"Which includes yourself."
"Most definitely. From what I’m told the bottom dropped out of Twelve for Hopkins only a couple of weeks after he’d signed the papers on it. He was in fairly deep - purchase price, legal fees, architects and designers, construction crew, and so on. He’d do
ne a lot of tap dancing to get as far as he did, and was running out of steam. He’d done some probing around - more legal fees - to see if he could wrangle having the property condemned, and get back some of his investment. Tried to wrangle some money from various federal agencies, historic societies. He played all the angles and had some success. A couple of small grants. Not nearly enough, not for his rather ambitious vision."
"What kind of money we talking, for the building and the vision?"
"Oh, easily a hundred and fifty million. He’d barely scratched the surface when he must have realized he couldn’t make it without more capital. Then, word is, a few days ago, he pushed the green light again. Claimed Number Twelve was moving forward."
"I’m waiting on the lab to see if they can pinpoint when that wall was taken down. Could be talking days." Her fingers tapped out a rhythm on the wheel as she considered. "Hopkins finds the body. You get a wealth of publicity out of something like that. Maybe a vid deal, book deals. A guy with an entrepreneurial mindset, he could think of all kinds of ways to rake it in over those bones."
"He could," Roarke agreed. "But wouldn’t the first question be how he knew where to look?"
"Or how his killer knew."
"Hop killed her," she began as she hunted for parking. "Argument, drug-induced, whatever. Bricks up the body, which takes some doing. Guy liked cocaine. That’ll keep you revved for a few hours. Has to cover up the brick, put things back into reasonable shape. I’m trying to access the police reports from back then. It hasn’t been easy so far. But anyway, no possible way the cops just missed a brand new section
of wall, so he paid them off or blackmailed them."
"Corrupt cops? I’m stunned. I’m shocked."
"Shut up. Hop goes over the edge - guilt, drugs, fear of discovery. Goes hermit. Guy locks himself up with a body on the other side of the wall, he’s going to go pretty buggy. Wouldn’t surprise me if he wrote something down, told someone about it. If cops were involved, they knew or suspected something. The killer, or Hopkins does some homework, pokes around. Gets lucky, or unlucky as the case may be."
"It takes eight and a half decades to get lucky?"
"Place gets a rep," Eve said as they walked from the car toward Number Twelve. "Bray gets legend status. People report seeing her, talking to her. A lot of those people, and others, figure she just took off ‘cause she couldn’t handle the pressure of her own success. Hop has enough juice to keep people out of the apartment during his lifetime. By then, there’re murmurs of curses and hauntings, and that just grows as time passes. A couple of people have some bad luck, and nobody much wants to play in Number Twelve anymore."
"More than a couple." Roarke frowned at the door as Eve uncoded the police seal. "The building just squats here, and everyone who’s tried to disturb it, for whatever reason, ends up paying a price."
"It’s brick and wood and glass."
"Brick and wood and glass form structure, not spirit."
She raised her brows at him. "Want to wait in the car, Sally?"
"Now you shut up." He nudged her aside to walk in first.
* * *
She turned on the lights, took out her flashlight for good measure. "Hopkins was between those iron stairs and the bar." She moved across the room, positioned herself by the stairs. "From the angles, the killer was here. I’m seeing he got here first, comes down when Hopkins walks in. Hopkins still had his coat on, his gloves, a muffler. Cold in here, sure, but a man’s going to probably pull off his gloves, unwrap his scarf, maybe unbutton his coat when he’s inside. You just do."
Understanding his wife, Roarke moved into what he thought had been Hopkins’s standing position. "Unless you don’t have the chance."
"Killer comes down. He’d told Hopkins to bring something, and Hopkins walks in empty-handed. Could have been small - pocket-sized - but why would the killer shoot him so quickly, and with such rage, if he’d cooperated?"
"The man liked to spin the wheels. If he came empty, he may have thought he could work a deal."
"So when he starts the whole Let’s talk about this, the killer snaps. Shoots him. Chest, leg. Four shots from the front. Vic goes down, tries to crawl, killer keeps firing, moving toward the target. Leg, back, shoulder. Eight shots. Full clip for that model. Reloads, shoves the body over, leans down. Looks Hopkins right in the eyes. Eyes are dead, but he looks into them when he pulls the trigger the last time. He wants to see his face - as much as he needs to echo the head shot on Bray, he needs to see the face, the eyes, when he puts that last bullet in."
She crossed over, following what she thought was the killer’s route as she’d spoken. "Could have gone out the front. But he chooses to go back upstairs."
Now she turned, started up. "Could have taken the weapon, thrown it in the river. We’d never have found it. Wants us to find it. Wants us to know. Cops didn’t put Hop in the system. Why should we do anything about his grandson? Took care of that himself. Payment made. But he wants us to know, everyone to know, that Bobbie’s been avenged at last."
She stopped in front of the open section of wall. " ‘Look what he did to her. Put a bullet in that young, tragic face, silenced that voice. Ended her life when it was just getting started. Then he put a wall up, locked her away from the world. She’s free now. I set her free.’"
"She’ll be more famous, more infamous, than ever. Her fans will make a shrine out of this place. Heap flowers and tokens outside, stand in the cold with candles for vigils. And, to add a cynical note, there’ll
be Bobbie Bray merchandising through the roof. Fortunes will be made out of this."