* * *
Outside, Eve dug her hands into her pockets. The sky had stopped spitting out nasty stuff, but the wind had picked up. She was pretty sure she’d left her watch cap in her office.
"Everybody’s got an alibi, nobody’s got a motive. Yet. I think I’m going to go back to the scene, take another look around."
"Then you can fill me in with what must be a multitude of missing details on the way. I had my car taken home," Roarke continued when she frowned at him. "So I could get a lift with my lovely wife."
"You were just hoping to get a look at Number Twelve."
"And hope springs. Want me to drive?"
When she slid behind the wheel, she tapped her fingers on it. "What’s something like that painting going to go for on the open market?"
"To the right collector? Sky would be the limit. But I’d say a million wouldn’t be out of the park."
"A million? For a painting of a dead woman. What’s wrong with people? Top transaction in the vic’s account from Bygones was a quarter of that. Why’d Hopkins sell so cheap?"
"Scrambling for capital. Bird in the hand’s worth a great deal more than a painting on the wall."
"Yeah, there’s that. Buchanan had to know he was getting bargain basement there."
"So why kill the golden goose?"
"Exactly. But it’s weird to me neither of them had heard by this time that Hopkins bought it at Number Twelve. They eat breakfast at eight? No media reports while you’re scoping out the pickings on the AutoChef or pulling on your pants?"
"Not everyone turns on the news."
"Maybe not. And nobody pops in today, mentions it? Nobody say, ‘Hey! Did you hear about that Hopkins guy? Number Twelve got another one.’ Just doesn’t sit level for me." Then she shrugged, pulled away from the curb.
"Hit the lab before this. The same gun that killed Hopkins killed the as yet unidentified female whose remains were found behind the wall at Number Twelve."
"Fascinating."
"Weapon was bricked up with her. Killer must have found her, and it. Cleaned the weapon. You see those, the hair jewelry, she had on in the picture? Recovered at the scene, also clean and shiny. One by the window which the killer likely used to escape, one left with the bones."
"Someone wants to make sure the remains are identified. Do you doubt it’s her?"
"No, I don’t doubt it’s her. I don’t doubt Hop Hopkins put a bullet in her brain, then got handy with brick and mortar. I don’t know why. I don’t know why someone used that same gun on Hop’s grandson eighty-five years later."
"But you think there’s a connection. A personal one."
"Had to reload to put the bullet in the brain. That’s extremely cold. Guy’s dead, or next to it. But you reload, roll the body over, press the barrel down hard enough to scorch the skin and leave an imprint of the barrel, and give him one last hit. Fucking cold."
Five
Eve gave him details on the drive. She could, with Roarke, run them through like a checklist, and it always lined them up in her mind. In addition, he always seemed to know something or someone that might fill in a few of the gaps.
"So, did you ever do business with Hopkins?"
"No. He had a reputation for being generous with the bullshit, and often short on results."
"Big plans, small action," Eve concluded.
"That would be it. Harmless, by all accounts. Not the sort to con the widow and orphans out of the rent money, but not above talking them out of a portion of it with a view to getting rich quick."
"He cheated on his wives, and recently squeezed five hundred out of the son he abandoned."
"Harmless doesn’t always mean moral or admirable. I made a few calls - curiosity," he explained. "To people who like to buy and sell real estate."