„Yeah, I’m going to check that out. Looks like he was selling off his stuff.“
„You know, he probably had some original art from his grandfather’s era. Music posters, photographs, memorabilia.“
Considering, Eve cocked her head. „Enough to buy Number Twelve, then finance the rehab?“
„You never know what people’11 pay. Got your finger pointed at anyone?“
„Talked to one of his exes, and a son. They don’t pop for me, but I’m keeping an open mind. Going through some business associates, potential backers, other exes. No current lady friend, or recently dumped, that I can find. Fact is, the guy comes off as a little sleazy, a little slippery, but mostly harmless. A fuck-up who talked big. Got no motive at this point, except a mysterious something he may or may not have taken with him to Number Twelve.“
She eased back. „Big guy. He was a big guy. Easy for a woman to take him down if she’s got access to a gun, reasonable knowledge of how it works. Second ex-wife is the kind who holds a grudge, hence my open mind. I’ve got Peabody trying to run the weapon.“
„The thing is,“ Peabody told her, „it’s really old. A hundred years back, a handgun didn’t have to be registered on purchase, not in every state, and depending on how it was bought. This one’s definitely from the Hop Hopkins/Bobbie Bray era. They discontinued this model in the Nineteen-eighties. I’ve got the list of owners with collector’s licenses in the state of New York who own that make and model, but…“
„It’s not going to be there. Not when it was deliberately planted on the scene. The killer wanted it found, identified. Lab comes through, we should know tomorrow if the same gun was used to kill Hopkins and our surprise guest.“
She considered for a moment, then pushed away from her desk. „Okay, I’m going to go by the lab, give mem a little kick in the ass.“
„Always entertaining.“
„Yeah, I make my own fun. After, I’m going by this collectibles place, scope it out. It’s uptown, so I’ll work from home after. I’ve got Feeney’s list of transmissions. You want to take that? Check out the calls, the callers?“
„I’m your girl.“
Dick Berenski, the chief lab tech, was known as Dickhead for good reason. But besides being one, he was also a genius in his field. Generally, Eve handled him with bribes, insults or outright threats. But with her current case, none were necessary.
„ Dallas!“ He all but sang her name.
„Don’t grin at me like that.“ She gave a little shudder. „It’s scary.“
„You’ve brought me not one but two beauties. I’m going to be writing these up for the trade journals and be the fair-haired boy for the next ten freaking years.“
„Just tell me what you’ve got.“
He scooted on his stool, and tapped his long, skinny fingers over a comp screen. He continued to grin out of his strangely egg-shaped head.
„Got my bone guy working with Morris with me running the show. You got yourself a female, between the age of twenty and twenty-five. Bobbie Bray was twenty twenty-three when she poofed. Caucasian, five-foot-five, about a hundred and fifteen pounds, same height and weight on Bobbie’s ID at the time of her disappearance. Broken tibia, about the age of twelve. Healed well. Gonna wanna see if we can access any medical records on Bobbie to match the bone break. Got my forensic sculptor working on the face. Bobbie Bray, son of a bitch.“
„Another fan.“
„Shit yeah. That skirt was hot. Got your cause of death, single gunshot wound to the forehead. Spent bullet retrieved from inside the skull matches the caliber used on your other vie. Ballistics confirms both were fired from the weapon recovered from the scene. Same gun used, about eighty-five years apart. It’s beautiful.“
„I bet the killer thinks so, too.“
Sarcasm flew over Dickhead like a puffy white cloud in a sunny blue sky. „Weapon was cleaned and oiled. Really shined it up. But…“
He grinned again, tapped again. „What you’re looking at here is dust. Brick dust, drywall dust. Samples the sweepers took from the secondary crime scene. And here? Traces of dust found inside the weapon. Perfect match.“
„Indicating that the gun was bricked up with the body.“
„Guess Bobbie got tired of haunting the place and decided to take a more active role.“
And that, Eve determined, didn’t warrant even sarcasm as a response. „Shoot the reports to my home and office units, copy to Peabody ’s. Your sculptor gets an image, I want to see it.“
She headed out again, pulling out her ‘link as it beeped. „ Dallas.“
„Arrest any ghosts lately?“
„No. And I’m not planning on it. Why aren’t you in a meeting about world domination?“
„Just stepped out,“ Roarke told her. „My curiosity’s been nipping at me all day. Any leads?“
„Leads might be a strong word. I have avenues. I’m heading to one now. The vie was selling off his stuff – antique popular culture stuff, I gather – to some place uptown. I’m going to check it out.“
„What’s the address?“
„Why?“
„I’ll meet you. I’ll be your expert consultant on antiques and popular culture. You can pay my fee with food and sex.“
„It’s going to be pizza, and I think I’ve got a long line to credit on the sex.“
But she gave him the address.
After ending the transmission, she called the collectibles shop to tell the proprietor to stay open and available. On a hunch, she asked if they carried any Bobbie Bray memorabilia.
And was assured they had the most extensive collection in the city.
Interesting.
Four
He beat her there, and was being served coffee and fawning attention by a young, elegant redhead in a slick black suit.
Eve couldn’t blame the woman. Roarke was ridiculously handsome, and could, if it served him, ooze charm like pheromones. It seemed to suit him now as he had the redhead flushed and fluttering as she offered cookies with the coffee.
Eve figured she’d benefit from Roarke’s charisma herself. She hardly ever got cookies on the job.
„Ah, here’s the lieutenant now. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Maeve Buchanan, our hostess, and the daughter of the proprietor.“
„Is the proprietor here?“
„My wife. Straight to business. Coffee, darling?“
„Sure. This is some place.“
„We’re very happy with it,“ Maeve agreed.
It was pretty, bright – like their hostess – and charmingly organized. Nothing at all like the cluttered junk heap Eve had expected. Art and posters lined the walls, but in a way she supposed someone might arrange them in their home if they were crazy enough to want things everywhere.
Still, tables, display cabinets, shining shelves held memorabilia in a way that escaped the jumbled, crowded stocking style many shops of its kind were victim to. Music was playing unobtrusively – something full of instruments and certainly not of the current era. It added an easy appeal.
„Please, have a seat,“ Maeve invited. „Or browse if you like. My father’s just in the back office. He’s on the ‘link with London.“
„Late for business over there,“ Eve commented.
„Yes. Private collector. Most of our business is from or to private collections.“ Maeve swept a wave of that pretty red hair back from her face. „Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?“
„You’ve bought a number of pieces over the last several months from Radcliff C. Hopkins.“
„Mr. Hopkins, of course. Nineteen-sixties through Eighties primarily. We acquired a number of pieces from him. Is there a problem?“
„For Hopkins there is. He was killed last night.“
„Oh!“ Her cheery, personal-service smile flashed into shock. „Killed? Oh my God.“
„Media’s run reports on it through the day.“
„I… I hadn’t heard.“ Maeve’s hands were pressed to her cheeks, and her round blue eyes were wide. „We’ve been open since ten. We don’t keep any current screen shows or radio on in the shop. Spoils the… the timeless ambiance. My father’s going to be so upset.“