Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Eve looked down into her coffee. “It was the baby crying at the end. It was creepy, and sad.”

  She blew out a breath, finished the coffee. “Anyway, I need to grab a shower and get started.”

  “Eve,” he said as she started toward the bathroom. “You started the minute you saw the remains. The minute they became yours.”

  “So did you.”

  So had he, she thought again as she stepped into the shower. That formed a united front. Whoever had killed, no matter how long ago, would pay. Because they’d never beat that united front.

  She let the hot jets pummel the dream out of her, and used her shower time to line up the most efficient order for her day.

  When she came out, Roarke sat on the sofa, the wall screen scrolling indecipherable stock reports while he studied his PPC.

  The cat sprawled next to him, probably trying to soften Roarke up so he got a shot at whatever was under the warming domes on the table.

  Not a chance.

  To prove it, Roarke gave Galahad a nudge. “Off you go. You’ve had your breakfast.”

  The cat slid down, strolled a few feet away before sitting down to wash. But Eve noted he still had one bicolored eye on the domes.

  When Roarke removed them, Eve sat down to a golden omelet, hash browns, and fat berries.

  Suspecting spinach hid inside the eggs, she took a careful forkful. Her day started out on an up note when she found nothing but cheese and chunks of ham.

  “Good deal.”

  “I thought you’d earned one.”

  “I bet you’ve got a full plate today—besides this one.”

  “It’s an expansive menu. You don’t ask me if I’ve dug up any more on Tovinski because you don’t want to add to it.”

  “You gave me plenty already. I’m going to enjoy sweating him today.”

  “I’ll be sorry to miss that. But the overnight did unearth a few more interesting nuggets.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Like transactions into those hidden accounts I told you about. Amounts the search tracked back to the sources, in most cases. The bulk, as one would expect, come from his employer, or investments. Some from his employer are generous—bonuses. But interestingly, in the past thirty-six to forty months or more, there have been others, and in the past eighteen to twenty-four, those amounts have increased. Considerably.”

  “Others—like individuals? Repeat amounts? Like blackmail?”

  “No, though he’d likely insist on cash for an endeavor like that. Individuals, yes, and they repeat, but not the amounts. I’d say the amounts depend on how much material Tovinski can siphon off, or what percentage he charges to switch top grade with cheaper.”

  “From the Singer project?”

  Roarke spread a bit of jam on toast, passed it to Eve.

  “Oh, from their Hudson Yards project most definitely. But not only, and not only with projects where Bardov is partnering with Singer. Averaging amounts over these last two years? Tovinski’s adding about forty-five thousand a month to his income with his side deals.”

  “Forty-five,” Eve repeated. “A month?”

  “For the last couple years, yes. It started off smaller—eight to ten thousand—but it’s grown. And I’d say more, as some would be cash deals. The old fell-off-the-truck sort of thing.”

  Roarke ate some omelet. “I doubt his uncle will be pleased to find out the boy he took under his wing is cheating him.”

  “He could be following Bardov’s orders.”

  Shaking his head, Roarke lifted his coffee. “I rolled it back to study a few invoices—spot checks, if you will—and the outlay from Bardov’s company, accounts received from certain vendors. A jump from there to the individuals who work for or own the companies—then had a quick glance at Tovinski’s books—which, again, he didn’t hide very well. Not well at all.”

  “How did you get into all of that? Invoices aren’t just laid out there, not without a court order and—”

  “Trade secret,” he said easily. “You can’t use the details of what I’ve found, of course, but it should be easy enough for a clever woman such as yourself to…”

  He gestured with his own slice of toast. “Intimate. To, if it helps your cause, give Yuri Bardov a reason to take a look himself. Or to simply make Tovinski sweat harder.”

  The united front, she realized, already had some cracks along the fault line.

  Damn it.

  “You weren’t authorized to do all that.”

  “Oh dear.” Taking a bite of toast, Roarke looked at Galahad. “She’s going to scold me now.”

  “Hacking into a competitor’s books to pull up invoices—”

  “Do you see Bardov Construction as my competitor?” He sighed a long, exaggerated sigh. “Well now, that stings a bit.”

  “Screw that.” Part of her wanted to punch him for tantalizing her with data she had no business knowing. “The information’s tainted, as it was accessed illegally.”

  “Technically illegal,” he agreed.

  Now she wanted to punch him and pull her own hair out. “Bullshit on your ‘technically.’”

  “It’s as innate for you, Lieutenant, to hold that legal line as it is for me to slip a toe over it. Then again, one could argue, if one must, I … stumbled upon some of the information while conducting an authorized search.”

  “Stumble, my ass. When it comes to cyber shit, you wouldn’t stumble if somebody shoved you over a trip wire.”

  “That’s sweet of you. We’ll say one thing led to another.”

  She started to snap back, but he held up a hand for peace.

  “What I would have told you, through those authorized means, is Tovinski’s outlay and expenses far exceed his recorded and legitimate income. Being a clever woman and an experienced investigator, you would wonder where that additional—and considerable—income comes from. I expect you would see about that court order and a forensic accountant.”

  She ate in silence for a moment because that’s exactly what she’d have done. Would do. “You could have kept it at that. Damn it, Roarke, you could’ve stopped at that. Should have.”

  “You have me on the could. The should? It’s more problematic for me.” He looked at her then with eyes calm and clear. “I see a woman who’d escaped from years of beatings and abuse. Who overcame it. And died, brutally, because she never lost her need to do the right thing, to follow the rules.”

  He rubbed his hand over Eve’s. “So, more problematic for me, darling Eve.”

  Because you see me, Eve thought. And hadn’t she seen herself in Alva? How could she blame him for doing the same?

  “It’s not the same. We both know it’s not the same, what happened to her, what happened to me.”

  “And we both know there are disturbing echoes.”

  There would always be a few cracks along their line, she decided. It didn’t undermine the foundation. Love had pushed him over the line—this time—as much as his own insatiable curiosity.

  She couldn’t punch him for loving her. Even if part of her still wanted to.

  “Forty-five large a month?”

  “As I said, he started out with a few thousand here, a few there, and increased it. Last month, he skimmed just over forty-eight thousand.”

  “Got greedy, got sloppy.”

  “In this area, he was always sloppy.”

  “Bardov doesn’t know about the women and kids, not all of them anyway, or he’d know about the additional income to cover those expenses. Tovinski keeps banging babies into these women, keeps setting them up with houses and all that. He needs more money.

  “It takes balls or stupidity to cheat a man like Bardov.”

  “He may believe the family connection keeps him safe.” Roarke continued to eat. “It won’t. I’d have a care letting too much slip to Bardov until you have the nephew sewn up. Otherwise, you’re unlikely to find what’s left of the body.”

  “Being a trained investigator, I already figured t
hat.”

  “And so trained, you’ll use that to help push the truth about Alva Quirk and Carmine Delgato out of Tovinski. Being alive in a cage is far better than ending up in pieces and dumped in the Atlantic.

  “The sharks took the rest. Classic line,” he told her, “from a classic vid.”

  “I can work with this. But next time—” She cut herself off. “Forget it. Beating my head against the wall of you just gives me a headache.” She rose. “I’ll contact Reo on my way in, and work it.”

  Knowing the cat, Roarke covered the breakfast plates so Galahad couldn’t lick them clean. “I’ll do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get your clothes for the day. Your head’s already working out what to tell Reo.”

  “I can think and get clothes.”

  But he beat her into the closet. “We may get some rain, so you’ll want the topper, I’d say. Considering that.”

  He pulled out stone-gray pants, slim ones, with a strip of leather down the sides. Then a crisp, businessy, mannish white shirt—no frills.

  “As you’ll have a Russian gangster in your box if all goes your way, we’ll go for the vest.” Stone gray like the pants, with the back in leather.

  “I could’ve done that.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Stick with the monotone for the boots and belt—the white shirt keeps it fresh. You’ll look efficient, and with your weapon harness, intimidating.”

  “I am efficient and intimidating.”

  “Which is why you’ll wear the clothes. They won’t wear you.”

  Since it saved her time—and his choice hit simple—she didn’t argue.

  She heard the crash, recognized the sound of the dome hitting the floor.

  Roarke turned on his heel. “Bloody hell.”

  She snickered as she dressed and her efficient, intimidating, and brilliant husband rushed out to argue with a cat.

  Fifteen minutes later, with the cat banished, he walked with her to their adjoining offices.

  “Let me know if you decide to go to the Singer and Bardov estates. I’ll arrange for the jet-copter.”

  “I’ve been thinking I can drive it.”

  “Eve, the copter can get you there in ten minutes or less as opposed to the ninety you’d need to drive through traffic.”

  But it would be ninety minutes of annoyance and frustration against ten minutes of abject fear.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  When she’d put together a file bag, he took her by the shoulders. Kissed her.

  “Depending on the timing, I might be able to pilot you and Peabody myself.”

  “Can’t say yet, but I’ll let you know.” She kissed him back.

  “Do that. And take care of my cop.”

  “Russian gangsters are just thugs with accents and tats.” She started out, paused at the door. “And thanks—sort of—for the lever. Even if I can’t use it, I know it, and knowing it, I know him before I sit across from him.”

  He won’t know you, Roarke thought as she left, and again found himself regretting he’d miss that particular meeting.

  Her topper lay across the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. Her car waited outside.

  It always amazed her.

  She texted Peabody.

  Want to stop by the morgue re Delgato. Just meet me at the lab. Sent more reports. Read and familiarize.

  As she drove, she tagged Reo. When the assistant prosecuting attorney came on-screen, Eve watched her putting fussy stuff on her eyes.

  “Don’t you just want to rub the crap out of your eyes once you put that stuff on there?”

  “No.” Reo gave her image in the mirror a serious study, then started on the second eye.

  “I do. I’m sending you files and reports. Alva Quirk.”

  “Homeless woman. Dumpster. About this time yesterday.”

  “Yeah, so you got that much.”

  “We got your report on her identification, yes. You have more?”

  “I got a shitload more. I got the sort of more that’s going to need a warrant. Alexei Tovinski—nephew of Yuri Bardov’s wife.”

  Reo’s hand paused. “The Russian mob killed a homeless woman? Who was she really?”

  “Nobody important to them. Also on the dead list is Carmine Delgato—head plumber for Singer. It’s all in there, Reo, including Morris’s report, the tox report. Look at Tovinski’s finances: hidden accounts, lots of women—and children—that aren’t his wife. A lot of money that doesn’t add up to what he’s spending on them. Delgato—gambling issues.”

  “A little embezzlement going on?”

  “You’re smart. You’ll see it, and get that warrant to take a nice deep dive into his money pile. You’re going to be issuing another with his name on it before much longer. For Quirk and for Delgato. And, just maybe, for the unidentified, as yet, woman on the second Hudson Yards site.”

  “Have you dated the remains?”

  “I’m going to see DeWinter. Read the reports. It’s a lot, and I’m going to give you more.”

  “Are you going to make me smile really, really big, and tell me we’re going to nail Yuri Bardov?”

  “Can’t say. Yet.”

  “I’ll start reading, and I’ll let you know about the warrant on the financials. How many women?”

  “Three—that showed up. Three kids, and another in the hopper.”

  “Jesus, when does he have time to kill people?”

  “You don’t find time, Reo. You make it. Later.”

  Satisfied Reo would come through, Eve tagged Nadine Furst.

  Far from the hotshot, camera-ready reporter, bestselling true crime author, and Oscar winner, Nadine answered with a groan.

  And dragged the covers over her head in a room lit only by city lights out a window wall.

  She said, “Why, God, why?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Eve demanded. “Why is it dark? That’s not New York out there.”

  “Because I’m not in New York, I’m in Seattle. I think. And it’s the middle of the damn night here.”

  “Not my fault you’re somewhere the Earth hasn’t turned toward the sun. I need a favor.”

  “This is a really bad time to ask me for a favor.”

  “Do you know any solid reporters in Oklahoma?”

  “Why would I know anybody in Oklahoma?” Curiosity, Eve deduced, pushed Nadine’s head out of the covers. She frowned, streaky blond hair tangled, foxy eyes heavy, as she held the sheets up over her breasts with one hand. “Why?”

  “It has to do with the favor, and a dead homeless woman, the fucker who beat the crap out of her years back in Oklahoma, where he’s now chief of police in someplace called Moses.”

  Nadine rubbed her eyes just the way Eve always wanted to when she had to put stuff on them.

  “Did he kill her?”

  “No. It’s looking like a Russian gangster and the gambling plumber who were embezzling took care of that. But I want the ex-husband, too. That’s where you come in. A favor, Nadine.”

  “Who was she?” Nadine demanded.

  Before Eve answered, she heard a rustling, then saw Jake Kincade, rock star and Nadine’s bedmate, prop his chin on Nadine’s shoulder.

  He had purple streaks through his midnight waves, and a sleep crease in his left cheek.

  He sent Eve a sleepy smile.

  “Hey, Dallas.”

  “Hey. Ah, sorry to wake you up or interrupt.”

  “Avenue A had a gig out here,” Nadine said, “so…”

  “And it looks like your workday’s starting early, Lois.” Jake kissed Nadine’s shoulder. “I’ll order breakfast.”

  When he rolled out of bed, Eve had a very clear view of his excellent naked ass backlit by Seattle.

  “Huh. Nice,” Eve decided as he moved out of frame.

  “This feels like a dream. Hold on.” The ’link went screen down on the bed. When Nadine snatched it up again, she wore a plushy hotel robe. “What do you need?”

  “Firs
t, I need you to contact people you can trust, reporters who’ll hold on this until I give you the go, and you give it to them. I want it hitting all over hell and back at the same time.”

  “Seriously, Dallas, who the hell was she?”

  “Nadine, she wasn’t anybody important. This isn’t a big story. He’s a cop, and he beat, raped, broke his wife until she got away from him. And he’s still a cop, and I need—I want,” she corrected, “him to pay. So it’s a favor. I want you to help me see that he pays.”

  “Let me get my notebook.”

  “Thanks. I mean it. It’s not necessary. I’m going to send you everything you need, and you’ll know what to do with it. I may not be able to give you the green for a couple days, but—”

  “I’ll be ready. And I know people I can trust to hold the story. Just give me his name, so I can get myself some background. In Oklahoma? Moses, Oklahoma?”

  “Yeah. Garrett Wicker. I’m on my way in. I’ll send you what I can when I get to Central. I owe you.”

  “Hell.” On a yawn, Nadine dragged her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. “It’s the middle of the damn night, practically, but I’m going to get breakfast in bed, and I’m going to get laid by a rock star. We can call this a wash.”

  Relieved, grateful, Eve shoved her way downtown.

  12

  After a quick stop, she made her way to Morris’s double doors. He stood, the protective cape over a suit of molten blue, a pale pink shirt, and a tie that merged both in minute checks.

  In one hand, he held a scalpel in preparation, Eve concluded, for making his Y-cut in the young female on his slab.

  His music today had a soft voice singing over harp strings.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be in yet,” Eve said.

  “Death doesn’t end our day, it starts it. It ended hers at the tender age of twenty-three.”

  Eve stepped forward. The dead’s hair was a tangle of gold with emerald streaks. The body itself was thin to the edge of bony—which made a sharp contrast to the overenthusiastic boob job with the tat of a blue butterfly spreading its wings over the heart.

  Eve noted the navel, nose, and eyebrow piercings, the multiple ear piercings.

  Under the pale gold tan—no tan lines—the skin read gray.

  Blue-and-green polish covered the fingernails in diagonal stripes. On the toes, green on the left foot, blue on the right, with the second toe of each sporting an artfully painted flower.