Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “What was I … twenty-four, I guess? My mother appealed to me. Just give it two years. They’d given me four years of college to study my dream. Give the family business two years. So I did, and discovered I could make a difference.”

  He waved that away. “Sorry, this just took me back. Do you know if this was some sort of accident? A job accident?”

  “We don’t believe so, but will pursue all avenues.”

  “I suppose it’s not the first time or the last. I hear stories about animal remains, and have heard about human ones as well. The building in Hell’s Kitchen you and Roarke transformed into a school. All those poor girls. Was this like that?”

  “Something like. Is your father well now?”

  “He is. He’s needed a few replacement parts, as he puts it. And doesn’t appear to take after my grandmother, who’s hale and hearty at a hundred and five. His own father, my grandfather, died fairly young. Not as easy to replace parts in his day.”

  “I may need to speak with him about that development project. He may remember something that would aid in our investigation and identification. Yours is, as you said, a family business,” Eve continued. “Would your mother have been involved in the project, or is she involved in your current development?”

  “My mother? No, she’s never been part of the building or planning. She has excellent taste, a fine eye, so she has, over the years, made suggestions for colors, fabrics, fixtures, furnishings if that applies. But Mom’s not one to put on a hard hat and tour a site.

  “My grandmother, now,” he said before Eve could thank him and stand up. “She was an equal partner with my grandfather, and basically took over when he died. And believe me, she’ll still give her opinion, solicited or not, on a project, on details big and minute.”

  He smiled when he said it. “She’s a true matriarch, and shows little sign of slowing down.”

  “I look forward to speaking with her. I appreciate your time and cooperation, Mr. Singer.”

  He rose as she did. “I personally, and as head of this company, will help in any way we can.”

  He walked her to the door, stepped out with her.

  “Terry, show Lieutenant Dallas to the small conference room, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. And I’d appreciate notification as soon as we’re cleared back on-site.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  The small conference room wasn’t that small, Eve discovered.

  It held a table that would easily fit eight on either side, a massive wall screen, a refreshment station, and a trio of mini data and communication units.

  The stone-faced Zelda, on the point of leaving, paused to aim those weird eyes at Terry.

  “You’re to coordinate, contact the names as Detective Peabody or Lieutenant Dallas submits them, and have them come here immediately.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Detective Peabody has your ’link code and will contact you. After this initial contact, you can continue to work from your desk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she walked out, Eve studied the room. “Give us just a minute, Terry. And don’t ma’am either one of us.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, nodded, stepped outside the door.

  “She’s creepy,” Peabody said immediately. “She talks like an authoritarian droid and she has eyes like a snake.”

  “Yes!” Eve jabbed her finger into Peabody’s shoulder. “She has snake eyes. How many have we got?”

  “We’ve got twenty-six who’d have access codes, but only five are in the building today.”

  “Why? Where are the rest of them?”

  “Working on other sites or in outside meetings. Three of those took the early shuttle this morning to a plant near Dayton, Ohio, to check out some man-made stone under consideration.”

  “Okay, we’ll start with what we’ve got, then round up the others.” She checked the time. “I’m going to tag Jenkinson, see what’s what, let him know to handle things until I get there. You can send for the first of the six.”

  “Five.”

  Eve just gave Peabody a sad look. “Really? You think Snake Woman doesn’t have the access codes to one of her boss’s pet projects?”

  “Well, now I do. The first is Danika Isler, head architect.”

  “We start there. Do a quick run on her while I tag Jenkinson.”

  They went through the architect, and Eve eliminated her from the older murder, as she’d have been four at the time, then put her bottom of the list on Alva’s because she had a solid alibi up to thirty minutes before TOD, as she and her husband had attended his sister’s birthday party in the Bronx, shared a cab on departure just after midnight with two other partygoers, and had arrived home to dismiss the babysitter at around twelve-thirty.

  She eliminated the engineer, Bryce Babbott. He’d been sixteen at the estimated year of her unknown victim’s death—more than old enough to kill. But he’d lived in Sydney, Australia, until 2049, so unlikely.

  “He still has the accent.” Peabody lifted and wiggled her shoulders after Eve dismissed him. “Sexy.”

  “People with sexy accents murder people all the time. He’s got two dings for assault—bar fights, but he’s not averse to violent behavior. And his alibi for the time in question is that he was home asleep with his current cohab, with his ten-year-old son asleep in the next room. He stays on. We’ll take a closer look at him. Who’s up?”

  “Snake Woman.”

  “Good. This’ll be fun.”

  “I think she’s going to be really pissed.”

  “That’s part of the fun.”

  Pissed hit the mark.

  Zelda marched in, lips tight, jaw set.

  “Is there something Terry couldn’t handle for you? He’s at your disposal.”

  “Does Terry have access to the Hudson Yards project?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then we don’t need him for this. Have a seat.”

  “I’m very busy. Accommodating your inquiry has interfered with today’s schedule.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. Somebody interfered with the rest of Alva Quirk’s life. Have a seat. Or we’ll arrange for you to take one in an interview room at Central.”

  “What for?”

  “Let me give you a heads-up. Lying to a police officer during an official investigation can land you in all sorts of … difficulties. So you’re going to want to be careful when you answer my first question because my partner and I are very good at what we do. It’ll be a snap for us to determine if you lie, and if you lie, difficulties. A lot of them.”

  Eve looked straight into those reptilian eyes. “Do you have access codes to Singer’s Hudson Yards project?”

  The way Zelda looked at her, Eve half expected to watch the woman’s tongue—forked, of course—lash out from between her lips.

  “As his admin for the past seven years, I manage Mr. Singer’s codes, passwords, swipes—which are routinely changed every two weeks for security purposes.”

  “That’s a yes. Have a seat, and start off by explaining why you didn’t put your name on the list of those who had access.”

  “Because it didn’t apply.”

  Eve could tell the woman wanted to remain standing in a show of defiance and personal power, but she finally sat.

  “I manage his security codes, seeing that they rotate, that he has them. I don’t use them unless he specifically requests that I do.”

  “Has he ever specifically requested that you access the gates at the project in question?”

  “No, he has not, and I have not.”

  “When’s the last time you were at that location?”

  “I accompanied Mr. Singer to that particular site in March.”

  Zelda turned her wrist, tapped at her wrist unit. “March fourteenth, from nine to nine-forty-five A.M. While I do occasionally accompany Mr. Singer to sites if he has need of me, it’
s more usual for me to work out of this building or from my own home.”

  “You haven’t been at that location since March fourteenth?”

  “I have not. Now, is that all?”

  Eve glanced over at Peabody, spoke pleasantly. “Hey, Peabody, do you think that’s all?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. We’re just going to have to interfere with today’s schedule a little bit longer.” Peabody held out her PPC, and the ID shot of Alva Quirk.

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “No.” Something changed in her eyes. “No,” she repeated.

  “Difficulties,” Eve said. “Lots of them.”

  “I don’t know her. But…” Shifting, she looked closer at the photo. “I saw her. I think … She gave me an origami flower.”

  “When and where?”

  “On that day, on March fourteenth. Bolton—Mr. Singer—wanted to see that the security around the buildings to be demoed went up properly. He’d delayed that until as close as he could to warmer weather. The buildings weren’t safe, but there were squatters, and he worried they’d have nowhere to go over the winter. He’s a good man. He delayed locking that area down as long as he could.”

  “She was at the site. You and Mr. Singer saw her, spoke to her?”

  “No, she was down on the sidewalk. I don’t think he saw her. It was cold, and had started to sleet. He insisted I go down, wait in the car while he finished up. He gave me some busywork to do to override my objections. I saw her when I went back down, and yes, used his access code to unlock the security gate we had in place until the area, the unstable buildings were fully secured.”

  “You spoke to her.”

  “She was by the gate, and she said we were locking people out, and some people lived up there. I started to just go by her, but she got in front of me. She had this book and a pencil. She said she would have to report me for locking people out because some of them had nowhere else to go.”

  Back ruler straight, Zelda folded her hands.

  “Frankly, I didn’t want Mr. Singer to come down and have to deal with her. He already felt considerable guilt about displacing the squatters. I just told her the buildings weren’t safe, they were dangerous, and my boss needed to fix them, to make them safe so no one got hurt. He’d feel responsible if someone got hurt. And, again frankly, if that didn’t work, I intended to call the police and have her moved along.”

  “Did it work?”

  “She smiled at me, as I recall, and said that was different. That was being a good citizen. She gave me the paper flower, thanked me, and walked away. She’s the one who was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never saw her again. I haven’t been back to the site since then.”

  “What did her book look like?”

  “I don’t really recall.”

  “Like a diary? A kid’s diary—the paper kind?”

  “No.” Zelda narrowed her eyes, frowned. “No, not like that. It was more … ah, like an autograph book. Like books celebrity watchers carry around to get signatures. Like that, I think.”

  “Okay. Can you give us your whereabouts from midnight to two A.M. this morning?”

  “God, this is absurd. It’s intrusive.”

  “It’s routine. Somebody killed her and tossed her in a dumpster like she was garbage. You can deal with some intrusion.”

  “I had a date,” Zelda snapped. “I’m divorced, which if you’re even marginally efficient you’d know by this time. I’ve been divorced for three years, I have no children. I had a date with a man I’ve seen twice before. We went to dinner, to a club to hear some music. And … we’re unencumbered adults.”

  “What time did he leave your place, or you his?”

  The faintest, the very faintest of a flush rose up on Zelda’s cheeks. “He left just after seven this morning.”

  “Okay, we’ll need the details. Where you had dinner, what club, his name.”

  Zelda stared straight ahead as she reeled off the data.

  “Just to wrap this up, we are marginally efficient, so we know you’ve worked for this company for thirty years.”

  “I came on as an entry-level secretarial assistant right out of business school in 2031.”

  “How did you work up to your current position with the top boss?”

  She aimed a withering look at Eve. “I’m good at what I do, and received regular promotions. I was assistant to Ms. Elinor Singer’s admin for four years before she formally retired, then I served as Mr. J. B. Singer’s admin’s assistant for five years before Mr. Bolton Singer, who was at that time vice president, operations, asked me to serve as his admin. I remained in that position when Mr. Bolton Singer took over as CEO.”

  “Did you work on anything related to the Hudson South-West project?”

  Her brow furrowed again. “Yes. The Singers divested themselves of much of that property before I joined the firm, or certainly shortly thereafter. And in my position at that time, I wouldn’t have had any part in the larger projects. But I did assist Mr. Singer—Mr. Bolton Singer—with the sale of the remainder of that property to Roarke Industries two years ago.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

  She didn’t march out, but she did sort of sail. Eve had to give her credit for it.

  “We’ll verify her alibi, but that’s going to check out. I wonder where Alva kept all her old books.”

  “Backpack?”

  “Depends on how many she had, doesn’t it? Something to ponder. Have Terry send in the next.”

  4

  Once she’d finished with the available interviewees, Eve considered those remaining on the list.

  “See how many of the others we can get to come into Central, and juggle them in.”

  She got into her car for the drive to the morgue.

  “We can split those up, and hit any remaining at home or on a job site.” She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she braked at a light. A river of pedestrians flooded across the intersection.

  New Yorkers doing the fast-clip dodge and weave; tourists doing the neck-craning goggle shuffle.

  Everybody had somewhere to go, she thought. Where had Alva gone? A couple of shelters, maybe Sidewalk City, her little nest in Hudson Yards.

  But like everybody had somewhere to go, everybody started somewhere else.

  Where had Alva started?

  While Peabody worked her ’link setting up more interviews, Eve used her in-dash.

  “Search all state records for any and all data on Alva Quirk, female, Caucasian, age forty-six, New York City ID on record in 2048 through 2052, no fixed address, no employment listed.”

  Acknowledged. Working …

  It continued to work as she threaded through traffic, parked again. She transferred the search to her PPC.

  “I’ve got the electrician, the IT team—three have access,” Peabody told her. “I couldn’t tag the head plumber, but I got the foreman on the job site he’s working now, and she said she’d have him contact me once he’s freed up. That’s as far as I got.”

  Eve considered as they started down the white tunnel. “Find a place, stay on this. I’ll take Morris and the victim.”

  “Works for me.”

  Eve kept walking, her bootsteps echoing. The lemon-scented chemicals, the air filtration, never quite defeated the underlying scent of death. She wondered why she found visits to the morgue less fraught than stops at hospitals and health centers.

  She pushed through the double doors of Chief Medical Examiner Morris’s autopsy suite to find him wrist-deep in Alva Quirk’s open chest cavity. On his music system, a throaty female voice sang about long, sweet goodbyes.

  “I’m a bit delayed on your victim,” he told her.

  “It’s no problem. I appreciate you getting to her this fast. Do you want me to step out? Or come back?”

  “No need. Why don’t you get yourself a cold drink?”

  It reminded her she’d yet to crack the tube of Pepsi from her car, so she went
to his friggie, got a fresh one.

  As she cracked it, he continued to work.

  He wore a suit under his protective cape. She supposed the color was lavender or orchid or whatever they decided to call that palest of pale shades of purple. His shirt bumped that hue up a few more shades, and the precisely knotted tie took it back down again.

  He’d braided his midnight-black hair into three sections, then braided those into one, using both shades in the cording. She supposed, like his musical talents, he considered the various ways he styled his hair a creative outlet.

  “Do you know how long she was on the streets?” Morris asked her.

  “Not yet. Working on that, but at a guess, at least ten or twelve years.”

  He glanced up, his eyes dark and exotic behind his safety goggles. “She was in remarkably good health considering that length of time. I’d say the fact I’ve found no signs of illegals or alcohol abuse factors into that. She’s a bit underweight, marginally malnourished, but I’d say she made use of free dental clinics and screenings. She never gave birth to a child.”

  He looked back down at Alva. “She took care of herself as best she could. She has a kind face.”

  “She passed out paper flowers and animals—made them out of litter. Folded up from flyers and other litter.”

  “Origami?”

  “Yeah, I guess. And she kept record books on people she spotted breaking the law—the rules. Jaywalkers, litterers, street thieves, and so on.”

  “A concerned citizen.”

  “That’s what the beat cops called her. I’m thinking that’s what got her skull caved in.”

  “Two strikes, and I agree with your on-site. A crowbar.”

  He switched to microgoggles, gestured for Eve to take a pair from his counter. “You see the indentations from the prongs, how the killer struck downward, then pried out and up. She wouldn’t have felt the second blow. She fell forward, bruising her knees as you see, her body rolling slightly before the second strike to the temple. No defensive wounds, no sexual assault.

  “But.”

  Eve frowned. “But?”

  “A dozen years or so on the street, you said.”

  “She’s got official data—bare minimum—on record from ’48 to ’52. A lot of sidewalk sleepers don’t update their IDs. It only gets updated if they get pulled in for something, or the shelter they use gets around to it.”