The bitterness in the words told Eve she wasn’t talking to one of Bobbie Bray’s fans.
"Said she was sorry she’d messed up again. My mother claimed Bobbie said she was going back into rehab, that she was leaving Hop, the whole scene. She was going to get clean and come back for her daughter. Of course, she never came back. My mother was convinced Hop had killed her, or had her killed."
"What do you think?"
"Sure, maybe." The words were the equivalent of a shrug. "Or maybe she took off to Bimini to sell seashells by the seashore. Maybe she went back to San Francisco and jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t know, and frankly don’t much care."
Sawyer let out a long sigh, pressed her fingers to her eyes. "She wasn’t, and isn’t, part of my world. But she all but became my mother’s world. Mom swore Bobbie’s ghost used to visit her, talk to her. I think it’s part of the reason, this obsession, that she’s been plagued by emotional and mental problems as long as I can remember. When my brother was killed in the Urbans, it just snapped her. He was her favorite."
"Do you have the letters?"
"No. That Hopkins man, he tracked my mother down. I was in college, my brother was overseas, so that was, God, about thirty years ago. He talked her out of nearly everything she had that was Bobbie’s or pertained to her. Original recordings, letters, diaries, photographs. He said he was going to open some sort of museum in California. Nothing ever came of it. My brother came home and found out. He was furious. He and my mother had a horrible fight, one they never had a chance to reconcile. Now he’s gone and she might as well be. I don’t want to be Bobbie Bray’s legacy. I just want to live my life."
Eve ended the transmission, tipped back in her chair. She was betting the letters were what the killer had been after.
* * *
With Peabody she went back to Hopkins’s apartment for another thorough search.
"Letters Bobbie wrote that confirm a child she had with Hop. Letters or some sort of document or recording from Hop that eventually led his grandson to Serenity Massey. Something that explosive and therefore valuable," she said to her partner. "I bet he had a secure hidey-hole. Security box, vault. We’ll start a search of bank boxes under his name or likely aliases."
"Maybe he took them with him and the killer already has them."
"I don’t think so. The doorman said he walked out empty-handed. Something like that, figuring the value, he’s going to want a briefcase, a portfolio. Guy liked accessories - good suit, shoes, antique watch - why miss a trick with something that earns one? But… he was hunting up money. Maybe he sold them, or at least dangled them."
"Bygones?"
"Worth a trip."
At the door, Eve paused, turned to study the apartment again. There’d be no ghosts here, she thought. Nothing here but stale air, stale dreams.
Legacies, she thought as she closed the door. Hopkins left one of unfulfilled ambitions, which to her mind carried on the one left by his father.
Bobbie Bray’s granddaughter had worked hard to shut her own heritage out, to live simply. Didn’t want to be Bobbie Bray’s legacy. Eve recalled.
Who could blame her? Or anyone else for that matter.
"If you’re handed crap and disappointment - inherited it," Eve amended, "what do you do?"
"Depends, I guess." Peabody frowned as they headed down. "You could wallow in it and curse your ancestors, or shovel yourself out of it."
"Yeah. You could try to shine it up into gold and live the high life - like Hopkins. Obsess over it like Bray’s daughter. Or you could shut the door on it and walk away. Like Bray’s granddaughter."
"Okay. And?"
"There’s more than one way to shut a door. You drive," Eve said when they were outside.
"Drive? Me? It’s not even my birthday!"
"Drive, Peabody." In the passenger seat, Eve took out her ppc and brought up John Massey’s military ID data. She cocked her head as she studied the photo.
He’d been young, fresh-faced. A little soft around the mouth, she mused, a little guileless in the eyes. She didn’t see either of his grandparents in him, but she saw something else.
Inherited traits, she thought. Legacies.
Using the dash ‘link, she contacted police artist Detective Yancy.
"Got a quick one for you," she told him. "I’m going to shoot you an ID photo. I need you to age it for me."