Forgotten in Death(49)

“With fake IDs? Who’d you talk to?”

“Someone I thought might have some knowledge of a network that helps provide this service.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

“I’m not, no, but the conversation narrowed the search, particularly when one of the names I had founded a women’s shelter in Dayton, and did so five years before Alva’s Dayton ID. This name interested me in particular, as this woman did time.”

“For what? Shit, for forging IDs?”

Amused at her instant irritation—such a cop—Roarke enjoyed more pie.

“She doesn’t hide the fact, and founded the shelter after she served that time. Because, it seems, she learned many of the women inside with her were also victims of abuse. From lovers, johns, spouses, parents. It changed her, so she said, made her want to do something that could help, that could break the cycle. The Home Safe Women’s Shelter is highly regarded.”

“You can stop playing her legal rep.”

“Now I’m a lawyer? How many ways can you insult the man you love?”

“I’ve got more when I need them. Do I get that name?”

“Of course. And a contact number.” He handed her a mini-disc. “All the data and background’s on there. And this is very good pie.”

Eve plugged it in. “Allysa Gray, mixed race, age sixty-one. One marriage, one divorce, no offspring. You didn’t mention the assault charge.”

“Dropped, wasn’t it? If you glance through, you’ll see her husband—they were estranged—came at her outside her house. He got two punches in before she wailed on him. They were both charged. His stuck, hers didn’t, particularly after her history showed multiple nine-one-one calls prior to her moving out and filing for divorce.”

“Yeah, I see it. Got popped for the ID forgery three years later.”

“And served her time. A year afterward she opened Home Safe.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He just smiled. “You’ve learned to live with a former criminal, haven’t you, darling Eve?”

She smiled back. “It’s a process.” She picked up her ’link.

“You’re contacting her now?”

“That’s right, and don’t give me the time and Earth-rotation crap. I don’t care what time it is there.”

Rising, he picked up the empty pie plates. “Put it on the wall screen, would you? I’d like to observe.”

Since he’d found the woman, Eve couldn’t think of any objection. She switched the communication mode, swiveled to face the wall screen.

“Allysa Gray,” the woman announced as she came on-screen.

Her hair, bold, bright red with a lot of gold streaks, fell in fluffy disorder around her narrow, foxy face. Eyes heavy-lidded and deep brown looked straight into Eve’s.

Eve noted she sat at a desk, and now picked up a mug, put her slippered feet on the desk, and smiled.

“Well, look at this. I know that face. What can I do for you, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve?”

“Do we know each other, Ms. Gray?”

“Never met, but I’ve seen your face, read about your work. Liked that book and vid, too. What would New York’s top murder cop want with me?”

“Do you know an Alva Quirk?”

Now there, Eve thought, was a poker face.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m the primary investigator on her murder.”

That poker face vanished into shock. Anger and sorrow came on its heels. “Alva? She went to New York? She’s dead? He killed her? How did that bastard find her after all these years?”

“Which bastard would that be?”

“If you found me, you know damn well I’m talking about that wife-beating son of a fuck Garrett Wicker.”

“I don’t believe that particular son of a fuck found her, or killed her.”

“What happened to her? Goddamn it. Give me a second, would you? Tea, my ass.” She shoved up, crossed the room—home office to Eve’s eye—opened a cupboard. A lithe calico cat leaped down from the top of it, sauntered away while Allysa poured what looked to be a glass of bourbon, neat.

She sat, lifted the glass. “To sweet Alva.” She knocked back a swallow. “What happened?”

“She suffered a severe and fatal head blow in the early hours of this morning, and was found in a dumpster on a working construction site at start of shift.”

“Aw, Jesus. How long had she been in New York?”

“I can’t say for certain. She was living on the streets.”

“On the streets.” Allysa bolted up straight. “Why? Oh, bullshit, why ask why? Fear’s why. Are you sure he didn’t find her?”

“I believe the motive for her murder wasn’t personal in that way. I will be speaking with Wicker before I’m done.”

“He tormented and beat and told her she was nothing, for years.”

“How did she get away? She told you.”

“He broke her fingers on one hand, burnt her other hand on the stove because she didn’t have dinner on the table fast enough. Then he blackened her eye for good measure. So bad she was afraid she’d never see out of it again.

“Then he raped her, and told her, like always, he hated the way she made him punish her. She told me she couldn’t think straight the next morning. That it felt like she was dreaming.”