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he said as the doors opened. "He never gave me any trouble."
"Not a bad epitaph," Eve decided as the elevator headed up to six.
* * *
The apartment was single-level, but spacious. Particularly since it was nearly empty of furnishings. There was a sleep chair in the living room, facing a wall screen. There were a multitude of high-end electronics and carton after carton of entertainment discs. It was all open space with a colored-glass wall separating the sleeping area.
"There was art on the walls," Eve noted. "You can see the squares and rectangles of darker paint where they must’ve hung. Probably sold them to get some capital for his project."
A second bedroom was set up as an office, and from the state of it, Eve didn’t judge Hopkins had been a tidy or organized businessman. The desk was heaped with scribbled notes, sketches, memo cubes, coffee cups and plates from working meals.
A playback of the desk 'link was loaded with oily conversation with the recently deceased pitching his project to potential backers or arranging meetings where she supposed he’d have been doing the same.
"Let’s have EDD go through all the data and communication." The Electronic Detective Division could comb through the transmissions and data faster and more efficiently than she. "Doesn’t look like he’s entertained here recently, which jibes with our doorman’s statement. Nothing personal in the last little while on his home 'link. It’s all about money."
She walked through the apartment. The guy wasn’t living there so much as surviving. Selling off his stuff, scrambling for capital. "The motive’s not all about money, though. He couldn’t have had enough for that. The motive’s emotional. It’s personal. Kill him where the yellowing bones of a previous victim are hidden. Purposeful. Building was auctioned off six months ago? Private or public?"
"I can check," Peabody began.
"I got a quicker source."
It seemed to her the guy she’d married was always in, on his way to or coming back from some meeting. Then again, he seemed to like them. It took all kinds.
And she had to admit when that face of his filled her screen, it put a little boost in her step to think: mine.
"Quick question," she began. "Number Twelve. Any details on its auction?"
His dark brows raised over those intense blue eyes. "Bought for a song, which will likely turn out to be a dirge. Or has it already?" Roarke asked her.
"You’re quick, too. Yeah, current owner’s in the morgue. He got it on the cheap?"
"Previous owners had it on the market for several years, and put it up for public auction a few months ago after the last fire."
"Fire?"
"There’ve been several. Unexplained," he added with that Irish lilt cruising through his voice. "Hopkins, wasn’t it? Descendent of infamy. How was he killed?"
"Nine millimeter Smith and Wesson."
Surprise moved over that extraordinary face. "Well now. Isn’t that interesting? You recovered the weapon, I take it."
"Yeah, I got it. Fill you in on that later. The auction, you knew about it, right?"
"I did. It was well-publicized for several weeks. A building with that history generates considerable media attention as well."
"Yeah, that’s what I figured. If it was a bargain, why didn’t you snap it up to add it to your mega-Monopoly board?"
"Haunted. Cursed."
"Yeah, right." She snorted out a laugh, but he only continued to look out from the screen. "Okay, thanks. See you later."
"You certainly will."
"Couldn’t you just listen to him?" Peabody let out a sigh. "I mean couldn’t you just close your eyes and listen?"
"Snap out of it, Peabody. Hopkins’s killer had to know the building was up for sale. Maybe he bid on it, maybe he didn’t. He doesn’t move on the previous owners, but waits for Hopkins. Goes back to per
sonal. Lures him, kills him, leaves the weapon and the hair clips with the skeleton behind the brick. Making a statement."
