Forgotten in Death(46)

She cupped his face in turn, touched her lips to his. “This is one of the multitudes for me.”

With a light laugh, he kissed her back. “Good to know.”

Her comp signaled an incoming. “Let that be Morris. Sorry, I need to see.”

“Go. I’ll see to the dishes before I see what else might have come through on Alva.”

“I’ll get to them later. Don’t—”

She broke off as she called up the message and attached report.

Roarke saw her eyes narrow, saw the flat and yet fierce look of cop in them. And saw to the dishes.

When he came back, she stood at her board, added the report, the autopsy photos.

“A paralytic, into the throat. The pressure syringe mark would likely have been covered completely by the bruising if we hadn’t found him so fast. He wasn’t dead when we did, still had a heartbeat, so more bruising would have formed if he’d hung there longer.”

“If you hadn’t found the mark, Morris would have.”

“Maybe. Probably, yeah, but if I’m the killer, I’m thinking who’s going to bother to look real hard? Some mope whose wife booted him, who can’t pay the rent on a flop, who’s gambling his way into hell? Reads suicide. Especially since if we hadn’t found him when we did, gotten him to Morris fast, the paralytic wouldn’t have shown on any tox screen. Morris said it would have dissipated in another two hours, tops.”

She stepped back. “Now it’s murder, and I believe I have motive and means. I’ll nail down the opportunity when I find out where Tovinski was. One way or the other, he’s going to spend some time in my box.”

“Do you want me to look at him more deeply?”

“No, I’ve got that. If you’d stick with Alva—anything else you can find. Then I want to start on financials. The elder Singers, Yuri Bardov, Tovinski—you can take that area on him. Anything hinky, anything I can use as a lever.”

“A reward mixed in with the work. And pie to follow. I insist.”

“Sure, pie to follow.”

She programmed coffee, then sat to write it all up, sent the update to Peabody and to Mira.

Then she called Oklahoma. She started with the cop brother.

The cheerful blonde in her late teens answered with a wide grin. “Hello, New York City! What’s happening?”

“I’d like to speak with Trent Elliot.”

“Sure. He’s just taking it chill in his burrow with a beer before he watches the game. I’ve never been to New York City. Is it frosty extreme?”

“I think so, most of the time.”

“I gotta get there.” The girl spoke on the move, crossed what Eve thought was a kitchen—light still poured in the windows—then started down some stairs.

Eve clearly heard pregame commentary—Yankee Stadium, Yankees versus the Oklahoma Buffaloes.

“Hey, Pops! Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Is that Hank? Tell him to blow. I’m not biting.”

“No, it’s a woman, from actual New York.”

The ’link changed hands. Eve saw a very blond—with some white sprinkles—man with a square jaw, annoyed blue eyes. “Who is this?”

“Detective Elliot, this is Lieutenant Dallas, New York City Police and Security.”

“Did that asshole Hank put you up to this? You tell him the Buffaloes are going to kick some Yankee ass tonight.”

“Detective, I’m contacting you regarding your sister.”

“Chantal? What the—”

“No, Alva.”

“Alva?” He came straight up out of his chair. “Alva’s in New York? What the hell is she doing in New York? I want to talk to her.”

“Detective Elliot, I regret to inform you—”

“No.” He snapped it out. “Goddamn it. No.”

“Pops? What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, baby. Go on up. I need to talk now.”

“I’m getting Mom.”

“Not yet, Alva. I’ll come up when I’m done. We’ll all talk. My youngest girl,” he said as he sat again. “We named her after my sister. My big sister. Oh, son of a bitch. What happened?”

She opted to talk cop to cop, and he listened as she took him through it.

“I want you to know, and I’m not bullshitting you, I have a strong avenue to pursue. I’ve made considerable progress already, and will continue. We were able to uncover her original ID, which led us to you and your younger sister.”

“She was living on the street.” His voice trembled, just a little, with both rage and grief.

“She was. She took care of herself, the cops on the beat liked her. She used a couple of shelters when she wanted, and they liked her. She gave people origami flowers and birds and animals. She kept a book so she could report to the cops if somebody littered, for instance.”

“Crime and punishment,” he murmured.

“Yeah, you could say.”

“No, it’s from our mother. When we were kids, she kept a chart—the crime, the punishment. Little shit, you know, kid shit. Hit your sister—crime—punishment—lose thirty minutes’ gaming time. Don’t eat your vegetables—no dessert. Like that.