Forgotten in Death(56)

“And the others?”

“I’m not giving them what they need. Just—well, figuratively—leaving them in a hole in the dark.”

“Not at all true.” He cupped her chin in his hand for a moment. “Not approaching true. You’re prioritizing Alva, which is entirely right, but you’re already laying the groundwork for the second investigation. Tell me, would you have passed the second case on if it hadn’t been on my property?”

“No. There’s no need, at least not at this point. Even though we have a pretty good time line for when she went into that hole, because she fell or was pushed in there, as the trauma to certain bones tell that tale, the science has to catch up.”

He was right, she assured herself. But the echo of that tiny, mewling cry haunted her.

“We need confirmation on a date of death,” she continued, “her age and anything else DeWinter can pull out of the bones. With luck we get a sketch and a holo simulation of her, and I ID her, go from there. It’s in DeWinter’s area first.”

“Exactly, and still you’re talking to and will talk to people who cross both sites. And may have crossed both victims.”

Eve looked down into her coffee. “It was the baby crying at the end. It was creepy, and sad.”

She blew out a breath, finished the coffee. “Anyway, I need to grab a shower and get started.”

“Eve,” he said as she started toward the bathroom. “You started the minute you saw the remains. The minute they became yours.”

“So did you.”

So had he, she thought again as she stepped into the shower. That formed a united front. Whoever had killed, no matter how long ago, would pay. Because they’d never beat that united front.

She let the hot jets pummel the dream out of her, and used her shower time to line up the most efficient order for her day.

When she came out, Roarke sat on the sofa, the wall screen scrolling indecipherable stock reports while he studied his PPC.

The cat sprawled next to him, probably trying to soften Roarke up so he got a shot at whatever was under the warming domes on the table.

Not a chance.

To prove it, Roarke gave Galahad a nudge. “Off you go. You’ve had your breakfast.”

The cat slid down, strolled a few feet away before sitting down to wash. But Eve noted he still had one bicolored eye on the domes.

When Roarke removed them, Eve sat down to a golden omelet, hash browns, and fat berries.

Suspecting spinach hid inside the eggs, she took a careful forkful. Her day started out on an up note when she found nothing but cheese and chunks of ham.

“Good deal.”

“I thought you’d earned one.”

“I bet you’ve got a full plate today—besides this one.”

“It’s an expansive menu. You don’t ask me if I’ve dug up any more on Tovinski because you don’t want to add to it.”

“You gave me plenty already. I’m going to enjoy sweating him today.”

“I’ll be sorry to miss that. But the overnight did unearth a few more interesting nuggets.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Like transactions into those hidden accounts I told you about. Amounts the search tracked back to the sources, in most cases. The bulk, as one would expect, come from his employer, or investments. Some from his employer are generous—bonuses. But interestingly, in the past thirty-six to forty months or more, there have been others, and in the past eighteen to twenty-four, those amounts have increased. Considerably.”

“Others—like individuals? Repeat amounts? Like blackmail?”

“No, though he’d likely insist on cash for an endeavor like that. Individuals, yes, and they repeat, but not the amounts. I’d say the amounts depend on how much material Tovinski can siphon off, or what percentage he charges to switch top grade with cheaper.”

“From the Singer project?”

Roarke spread a bit of jam on toast, passed it to Eve.

“Oh, from their Hudson Yards project most definitely. But not only, and not only with projects where Bardov is partnering with Singer. Averaging amounts over these last two years? Tovinski’s adding about forty-five thousand a month to his income with his side deals.”

“Forty-five,” Eve repeated. “A month?”

“For the last couple years, yes. It started off smaller—eight to ten thousand—but it’s grown. And I’d say more, as some would be cash deals. The old fell-off-the-truck sort of thing.”

Roarke ate some omelet. “I doubt his uncle will be pleased to find out the boy he took under his wing is cheating him.”

“He could be following Bardov’s orders.”

Shaking his head, Roarke lifted his coffee. “I rolled it back to study a few invoices—spot checks, if you will—and the outlay from Bardov’s company, accounts received from certain vendors. A jump from there to the individuals who work for or own the companies—then had a quick glance at Tovinski’s books—which, again, he didn’t hide very well. Not well at all.”

“How did you get into all of that? Invoices aren’t just laid out there, not without a court order and—”

“Trade secret,” he said easily. “You can’t use the details of what I’ve found, of course, but it should be easy enough for a clever woman such as yourself to…”