Forgotten in Death(27)

The society pages she threaded through her search gave her a picture of a rich man’s son who liked to travel, to party, to sail, to golf.

Lots of different lovelies on his arm, she noted, in his youth. Then a big, fancy splash of a society wedding to a Marvinia Kincade—one of the three daughters and heirs of the Kincade fortune. Candy makers, founders of Sweet Treats.

Damn good candy, she thought, and reminded herself to check her office stash to make sure it remained hidden from the nefarious Candy Thief.

One and only marriage, which produced one child, Bolton Kincade Singer.

She shifted to a quick look at the wife—summa cum laude at William & Mary, worked briefly for her family business in PR. Stepped out upon the birth of her son. Founder of Open Hearts, a nonprofit centering on children and families in need.

And apparently put in the money, time, and energy.

Eve noted her son currently served on the advisory board.

She found no criminal on J. Bolton Singer, but did find reports in business news articles of failed enterprises, and interviews with him touting major deals that either never came about or went under.

The Hudson Yards project—which had at the time included the property Roarke now owned—was one of them.

She dug there, sifting through the business jargon to find the gold. Big loans, big plans, high stakes. The tower was his shining star.

Then the Urbans turned the city into a war zone. Construction stopped or slowed to a crawl. But she’d bet the interest on those loans continued to pile up.

He still talked a good game, she noted when she skimmed interviews. Singer’s rock-solid foundations, their vision for the future, blah blah.

She found a snippet about Elinor B. Singer selling thirty-three acres in the Hudson Valley as the Urbans ran down. The buyer? Eve sat back, shot the board a satisfied look.

“Bardov. It goes back at least that far then, the connection.”

Had to be a major infusion of cash. Then another when she sold the Park Avenue mansion to Yuri Bardov.

Since coincidences were bollocks, she didn’t see a coincidence when Singer started up construction in Hudson Yards again.

New bold plans. Quick, efficient, affordable housing, restaurants, and shops. An urban rebirth.

Substandard, the job boss—and Roarke—had concurred. Built fast and cheap and never to last.

Then sold the part of the South-West project—still not fully completed—less than ten years later.

Took the money and ran, she concluded.

But kept the section of that property where a body lay walled in a cellar.

She pushed up, paced.

Risky to sell if you knew about a murder, about a body decomposing behind a brick wall. Why risk that?

But then, more recently, they had. If they had any part in the murder, why risk it now?

Something to chew on once she got DeWinter’s conclusions.

Singer kept the other property, had the grand tower—flanked it with lesser builds, some apartments, some offices, some shops. But that left a good portion undeveloped.

Ran out of money again? Lost interest? Other projects took priority?

She paced to the window and back, thinking, speculating, and paused when she heard Peabody’s boots clomp.

“You’re J. Bolton Singer,” Eve began when Peabody came to the door. “Rich kid. Stupidly rich kid with family money on both sides.”

“Okay.”

“You’re being groomed to take over the family business—the Singer business. You like to play, you like to party, you like pretty girls.”

“Sounds normal.”

“You get into a fancy college—big deal college. Probably had some help there as in family grants. Greasing palms maybe. But you played and partied around the globe on your breaks, and got the degree.

“Nothing I found shows he learned the business from the ground up like his father. And most of what I found indicates he was a fuckup. Losing money on bad deals, buildings that went unfinished or cost more than they were worth. But the parents bail you out. Besides, you marry a rich girl—one with smarts, one who, at least on the surface, has a social conscience, and you produce a son. Yay, another Singer, the next generation.”

“That would be the current one.”

“Right, but when the current one’s still a kid, the Urbans happen. They happen after you secured great big fat loans for your massive projects in Hudson Yards. And your signature tower you want to loom over the city.”

Peabody tried a bright smile. “Can somebody as rich and important as me get a cup of coffee?”

Eve jerked a thumb toward her AutoChef.

“Now you’ve got a wife, a kid, a business, and people are blowing up buildings, occupying them, camping in the street, and your business can’t function at capacity—or close to it—and you’ve got those great big fat outstanding loans.”

Knowing her partner, Peabody handed Eve a mug of black coffee and took her own. “Interest piling up. Hard to collect rents from a burned-out building, or from a tenant who’s armed, or from squatters with ball bats and pipes.”

“Cash flow dries up,” Eve agreed. “They had a fancy place on Park Avenue, and a thirty-six-room mansion in the Hudson Valley and a whole lot of acreage. J. Bolton’s mother, Elinor—who actually ran the show—sold off more than half that acreage. To Yuri Bardov.”