Forgotten in Death(68)

Her partner’s face shined bright, her smile spread wide. “Got the fucker! Hey, Reo.”

“Hey, Peabody. I completely love the potential of your new house.”

“Isn’t it just the maggiest of mags? We just settled on the colors and materials for the kitchen and—”

“Shut up, both of you, shut up about houses and kitchens, or you’ll have to arrest me and Reo charge me for punching both of you. How did you get the fucker?”

“It wasn’t Leonardo, thankfully, because he got shaky over it. Leonardo was one of the designers who ordered the fabric and the dye lot,” she added for Reo. “But Casa Della Moda—that’s house of fashion in Italian—ordered the same fabric—for one customer.”

“You got him.”

“Oh yeah. Tovinski has all his suits made there—custom. Picks out the fabric from samples, the buttons, the design, all of it. They make his shirts, too. He picked up this particular suit four days ago. I was curious enough to ask. Eighteen thousand. Add two more for custom silk lining.”

“Harvo hits again. And good work, Peabody.”

“Good enough for coffee?”

Eve jerked a thumb at the machine. “We’re going to get a forensic accountant to start on the finances. With what we have so far, they’ll have a head start. We’re already authorized to go into Singer’s business accounts. There’s going to be discrepancies, and they’re going to point to him and Delgato. Could be others in on it and, if so, we’ll find them.”

Eve pushed up, moved to the board.

“Consider this, consider a possible connection between Alva Quirk and the woman whose remains we found on another site previously owned by Singer. Both of them almost certainly killed at night, when the site was closed. The use of substandard materials. Yeah, common on the old site, but who’s to say there wasn’t skimming and theft and fraud?”

She tapped a finger on Tovinski’s photo. “Who’s to say he wasn’t there?”

“He’d have been a teenager, right?”

Eve tapped the photo again before she looked back at Reo. “Born to kill. And we both know you don’t have to be an adult to kill. I do believe it’s going to come up in conversation when he’s in Interview.”

“He’ll have a lawyer on tap. A good one.”

Eve smiled. “Are you afraid of a mob lawyer, Reo?”

“Not even a little.”

“Me, either. Peabody, get the warrant and the files to the best accountant we’ve got, then write up the statement from the fancy-pants house.”

“I’ve got it.”

As Peabody rushed out, Eve leaned on the desk again. “He’s weak,” Eve began. “He thinks he’s tough, feels invincible because he’s always had protection. He’s always been inside the club with his uncle patting his head. But he’s weak. The women, and the way he sets them up, the way he hides them. From each other, too, I bet.”

“I tend to agree with that,” Reo said. “I can’t see those women, or his wife, tolerating the others. Or not well.”

“He struck Alva from behind, he lay in wait for Delgato and took him out with a paralytic. He’s used to giving orders, being feared. He’s not that smart. Roarke said his financial—what’s the word you liked?—machinations were sloppy. I’ll break him.”

“You wouldn’t know about any bigger elephants in those sloppy financials, would you?”

Eve glanced over, eyes cool. “Smaller ones generally grow into bigger ones, don’t they?”

Reo just nodded. “We’ll leave it there. Now, let’s take the next fifteen—because I have to get back to the office—to make sure we’re approaching this upcoming interview from the same angle. Then I’ll come back when he’s ready for the box, and we’ll sweat him together.”

When they’d finished, Eve updated her board, both sides, then sat to do the same with her book.

She wanted that sit-down with Yuri Bardov, but knew it had to wait until she broke his nephew, until she had that wrapped. And the day was already clicking away.

She needed the accountant to find what Roarke had. Since it wasn’t something she could push, she went down to Evidence for Alva’s books.

She hadn’t expected to cart back an evidence box holding more than two dozen.

But Alva, the rule-follower, had each one dated. For expediency, she started with the last, opting to work her way back.

When she realized that book detailed Alva’s time at the shelter, she set it aside, took out the previous.

It was a nightmare from the start.

It twisted in her heart, in her guts, the despair, the self-blame, the fear, the loneliness.

She’d known all that, could still feel it if she let herself.

Trying isn’t enough. I overcooked dinner and wasted food. Three slaps. Garrett hates to yell at me, so I have to do better. Accidents don’t happen. Saying they do is a lie and a weak, whiny excuse for being careless. I broke the glass. Two slaps. I tried to hide the broken glass and that’s deceitful, disgusting, and dishonest. I deserved the broken finger. He hates when I make him punish me, but the pain will remind me to be careful, to value what he works so hard to give me.



She read page after page of vicious, systematic, sadistic abuse. Day after day, with few respites.