Forgotten in Death(58)

“I am efficient and intimidating.”

“Which is why you’ll wear the clothes. They won’t wear you.”

Since it saved her time—and his choice hit simple—she didn’t argue.

She heard the crash, recognized the sound of the dome hitting the floor.

Roarke turned on his heel. “Bloody hell.”

She snickered as she dressed and her efficient, intimidating, and brilliant husband rushed out to argue with a cat.

Fifteen minutes later, with the cat banished, he walked with her to their adjoining offices.

“Let me know if you decide to go to the Singer and Bardov estates. I’ll arrange for the jet-copter.”

“I’ve been thinking I can drive it.”

“Eve, the copter can get you there in ten minutes or less as opposed to the ninety you’d need to drive through traffic.”

But it would be ninety minutes of annoyance and frustration against ten minutes of abject fear.

“I’ll let you know.”

When she’d put together a file bag, he took her by the shoulders. Kissed her.

“Depending on the timing, I might be able to pilot you and Peabody myself.”

“Can’t say yet, but I’ll let you know.” She kissed him back.

“Do that. And take care of my cop.”

“Russian gangsters are just thugs with accents and tats.” She started out, paused at the door. “And thanks—sort of—for the lever. Even if I can’t use it, I know it, and knowing it, I know him before I sit across from him.”

He won’t know you, Roarke thought as she left, and again found himself regretting he’d miss that particular meeting.

Her topper lay across the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. Her car waited outside.

It always amazed her.

She texted Peabody.

Want to stop by the morgue re Delgato. Just meet me at the lab. Sent more reports. Read and familiarize.

As she drove, she tagged Reo. When the assistant prosecuting attorney came on-screen, Eve watched her putting fussy stuff on her eyes.

“Don’t you just want to rub the crap out of your eyes once you put that stuff on there?”

“No.” Reo gave her image in the mirror a serious study, then started on the second eye.

“I do. I’m sending you files and reports. Alva Quirk.”

“Homeless woman. Dumpster. About this time yesterday.”

“Yeah, so you got that much.”

“We got your report on her identification, yes. You have more?”

“I got a shitload more. I got the sort of more that’s going to need a warrant. Alexei Tovinski—nephew of Yuri Bardov’s wife.”

Reo’s hand paused. “The Russian mob killed a homeless woman? Who was she really?”

“Nobody important to them. Also on the dead list is Carmine Delgato—head plumber for Singer. It’s all in there, Reo, including Morris’s report, the tox report. Look at Tovinski’s finances: hidden accounts, lots of women—and children—that aren’t his wife. A lot of money that doesn’t add up to what he’s spending on them. Delgato—gambling issues.”

“A little embezzlement going on?”

“You’re smart. You’ll see it, and get that warrant to take a nice deep dive into his money pile. You’re going to be issuing another with his name on it before much longer. For Quirk and for Delgato. And, just maybe, for the unidentified, as yet, woman on the second Hudson Yards site.”

“Have you dated the remains?”

“I’m going to see DeWinter. Read the reports. It’s a lot, and I’m going to give you more.”

“Are you going to make me smile really, really big, and tell me we’re going to nail Yuri Bardov?”

“Can’t say. Yet.”

“I’ll start reading, and I’ll let you know about the warrant on the financials. How many women?”

“Three—that showed up. Three kids, and another in the hopper.”

“Jesus, when does he have time to kill people?”

“You don’t find time, Reo. You make it. Later.”

Satisfied Reo would come through, Eve tagged Nadine Furst.

Far from the hotshot, camera-ready reporter, bestselling true crime author, and Oscar winner, Nadine answered with a groan.

And dragged the covers over her head in a room lit only by city lights out a window wall.

She said, “Why, God, why?”

“Where the hell are you?” Eve demanded. “Why is it dark? That’s not New York out there.”

“Because I’m not in New York, I’m in Seattle. I think. And it’s the middle of the damn night here.”

“Not my fault you’re somewhere the Earth hasn’t turned toward the sun. I need a favor.”

“This is a really bad time to ask me for a favor.”

“Do you know any solid reporters in Oklahoma?”

“Why would I know anybody in Oklahoma?” Curiosity, Eve deduced, pushed Nadine’s head out of the covers. She frowned, streaky blond hair tangled, foxy eyes heavy, as she held the sheets up over her breasts with one hand. “Why?”

“It has to do with the favor, and a dead homeless woman, the fucker who beat the crap out of her years back in Oklahoma, where he’s now chief of police in someplace called Moses.”