"Number Twelve?" He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. "Sorry, I’m feeling muddled by all this. Urban legend. Haunted. Some say by Hop Hopkins’s ghost, others by Bobbie Bray’s. Others still say both, or any number of celebrities from that era. Bad luck building, though I admit I’m always on the lookout for something from its heyday that can be authenticated. Rad managed to acquire the building a few months ago, bring it back into his family."
"Do you know how it got out of his family?"
"Ah, I think Rad told me it was sold off when he was a boy. His father inherited it when his grandfather died. Tragically, a drug overdose. And it was Rad’s plan to bring it back to its former glory, such as it was."
"He talked about it all the time," Maeve added. "Whenever he came in. Now he’ll never… It’s so sad."
"To be frank," Buchanan continued, "I think he might have overreached a bit. A huge undertaking, which is why he found it necessary - in my opinion - to sell some of his artwor
k and memorabilia. And because I have a number of contacts in the business who might have been helpful when and if he was ready to outfit the club, it was a good, symbiotic relationship. I’m sorry this happened."
"When was the last time you had contact with him?"
"Just last week. I joined him for a drink, at his invitation. That would be…" He closed his eyes a moment, held up a finger. "Wednesday. Wednesday evening of last week. I knew he was going to try to persuade me, again, to invest in this club of his. It’s just not the sort of thing I do, but he’s a good client, and we were friendly."
When he sighed, Maeve covered his hand with hers. "So I met with him. He was so excited. He told me he was ready to begin the rehab again, seriously this time. He projected opening next summer."
"But you turned him down, investmentwise."
"I did, but he took it well. To be frank again, I did a bit of research when he first approached me months ago. Nothing thrives in that building. Owners and backers go bankrupt or worse. I couldn’t see this being any different."
"True enough," Roarke confirmed. "The owners before Hopkins had plans for a small, exclusive spa with restaurant and retail. The buyer fell, broke both his legs while doing a run-through with the architect. His brother and cobuyer were brutally mugged just outside the building. Then his accountant ran off with his wife, taking the bulk of his portfolio."
"Bad luck happens," Eve said flatly. "Could you tell me where you were last night, between midnight and three?"
"Are we suspects?" Maeve’s eyes rounded. "Oh my God."
"It’s just information. The more I have, the more I have."
"I was out - a date - until about eleven."
"Eleven-fifteen," Buchanan said. "I heard you come in."
"Daddy…" Maeve rolled her eyes. "He waits up. I’m twenty-four and he still waits up."
"I was reading in bed." But her father smiled, a little sheepishly. "Maeve came in, and I… well…" He sent another look toward his daughter. "I went down about midnight and checked security. I know, I know,"
he said before Maeve could speak. "You always set it if you come in after I’m in bed, but I feel better doing that last round. I went to bed after that. Maeve was already in her room. We had breakfast together about eight this morning, then we were here at nine-thirty. We open at ten."
"Thanks. Is it all right if we take a look around?"
"Absolutely. Please. If you have any questions - if there’s anything we can do…" Buchanan lifted his hands. "I’ve never dealt with anything like this, so I’m not sure what we can or should do."
"Just stay available," Eve told him. "And contact me at Central if anything comes to mind. For now, maybe you can point me toward what you’ve got on Bobbie Bray."
"Oh, we have quite a collection. Actually, one of my favorites is a portrait we bought from Rad a few months ago. This way." Buchanan turned to lead them through the main showroom. "It was done from the photograph taken for her first album cover. Hop - the first Hopkins - had it painted, and it hung in the apartment he kept over Number Twelve. Rumor is he held long conversations with it after she disappeared. Of course, he ingested all manner of hallucinogens. Here she is. Stunning, isn’t it?"
The portrait was perhaps eighteen by twenty inches, in a horizontal pose. Bobbie reclined over a bed spread with vivid pink and mounded with white pillows.
Eve saw a woman with wild yards of curling blond hair. There were two sparkling diamond clips glinting in the masses of it. Her eyes were the green of new spring leaves, and a single tear - bright as the diamonds, spilled down her cheek. It was the face of a doomed angel - lovely rather than beautiful, full of tragedy and pathos.
She wore thin, filmy white, and between the breasts was deep red stain in the blurred shape of a heart.
"The album was Bleeding Heart, for the title track. She won three Grammys for it."
"She was twenty-two," Maeve put in. "Two years younger than me. Less than two years later, she vanished without a trace."
There was a trace, Eve thought. There always was, even if it was nearly a century coming to light.