. But …

“Don’t worry about it now. I’ve got to focus on the front of the board—and if any connections to the back turn up, I’ll use them.”

“Such as Tovinski.”

She studied the eyes in the photo. A killer’s eyes. “Exactly as.”

“I’ll dig into Alva Quirk’s ID wash as soon as I can settle in to work on it. I can tell you, from the quick look I managed, a wash is what it was. She either knew what she was about or had some help with it, as it’s very clean.”

Eve turned away from the board and back to him. “You’ll find the rest, no matter how well she washed it.”

“I will, given time and some focus. Well then, since we’ve had our working lunch, I’ll leave you to it.” But he stepped back again, to look at the back of Eve’s board. “She might have family who never knew what happened to her, or the child inside her.”

“I know it. I have to zero in on Alva Quirk, but I won’t forget her.”

“And I know that.” He stepped over, rested his hands on her shoulders, his brow on hers. “Part of me thinks she’s been waiting for us.”

“That’s the Irish talking.”

“It may be, but I feel it nonetheless. Waiting for me to buy that property, waiting for you to be all but on the spot when they found her. What do you say about coincidences, Lieutenant?”

“They’re bollocks.”

“There you have it.” He touched his lips to hers. “So she waited for us. And can wait a bit longer knowing we’ll take care of her now.”

He flicked a fingertip down the shallow dent in her chin again. “Let me know when you’re heading for home, and I’ll catch a ride with you.”

“I will, but I may be out in the field.”

“If you are, I’ll find my own way home. And to you.”

He would, she thought. They always found their way back.

And maybe, Irish woo-woo or not, he had a point. The woman who’d lived and died so long before had found her way to them.

She sat down, began to write up everything he’d told her before she did her own searches and runs to verify what she could.

Because talk and gossip or not, it all clicked right into what made sense.





6





Eve ran J. Bolton Singer, and to her mind verified at least some of Roarke’s talk and gossip. He’d graduated from the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, got his degree—but his official data listed nothing outstanding there.