Haunted in Death (In Death 22.50)

"This place has been home to her for a long time, hasn’t it?" Pragmatism, he thought, thy name is Eve. Then he took out a handkerchief, used it to rub the worst of the dust and grime from her face.

"Homemade crypts aren’t what I’d call home, sweet home," she retorted. "And you know what? Ghosts don’t clean guns or shoot them. I’ve got a DB in the morgue. And I’m ordering the sweepers, with a contingent from EDD in here tomorrow. They’re going to take this place apart."

She brushed some of the dirt from her shirt and pants before picking up her coat. "I want a shower."

"I want you to have a shower, too."

As they went downstairs, she called in the order for two units to search Number Twelve for electronic devices. If she thought she heard a woman’s husky laugh just before she closed and secured the door, Eve ignored it.

Six

When she’d showered and pulled on warm, comfortable sweats, Eve gave another thought to pizza. She figured she could down a slice or two at her desk while she worked.

She was headed toward the office she kept at home when she heard Bobbie Bray’s voice, gritting out her signature song.

Broken, battered, bleeding, and still I’m begging, pleading Come back. Come back and heal my heart Come back. Come back and heal my heart.

With her own heart thudding, Eve covered the rest of the distance at a dash. Except for the fat cat, Galahad, snoring in her sleep chair, her office was empty.

Then she narrowed her eyes at the open door that joined her office to Roarke’s. She found him at his desk, with the title track beginning its play again through the speakers of his entertainment unit.

"You trying to wig me out?"

"No." He smiled a little. "Did I?" When she gave him a stony stare, he shrugged. "I wanted to get better acquainted with our ghost. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, and according to this biography, left home at sixteen to migrate to Haight-Ashbury, as many of her generation did. She sang in some clubs, primarily for food or a place to sleep, drifted around, joined a band called Luv - that’s L-U-V - where she stood out like a rose among weeds, apparently. Did some backup singing for one or two important artists of the time, then met Hopkins in Los Angeles."

"Bad luck for her. Can you turn that off?"

"Music off," he ordered, and Bobbie’s voice stopped. "She bothers you," Roarke realized. "Why is that?"

"She doesn’t bother me." The correct term, Eve thought, would be she creeps me. But damned if she

was going to fall into the accepted pattern on Number Twelve, or Bobbie Bray.

"She’s part of my investigation - and a secondary vic, even though she was killed a half century before

I was born. She’s mine now, like Hopkins is mine. But she’s always part of the motive."

"And as such, I’d think you’d want to know all you could about her."

"I do, and I will. But I don’t have to hear her singing." It was too sad, Eve admitted to herself. And too spooky. "I’m going to order up some pizza. You want in on that?"

"All right." Roarke rose to follow her into the kitchen attached to her office. "She was twenty when Hop scooped her up. He was forty-three. Still, it was two years before her album came out - which he produced, allegedly hand-picking every song. She did perform during that period, exclusively in Hopkins’s venues."

"So he ran her."

"All but owned her, from the sound of it. Young, naive girl - at least from a business standpoint, and from a generation and culture that prided itself on not being bound by property and possessions. Older, canny, experienced man, who discovered her, romanced her, and most certainly fed any appetite she might have had for illegal substances."

"She’d been on her own for five years." Eve debated for about five seconds on pepperoni and went for it.

"Naive doesn’t wash for me."

"But then you’re not a sentimental fan or biographer. Still, I’d lean toward the naivete when it came to contracts, royalties, business and finance. And Hopkins was a pro. He stood as her agent, her manager, her producer."

"But she’s the talent," Eve reasoned and snagged some napkins. "She’s got the youth, the looks. Maybe her culture or whatever said pooh-pooh to big piles of money, but if she’s bringing it in, getting the shine from it, she’s going to start to want more."

"Agreed. She left him for a few months in 1972, just dropped off the radar. Which is one of the reasons, I’d assume, he got away with her murder three years later. She’d taken off once, why not again?"

He stepped out to choose a wine from the rack behind a wall panel. "When she came back, it was full-court press professionally, with a continual round of parties, clubs, drugs, sex. Her album hit, and big, with her touring internationally for six months. More sex, more drugs, and three Grammys. Her next album was in the works when she disappeared."