by J. D. Robb
Koby snickered. “Bone-deep habit. Our mama, she won’t allow hard language. We said something off when we were kids, we got all heck to pay. No screen time, or no ice cream if that was coming. We got older and slipped? A dollar for every word. You’re working and saving your money, you learn. Besides, no telling if she’d hear us where we stand now, even though she lives clear across town.”
“Mama’s got her ways,” Jamal agreed. “I was dogging him on the rent, I can’t forget that. I can’t forget how I walked right in there and saw him that way. How he got so down he hung himself.”
“We haven’t determined if he self-terminated.”
“But—”
“We’re investigating.”
“You think it was murder!” Now Koby got up. “That’s what you do. Murder.”
“She doesn’t kill people. She’s a police officer!”
“Jamal, you dumb-A. She’s the one from the vid, the one who solves murders and stuff. From that vid, The Icove Agenda.”
“The one with the clones and the murders and that scary business? I didn’t watch it,” Jamal told Eve. “I watch stuff like that, I don’t sleep right.”
“No problem.”
“He’s in it, too.” Koby grinned at Roarke. “The rich dude. I saw it twice. It’s a solid vid. You guys kick butt. So maybe somebody killed him and made it look like he did it himself?”
“We’re investigating,” Eve said again. She took out her PPC. “Have you seen this man around? Have you seen him with Mr. Delgato?”
Jamal shook his head. “I can’t say I have. But I’m not on the desk twenty-four/seven. We rotate, but even then. We got repairs and such, and we try to get to that right away. And you gotta turn the quick rooms. That’s why we have the bell. It’ll ping on the ’link of whoever’s on the shift. It’s mostly me, but not twenty-four/seven.”
“He looks mean,” Koby added as he studied Tovinski. “A mean white dude, but I don’t think I’ve seen him around.”
“I’d like to check with your cousins. You said you rotate.”
“Sure. Meesha and Leelo. I can tag them now. Meesha, she’s a nurse and works nights right now. Leelo, he’s an accountant. He keeps the books.”
“Let’s do that. And can you tell me when the hook in the ceiling of 2B was installed.”
“We never put that in there. I didn’t see it. Was there … I guess there was. I didn’t see, but we never did that to any of the rooms. Carmine must’ve.”
“Or the killer did,” Koby said. Darkly.
“Knock that off sideways,” his brother ordered. “I won’t sleep easy for a month.”
“Did Mr. Delgato ever have visitors?”
“He never came in with anybody. Nobody ever came in and asked for him. He was a sad story, miss, ma’am, officer.”
“Lieutenant,” Eve and Koby said together.
“Sorry. He was sad. His wife gave him the boot, and he said his kids were pissed at him. He worked hard, he said, and he liked to ah, de-stress—by playing the horses. His wife didn’t understand. He was a plumber, and he was a good one. I know because I had a toilet break, just bust, and he said he could get me a new one at cost and put it in and all. He did, and it’s a fine-looking john, too. Best we got. He said maybe I could take the cost of it off the rent, and the cost of the install, at a discount, off, too. That’s what we did.”
“I’d like to see that john.”
Jamal blinked at her. “You want to see the toilet?”
Koby elbowed him. “She’s investigating, numbnuts.”
She got the make and model and photo of the toilet, checked with the cousins—no help—and left to do the notification.
“Enterprising, entertaining, and interesting men, the Dell brothers,” Roarke commented. “I’ll wager their mother is a force.”
“I wonder how many dollars she ended up collecting from them over the years. This notification could be messy, especially if you hit the mark, and I think you did, about her still being in love with Delgato.”
“I expect it will be. And I expect, when you dig in, you’ll find that very fine toilet fell off a Singer supply truck—metaphorically.”
“Yeah, he was skimming, helping himself to supplies. And he was helping somebody else do that and more. Enough more it’s worth two dead bodies.”
Once she’d found a parking spot, and they’d walked a block and a half to the townhome, Eve paused again.
“If she gets sloppy, I need you to be Peabody again. You go soft.”
“All right.”
“You lean that way anyhow.”
As do you, he thought as they walked up to the door, or notifications wouldn’t be so hard.
Eve pressed the buzzer.
Angelina had shed her work suit for an oversize tee, leggings, and house skids. She sent Eve a molten glare.
“What now?”
“Could we come in and speak with you?”
“Why? Whatever Carmine’s done has nothing to do with me. You see this?” She tapped on the glass of white wine in her hand. “I’m about to drink this halfway decent glass of chardonnay as a reward for a long day, and have a little dinner and relax. Tell him if he needs bailing out to call his bookie.”
“Ms. Delgato, it’s important we speak with you.”
“Then freaking speak so I can drink my damn wine.”
“It would be better if we came in.”
“Oh for—” She broke off with a hiss, but waved her free arm as she stepped back. “Fine, you’re in.”
“Could we sit down?”
Angelina arched her eyebrows. “Want some hors d’oeuvres while we’re chatting?”
“We’ll try not to keep you long. If we could sit down for a moment.”
She turned on her heel, marched into the sunny living area with the furnishings done in rich corals and tropical blues. She dropped into a chair, waved again at the sofa and its army of fussy pillows.
“Sit, say it. It took me over twenty-five years to accept Carmine wasn’t ever going to change and shut him out of my life. And that’s what I’m going to do the minute you’re out the door again.”
“Ms. Delgato, I regret to inform you Carmine Delgato is dead.”
Angelina froze with the wineglass halfway to her mouth. “What are you talking about? You’re not even real cops, are you? This is one of his ploys to get me to take him back, and it’s just sick.” She lurched to her feet. “Get out.”
“Ms. Delgato. I’m Lieutenant Dallas with the NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “You can contact Cop Central and verify my badge number. I know this is difficult, but you’re Mr. Delgato’s next of kin, and it’s my duty to inform you.”
“Why did you come here before if you’re saying he’s dead?”
“We were unaware Mr. Delgato had moved from this address, and wanted to interview him regarding an investigation. When we reached his current address, he did not answer the door, and the building super allowed us entry. Upon entry we found Mr. Delgato hanging from a rope in his apartment.”
“You’re saying he hanged himself?” Her face went dead white, then instantly, furiously red. “I know you’re lying! Carmine would never commit suicide.”
“I didn’t state he had.”
“You just said…” Now, breath hitching, Angelina lowered slowly into the chair. “You’re saying somebody killed him?”
“We haven’t determined self-termination or homicide.”
Angelina closed her eyes, held up a hand to stop Eve from continuing. After an obvious struggle for composure, she opened her eyes. She drank half the wine in one gulp, then set the glass aside. Her eyes shined, but the tears didn’t fall.
“I can determine it. I knew Carmine half my damn life. He’d never kill himself.”
“Why?”
“Because he’d never have what he wanted if he’s dead. Do you think this is the first time I booted him? It’s not. I always caved and took him back. What he didn’t get, would never get, is this time I mea
nt it. I was done. He was never going to change, he’d never keep his promises. But he lived in a place where we’d just circle back, he’d come home, we’d try it all again. He loved me, okay? He loved me, and God knows I loved him. But he loved the horses more. He loved the thrill of betting, of winning, even the punch of losing. Because next time—always a next time with Carmine. No next time when you’re dead.”
She closed her eyes again, held up a hand again. This time a tear slipped down each cheek. “And hanging himself? Not in a million years.”
“Do you know anyone who’d want to harm him?”
She let out a sharp laugh, inhaled a sob. “I told you before, didn’t I, he’d get the snot beat out of him now and then. A good ten years ago—after I took him back again—I took control of the money in this household. He got an allowance. That was the deal, one he tried and tried to weasel out of, but I held firm.”
She picked up the wine for another, smaller sip.
“A few years later, we go around again. This time I have the house account, but I open my own personal account, I put the investments and this house in my name. Just mine, all of it. That was what he agreed to five years ago to come back. So he’d find people to float him loans. Sometimes he won, plenty he didn’t. He’d work side jobs to pay them off, but he got smacked around if he didn’t pay them off fast enough.
“He denied all that, but I knew.”
“Do you have names?”
She shook her head. Her hand trembled a little as she picked up the wineglass again. “I know his bookie’s name’s Ralph, but I never met him.”
“Has anyone else come here looking for him since you separated?”
She shook her head again. “No one ever came around here. He’d meet them at one of his OTB places, or the track. Or, I don’t know, but he knew if that type came around here, it was over.”
“He didn’t have a computer in his apartment. Did he have a home office here?”
“No. I kept the books, paid the bills. I ran the house. And I kept my office door locked.” Two more tears spilled out. “I knew I had to break that cycle, for good. You can’t live a good life with a man you can’t trust not to steal from you.”
She pressed one hand to her mouth; in the other, the wineglass started to tip.
Roarke rose quickly, took it from her. “Ms. Delgato, could I get you a glass of water?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you. It’s—”
“I’ll find it. Would you like us to contact your children? Would you want your children here with you?”
Now she spread her fingers so her hand covered her face. And just nodded.
When Roarke slipped out, Angelina pressed that hand to her heart. “Where is he? I’m his wife. Whatever he did, I’m his wife. I need to see him.”
“He’s with the medical examiner. I’ll make arrangements for you to see him as soon as possible.”
“Because they have to … they have to … Oh God, Carmine.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I know this is difficult, but I need to ask a few more questions.”
“I don’t know who’d do this. Nobody gets paid if you’re dead. And he always paid the loans eventually. I’d tell you if I knew. I loved him. I couldn’t respect the son of a bitch. I couldn’t trust him, but I loved him. I couldn’t help it.”
“Was he a violent man?”
“Carmine?” She let out that laugh again. “Absolutely not. He was a liar. His addiction made him a liar, an asshole, and worse, but he was gentle and kind. I never knew him to raise his hand to anyone. He couldn’t even bring himself to give one of our kids a swat on the butt when they’d earned it.”
With her hand over her mouth again, she muffled a sob. “I loved that about him. I loved that sweet, kind, gentle part of him. Hardly ever raised his voice, even when I was shouting at him hard enough to blow the roof off. He didn’t have violence in him. No meanness in him. Just that terrible sickness that ate away at everything good.”
“You said you couldn’t trust him not to steal from you. Would he have stolen from someone else?”
“Not from someone who’d suffer for it, but if he thought, if he’d convinced himself they could afford it, or not miss it? Sure. Because he’d know, you see, he’d just know, that next bet, that next tip on a hot horse? It would bring the rain.”
When Roarke brought her water, she sipped it slowly. “I can’t do this anymore right now. I was rude to you, and I apologize, but—”
“Don’t. Don’t, it’s not necessary.” Eve got to her feet. “Is there anything else we can do for you? Anyone else you want us to contact?”
“No, no. I just want my kids.”
“I spoke with your oldest,” Roarke told her. “They’ll all be here as soon as possible.”
“I’m going to leave my card.” Eve dug for one. “If you think of anything, please contact me. We’ll let you know when you can see him. We’ll see ourselves out.”
8
When they got back to the car, Roarke laid his hands on Eve’s shoulders. “Would you like me to drive?”
“No, I’ve got it. I still want to talk to Singer.” But when they got in, she sat a moment. “It would have been easier, I think, if she’d lost it, just fallen apart, than watching her fight to maintain.”
She drew in, let out a breath. “Anyway. She was helpful. Here’s what I think.”
“Shall I tell you what you think?”
She shot him a look, then bulled out into traffic. “Okay, smart guy, what do I think?”
“You’re thinking Delgato didn’t kill Alva Quirk, but most likely witnessed the murder. Witnessed it because he was stealing from his employer. Or for his employer—that’s to be determined. But stealing, you believe he was, and the one with him—one he was stealing for or who helped him steal—killed her.”
“I might be thinking that. As a possible theory.”
“And taking it to the next step, you’re thinking whoever killed Alva Quirk let himself in Delgato’s window, set up what would look like a suicide by hanging, and disposed of the witness.”
“You may not have known me half your life, but that’s a pretty good take on my current thinking.”
“Who says we didn’t know each other for half, and more, of another life?”
“Irish woo-woo.” But she didn’t object when he gave her hand a squeeze.
“So for this next part,” she continued, punching it to get through a yellow light, “you’ll stick with being Roarke.”
“Excellent. I know that role well.”
“Singer comes across as a decent sort, but that’s not to say he isn’t siphoning from the family business, and using a longtime employee with a gambling habit to help. Singer wanted to be a rocker, and he had to give that up to go into the family business. Could be he resents that and figures he’s entitled to take what he wants.”
“Scars and scabs from shattered dreams.” Roarke considered. “If so, as CEO, he could find ways to conceal taking what he pleases.”
“And if so, he’d have to have somewhere to put it. Hidden accounts. Or like spending it on a stolen Monet.”
“A very fine way to wash ill-gotten funds.”
“You’d know, so that’s something we’ll look into later. For now, I definitely want your take on Singer—and the family if they’re around.”
“I expect that fine dining and good bottle of red as my reward.”
“Sounds fair.”
“Perhaps I sold myself too cheap.”
That earned a smirk. “That’ll be the day.”
The Bolton Singers had a double townhome on the Upper East Side, all rosy red brick and shining windows. It sat on a quiet, tree-lined street where Eve figured the nannies and dog walkers strolled the sidewalks with their charges more than their employers did.
Indeed, as she studied the house, a long-legged girl in a DOG’S BEST FRIEND T-shirt strolled by with a couple of dogs—more like mops with feet—on leashes.
Eve noted that
the main entrance, and the door that led to a small grassy area boxed in with flowers and fencing, had cams and palm plates.
She chose the main with its glossy wooden door and pushed the buzzer.
She expected the usual computer inquiry. Instead the door swung open almost immediately.
Youngest son, Eve decided, as he looked early twenties and had his father’s eyes. His hair, glossy and brown as the door, curled over his ears and collar in studied disarray.
He had a lean build in worn jeans and tee that asked: SAYS WHO?
Music pumped out of the house as he shot them a dazzling smile.
“Hey, hi. Thought you were Clem.”
“No.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and Roarke, consultant.”
His mouth dropped open for an instant, then he shot a finger at both of them. “Yeah, you are! Frosted! I saw the vid like three times, man. Clones. Up and out! We don’t have any here, except I’ve always wondered about Layla. My sister.”
“We’re here to speak with your father, if possible.”
“Guess it is. We’re back there for an after-dinner jam. Clem’s supposed to drop by.” He gestured them in. “So, come on back.”
The house had the feel of a family home, a wealthy one, sure, but lived-in. A lot of space, a lot of quiet colors with slashes of bolder ones. He led them through a sun-splashed living room where matted and framed family photos made up a gallery wall, through another space with a long bar and a fireplace tiled in a cheerful pattern that made her think of Italy.
The music gained volume—drums, a piano, maybe a guitar, something with enough bass to pump against the walls, and a lot of voices.
The tableau in the next room struck as cheerful as the fireplace.
A woman—that would be Lilith Singer, wife—banging it out on the piano, another—middle to late twenties, likely the older daughter, Harmony—beating a serious riff on a set of drums, another man—maybe thirty—standing hipshot as he worked the bass guitar.
Another female with blond-streaked hair curling halfway down her back executed a complicated and complementary series of notes on an electric keyboard.
And Bolton Singer—in jeans as worn as his youngest’s—rocking it on a guitar and grinning at a toddler about Bella’s age, to Eve’s eye, who danced around with her—maybe his—arms waving.
