Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “My murder,” she corrected. “Alexei Tovinski. You don’t know him.”

  “Not his face, no, but the name sounds familiar. How are you linking him to the murder?”

  “On that side, pure speculation. He’s a relation and employee of Yuri Bardov—Bardov Construction.”

  “Ah yes, Bardov. What you’d call a shady sort of character.”

  “Would I?”

  “You would, yes.” He took out the bowls, handed her one. “A great many of the flops and tenements thrown up post-Urbans are Bardov Construction. He very likely bought the properties, or won the bids by intimidation, bribery, or other means. Just as he’d done prior and during the Urbans. I’ve purchased a few from him over the last decade or so. He tends to divest when the buildings are on the edge of falling down—or condemned. As he has considerable—you could say influence—in some areas of city government, many that should be condemned aren’t. Until after the sale.”

  “Do you know if he ever had a part in your property in Hudson Yards?”

  “Not overtly, not that I’ve seen. I’ll look closer. But he often, so it’s said, keeps any interest quiet and off record. Make a loan, you see, but off the books. Pull in a tidy profit—or call in an enforcer to persuade the borrower to cough up the vig—or perhaps renegotiate at a higher rate, or take a share of the property itself as payment. His ties to the Russian Mafia are well-known. He likes it that way. It makes him more formidable.”

  “Why would Singer partner with him?”

  “Ah well, cash flow’s always a sticky point, and Bardov has deep pockets.”

  Money always rang a murder bell. “Hold on. Does Singer have cash flow issues? You’d know,” she said before he could answer. “You bought the property from Singer, so you know, because if they were in a squeeze, you could use that to squeeze them down on the terms.”

  He ate some pasta, took his time. “And if they have cash flow issues, as you put it, you’d chalk that up on the motive end of the scoreboard. What I can tell you is Singer’s cash flow, their bottom line, and their profit margins have steadied up in the last few years.”

  “Because?”

  “Better management, top down. A more careful eye on cost overruns, on waste. And the sale of non-profitable properties such as the one I bought two years ago.”

  She frowned up at the crime scene pictures on her board. “If it wasn’t profitable, why did you buy it?”

  “For one, I was able to buy the whole of it, the plot that had been sold, and sold again, and the section Singer held on to. And that increased the development and profit potential. Bolton Singer, wisely in my opinion, calculated they were already deeply invested in their River View development, would stretch their resources too thin if they attempted to finance yet another major job—particularly when the bulk of the site belonged to someone else.”

  “Okay, so sell that, use that take to plow into the other project.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they’re still partnering with Bardov on the River View project.”

  “I expect the ties there have been in place for some time, and may be difficult to untangle. In any case, Bardov’s well established in New York, and parts of New Jersey. He has his own suppliers, at least for some essential materials.”

  “How about substandard materials?”

  “I can attest he used them post-Urbans, but then so did many. The push was to get people under a roof, to bring the city back. It was much the same in Dublin when I was a boy, and everywhere, I’d say, the wars hit hard.

  “Eat.”

  “Right.” She scooped up some pasta, and realized she needed it when it hit her empty stomach. “I have a wit who saw this Tovinski on the Singer site a couple of times, and says the word is Bardov was supposed to be silent partners, and Singer was using their own engineers. That’s what Tovinski’s supposed to be. She also saw a couple of Bardov’s people getting into it—verbally—with some of the subcontractors. She said Tovinski pads invoices—or cuts the quality of materials ordered.”

  Like Eve, Roarke studied the board, and wondered as he often did what she saw that he didn’t.

  “An easy way to pocket a bit—or more—on a job. I don’t know this particular man, but I can say in the last decade or so, Bardov’s divesting some of his … we’ll call them sidelines.”

  “Such as?”

  “Weapons, ID theft. He had more global interests in such things well back. Back when I was very young. The old man had dealings with them.”

  More bells rang. A cacophony of bells. “Patrick Roarke had connections to Bardov?”

  “Back in the day,” Roarke repeated. “He’d have been very low-level, so I doubt Bardov even knew his name. And nothing I can see would thread through to all of this.”

  “But they had connections?”

  “My word was dealings, which is entirely different.” He reached over, trailed a fingertip down the dent in her chin. “The old man was always looking for an angle, and Bardov’s interests at that time were more global. As I said, long ago, and I was very young. It wasn’t the building trade, as even the shoddy sort requires real work, and the old man was more interested in breaking legs and thieving.”

  That calmed the bells.

  “You’ve never met him? Yuri Bardov?”

  “I haven’t, no. My sense would be Bardov Construction was, for the most part, a front for those sidelines. And in the last fifteen or so years, it’s less a front and more an actual business. Remodeling and the suburbs are more the target these days. It’s a smallish company as compared to Singer’s.”

  “Or yours.”

  “Or mine.”

  She looked back at the board. “But they have an interest in this particular urban development. Makes me wonder why.”

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll find out.”

  “What do you know about J. Bolton Singer? I haven’t run him yet.”

  “Not a great deal, though I’ve met his wife a few times. Her Open Hearts Foundation does good work.”

  “‘Not a great deal’ means you know some.”

  He sighed a little. “Relentless, you are. All right then, if the historical gossip is valid, he stood as more of a figurehead and his mother ran things after his father’s death, and continued well into his tenure as well.”

  “I wondered about that. So his mother still ran the show?”

  Roarke shrugged. “From what I know, or heard, that suited J.B. quite well. His father, I’m told, was canny and clever and knew the business from the digging of footers and up. His own father had him work as a laborer, so he learned how to build.”

  “And generation three?”

  “J. B. Singer, so it’s said, was born into wealth and privilege and liked it very well. Squandered quite a bit of what he had, and was bailed out by his parents more than once when a deal went south. Preferred the, well, you know, the swanning about, and the talking of big deals—and making poor ones, or running them into the ground. So his mother kept the reins while indulging him.”

  “Indulging him into cash flow problems, and partnerships with Russian gangsters?”

  Roarke lifted his shoulders. “This is, as I said, talk and gossip. I’ve never met the man.”

  “It’s interesting talk and gossip. If you keep making poor deals, swanning, running things into the ground, money starts to be an issue, right?”

  “One would think.”

  “And one might have to bring in a shady partner or two to keep things going.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “Enter Bardov.”

  “Deep pockets there.”

  “Filled with ill-gotten gains.”

  Still eating, she walked around her board. The yesterday, the today.

  “Mother and son would have been in charge of Singer, most likely, when the old murder went down. Cash flow issues, Urban War delays. An outside loan, a silent partner, might’ve seemed just the thing. I’d like to see those records.”

  “At
that point in time, there might not be any but what I’ve dug up already, and what there are doesn’t—officially—include such partnerships.”

  “I’d like to see them anyway.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll warn you going as far back as you’re thinking, they’re likely spotty at best.”

  It pulled at her, fascinated her. But …

  “Don’t worry about it now. I’ve got to focus on the front of the board—and if any connections to the back turn up, I’ll use them.”

  “Such as Tovinski.”

  She studied the eyes in the photo. A killer’s eyes. “Exactly as.”

  “I’ll dig into Alva Quirk’s ID wash as soon as I can settle in to work on it. I can tell you, from the quick look I managed, a wash is what it was. She either knew what she was about or had some help with it, as it’s very clean.”

  Eve turned away from the board and back to him. “You’ll find the rest, no matter how well she washed it.”

  “I will, given time and some focus. Well then, since we’ve had our working lunch, I’ll leave you to it.” But he stepped back again, to look at the back of Eve’s board. “She might have family who never knew what happened to her, or the child inside her.”

  “I know it. I have to zero in on Alva Quirk, but I won’t forget her.”

  “And I know that.” He stepped over, rested his hands on her shoulders, his brow on hers. “Part of me thinks she’s been waiting for us.”

  “That’s the Irish talking.”

  “It may be, but I feel it nonetheless. Waiting for me to buy that property, waiting for you to be all but on the spot when they found her. What do you say about coincidences, Lieutenant?”

  “They’re bollocks.”

  “There you have it.” He touched his lips to hers. “So she waited for us. And can wait a bit longer knowing we’ll take care of her now.”

  He flicked a fingertip down the shallow dent in her chin again. “Let me know when you’re heading for home, and I’ll catch a ride with you.”

  “I will, but I may be out in the field.”

  “If you are, I’ll find my own way home. And to you.”

  He would, she thought. They always found their way back.

  And maybe, Irish woo-woo or not, he had a point. The woman who’d lived and died so long before had found her way to them.

  She sat down, began to write up everything he’d told her before she did her own searches and runs to verify what she could.

  Because talk and gossip or not, it all clicked right into what made sense.

  6

  Eve ran J. Bolton Singer, and to her mind verified at least some of Roarke’s talk and gossip. He’d graduated from the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, got his degree—but his official data listed nothing outstanding there.

  The society pages she threaded through her search gave her a picture of a rich man’s son who liked to travel, to party, to sail, to golf.

  Lots of different lovelies on his arm, she noted, in his youth. Then a big, fancy splash of a society wedding to a Marvinia Kincade—one of the three daughters and heirs of the Kincade fortune. Candy makers, founders of Sweet Treats.

  Damn good candy, she thought, and reminded herself to check her office stash to make sure it remained hidden from the nefarious Candy Thief.

  One and only marriage, which produced one child, Bolton Kincade Singer.

  She shifted to a quick look at the wife—summa cum laude at William & Mary, worked briefly for her family business in PR. Stepped out upon the birth of her son. Founder of Open Hearts, a nonprofit centering on children and families in need.

  And apparently put in the money, time, and energy.

  Eve noted her son currently served on the advisory board.

  She found no criminal on J. Bolton Singer, but did find reports in business news articles of failed enterprises, and interviews with him touting major deals that either never came about or went under.

  The Hudson Yards project—which had at the time included the property Roarke now owned—was one of them.

  She dug there, sifting through the business jargon to find the gold. Big loans, big plans, high stakes. The tower was his shining star.

  Then the Urbans turned the city into a war zone. Construction stopped or slowed to a crawl. But she’d bet the interest on those loans continued to pile up.

  He still talked a good game, she noted when she skimmed interviews. Singer’s rock-solid foundations, their vision for the future, blah blah.

  She found a snippet about Elinor B. Singer selling thirty-three acres in the Hudson Valley as the Urbans ran down. The buyer? Eve sat back, shot the board a satisfied look.

  “Bardov. It goes back at least that far then, the connection.”

  Had to be a major infusion of cash. Then another when she sold the Park Avenue mansion to Yuri Bardov.

  Since coincidences were bollocks, she didn’t see a coincidence when Singer started up construction in Hudson Yards again.

  New bold plans. Quick, efficient, affordable housing, restaurants, and shops. An urban rebirth.

  Substandard, the job boss—and Roarke—had concurred. Built fast and cheap and never to last.

  Then sold the part of the South-West project—still not fully completed—less than ten years later.

  Took the money and ran, she concluded.

  But kept the section of that property where a body lay walled in a cellar.

  She pushed up, paced.

  Risky to sell if you knew about a murder, about a body decomposing behind a brick wall. Why risk that?

  But then, more recently, they had. If they had any part in the murder, why risk it now?

  Something to chew on once she got DeWinter’s conclusions.

  Singer kept the other property, had the grand tower—flanked it with lesser builds, some apartments, some offices, some shops. But that left a good portion undeveloped.

  Ran out of money again? Lost interest? Other projects took priority?

  She paced to the window and back, thinking, speculating, and paused when she heard Peabody’s boots clomp.

  “You’re J. Bolton Singer,” Eve began when Peabody came to the door. “Rich kid. Stupidly rich kid with family money on both sides.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re being groomed to take over the family business—the Singer business. You like to play, you like to party, you like pretty girls.”

  “Sounds normal.”

  “You get into a fancy college—big deal college. Probably had some help there as in family grants. Greasing palms maybe. But you played and partied around the globe on your breaks, and got the degree.

  “Nothing I found shows he learned the business from the ground up like his father. And most of what I found indicates he was a fuckup. Losing money on bad deals, buildings that went unfinished or cost more than they were worth. But the parents bail you out. Besides, you marry a rich girl—one with smarts, one who, at least on the surface, has a social conscience, and you produce a son. Yay, another Singer, the next generation.”

  “That would be the current one.”

  “Right, but when the current one’s still a kid, the Urbans happen. They happen after you secured great big fat loans for your massive projects in Hudson Yards. And your signature tower you want to loom over the city.”

  Peabody tried a bright smile. “Can somebody as rich and important as me get a cup of coffee?”

  Eve jerked a thumb toward her AutoChef.

  “Now you’ve got a wife, a kid, a business, and people are blowing up buildings, occupying them, camping in the street, and your business can’t function at capacity—or close to it—and you’ve got those great big fat outstanding loans.”

  Knowing her partner, Peabody handed Eve a mug of black coffee and took her own. “Interest piling up. Hard to collect rents from a burned-out building, or from a tenant who’s armed, or from squatters with ball bats and pipes.”

  “Cash flow dries up,” Eve agre
ed. “They had a fancy place on Park Avenue, and a thirty-six-room mansion in the Hudson Valley and a whole lot of acreage. J. Bolton’s mother, Elinor—who actually ran the show—sold off more than half that acreage. To Yuri Bardov.”

  “Well.” Over her coffee, Peabody studied the board. “That gets an aha.”

  “He built some summer cottages—and another big mansion for himself. He still owns them. Singer has a property management department. They handle rentals on the cottages. She also sold Park Avenue—Yuri Bardov.”

  “More aha. We’ve got a long-term connection.”

  “We do. With a company with reputed ties to the Russian mob—and Tovinski’s rumored to be an enforcer.”

  “Bad company.”

  “Meanwhile the new generation has no interest—so he told us—in running the company. He wants to rock it. He focuses on music in college—stays out of New York and the business to give this a try. Doesn’t appear—from what I’ve found—to be the party animal his father was.”

  “He was good, too. I was curious,” Peabody added. “I dug up a couple short vids of him performing. Really strong voice—made for ballads. Solid talent on the guitar and piano—he played one in each of the vids I watched.”

  Shrugging, Peabody eased a hip down on Eve’s desk. “It’s a hard road, though, especially if you’re trying to live on what you make at it at the start, and you don’t have pro management and some support.”

  “He got tired of living on the edge,” Eve concluded, “came home, invested himself in the business. And, according to at least one of his contractors, isn’t stupid about it. So how much does he know about people like Tovinski?”

  “Looks like we need to have another conversation.”

  “Sure as hell does. Check and see if he’s still in his office.”

  Peabody took out her ’link as Eve turned back to the board.

  “First generation starts it up,” Eve murmured. “Second digs in and expands it, grows it. Third generation fucks it up. What does the next in line do?”

  “When do you expect him to be out of the meeting?”

  At Peabody’s words, Eve turned back. “Is that Diller?”