Forgotten in Death(38)

“I might be thinking that. As a possible theory.”

“And taking it to the next step, you’re thinking whoever killed Alva Quirk let himself in Delgato’s window, set up what would look like a suicide by hanging, and disposed of the witness.”

“You may not have known me half your life, but that’s a pretty good take on my current thinking.”

“Who says we didn’t know each other for half, and more, of another life?”

“Irish woo-woo.” But she didn’t object when he gave her hand a squeeze.

“So for this next part,” she continued, punching it to get through a yellow light, “you’ll stick with being Roarke.”

“Excellent. I know that role well.”

“Singer comes across as a decent sort, but that’s not to say he isn’t siphoning from the family business, and using a longtime employee with a gambling habit to help. Singer wanted to be a rocker, and he had to give that up to go into the family business. Could be he resents that and figures he’s entitled to take what he wants.”

“Scars and scabs from shattered dreams.” Roarke considered. “If so, as CEO, he could find ways to conceal taking what he pleases.”

“And if so, he’d have to have somewhere to put it. Hidden accounts. Or like spending it on a stolen Monet.”

“A very fine way to wash ill-gotten funds.”

“You’d know, so that’s something we’ll look into later. For now, I definitely want your take on Singer—and the family if they’re around.”

“I expect that fine dining and good bottle of red as my reward.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Perhaps I sold myself too cheap.”

That earned a smirk. “That’ll be the day.”

The Bolton Singers had a double townhome on the Upper East Side, all rosy red brick and shining windows. It sat on a quiet, tree-lined street where Eve figured the nannies and dog walkers strolled the sidewalks with their charges more than their employers did.

Indeed, as she studied the house, a long-legged girl in a DOG’S BEST FRIEND T-shirt strolled by with a couple of dogs—more like mops with feet—on leashes.

Eve noted that the main entrance, and the door that led to a small grassy area boxed in with flowers and fencing, had cams and palm plates.

She chose the main with its glossy wooden door and pushed the buzzer.

She expected the usual computer inquiry. Instead the door swung open almost immediately.

Youngest son, Eve decided, as he looked early twenties and had his father’s eyes. His hair, glossy and brown as the door, curled over his ears and collar in studied disarray.

He had a lean build in worn jeans and tee that asked: SAYS WHO?

Music pumped out of the house as he shot them a dazzling smile.

“Hey, hi. Thought you were Clem.”

“No.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and Roarke, consultant.”

His mouth dropped open for an instant, then he shot a finger at both of them. “Yeah, you are! Frosted! I saw the vid like three times, man. Clones. Up and out! We don’t have any here, except I’ve always wondered about Layla. My sister.”

“We’re here to speak with your father, if possible.”

“Guess it is. We’re back there for an after-dinner jam. Clem’s supposed to drop by.” He gestured them in. “So, come on back.”

The house had the feel of a family home, a wealthy one, sure, but lived-in. A lot of space, a lot of quiet colors with slashes of bolder ones. He led them through a sun-splashed living room where matted and framed family photos made up a gallery wall, through another space with a long bar and a fireplace tiled in a cheerful pattern that made her think of Italy.

The music gained volume—drums, a piano, maybe a guitar, something with enough bass to pump against the walls, and a lot of voices.

The tableau in the next room struck as cheerful as the fireplace.

A woman—that would be Lilith Singer, wife—banging it out on the piano, another—middle to late twenties, likely the older daughter, Harmony—beating a serious riff on a set of drums, another man—maybe thirty—standing hipshot as he worked the bass guitar.

Another female with blond-streaked hair curling halfway down her back executed a complicated and complementary series of notes on an electric keyboard.

And Bolton Singer—in jeans as worn as his youngest’s—rocking it on a guitar and grinning at a toddler about Bella’s age, to Eve’s eye, who danced around with her—maybe his—arms waving.

The blend and enthusiasm of the instruments and voices told Eve this was hardly the first time for a post-dinner jam.

The one who’d let them in grabbed a sax and let it wail into the crescendo.

“Now, that’s what I’m saying!” Bolton let out a laugh and started to bend down to pick up the kid. And spotted Eve and Roarke.

“Oh yeah, company, Dad.”

Every head turned with expressions of curiosity—the friendly sort.

“Kincade, honestly.” The woman at the piano shook back her hair—curly like her two youngest children’s—with a combination of glossy brown and coppery streaks. She rose, walked toward them with her hand out.

“Roarke. You may not remember, but we met briefly several years ago at a benefit.”