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"A different age," Mira said, studying Eve as she’d studied the image on screen. "My grandmother always said you had to be there. I doubt Bobbie would have understood you and the choices you’ve made any more than you do her and hers."
Mira flicked the screen off. "Is there more to substantiate identity?"
"The bones we recovered had a broken left tibia, which corresponds with a documented childhood injury on Bray. We extracted DNA, and I’ve got a sample of a relative’s on its way to the lab. It’s going to confirm."
"A tragic waste. All that talent snuffed out."
"She didn’t live what you could call a careful life."
"The most interesting people rarely do." Mira angled her head. "You certainly don’t."
"Mine’s about the job. Hers was about getting stoned and screwing around, best I can tell."
Now Mira raised a brow. "Not only don’t you feel for her, you don’t think you’d have liked her."
"Can’t imagine we’d have had much in common, but that’s not the issue. She had a kid."
"What? I’ve never heard that."
"She kept it locked. Likelihood is it was Hop Hopkins’s offspring, though it’s possible she got knocked up on the side. Either way, she went off, had the kid, dumped it on her mother. Sent money so the family could relocate - up the scale some. Mother passed the kid off as her own."
"And you find that deplorable, on all counts."
Irritation shadowed Eve’s face, very briefly. "That’s not the issue either. Female child eventually discovered her heritage through letters Bray allegedly wrote home. The ones shortly before her death, again allegedly, claimed that she was planning to clean up her act - again - and come back for the kid. This is hearsay. The daughter relayed it to her two children. Purportedly the letters and other items were sold, years ago, to Radcliff C. Hopkins - the last."
"Connections within connections. And this, you believe goes to motive."
"You know how Hopkins was killed?"
"The walls are buzzing with it. Violent, specific, personal - and somehow tidy."
"Yeah." It was always satisfying to have your instincts confirmed. "The last shot. Here’s what he did to her. There’s control mere, an agenda fulfilled, even through the rage."
"Let me see if I understand. You suspect that a descended of Bobbie Bray killed a descendent of Hopkins to avenge her murder."
"That’s a chunk of it, buttonholed. According to Bray’s granddaughter, the murder, the abandonment, the obsession mined her mother’s health. Series of breakdowns."
"You suspect the granddaughter?"
"No, she’s covered. She’s got two offspring herself, but I can’t place them in New York during the time in question."
"Who does that leave you?"
"There was a grandson, reported killed in action during the Urbans."
"He had children?"
"None on record. He was pretty young, only seventeen. Lied about his age when he joined up - a lot of people did back then. Oddly enough, he was reported killed here in New York."
Pursing her lips, Mira considered. "As you’re one of the most pragmatic women I know, I find it hard to believe you’re theorizing that a ghost killed your victim to avenge yet another ghost."
"Flesh and blood pulled the trigger. I’ve got Yancy aging the military ID. The Urban Wars were a chaotic time, and the last months of them here in New York were confusing from a military standpoint. Wouldn’t be hard, would it, for a young man, one who’d already lied about his age to enlist in the Home Force, to put his official ID on a mangled body and vanish? War’s never what you think it’s going to be. It’s not heroic and adventurous. He could’ve deserted."
"The history of mental illness in the family - on both sides - the horrors of war, the guilt of abandoning his duty. It would make quite a powder keg. Your killer is purposeful, specific to his goal, would have some knowledge of firearms. Rumor is the victim was shot nine times - the weapon itself is a symbol - and there were no stray bullets found on scene."
"He hit nine out of nine, so he had some knowledge of handguns, or some really good luck. In addition, he had to reload for the ninth shot."
"Ah. The others were the rage, that slippery hold on control. The last, a signature. He’s accomplished what he meant to do. There may be more, of course, but he has his eye for an eye, and he has the object of his obsession back in the light."
