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“That’s million?”
“It is, yes.”
“That’s a big bunch of money.”
“Do you fancy it? Does Dennis want to sell?”
“No—I mean, sure, it’s a nice house, but we have one. I’m fine with one. And no, he doesn’t want to sell, which is part of the deal here.”
She filled him in as she searched, knew he’d take in every detail even when he stopped to admire a piece of furniture, some woodwork, or a ceiling medallion.
“I could get twenty, with the right buyer, and careful staging,” he mused. “But back to
the matter at hand. You know the senator’s a complete burke—at least from my personal leanings.”
“He’s a complete burke from my perspective from what I got out of Mira, and what Mr. Mira didn’t say. But it’ll be nice to find him alive.”
“Agreed.”
With Roarke she walked back to the study. It smelled of sweeper dust and chemicals now.
“I knew Bradley Mira, a little.”
“Get out.”
“A very little,” Roarke added. “And mostly by reputation. He was respected and admired. Have you run his background?”
“No, not immediately applicable.”
“The prosecuting attorney for New York—before your time and mine. I believe there was some family money, and he made more. He became Judge Mira, and retired more than a decade ago—likely closer to two decades, if memory serves. He spent the last part of his life doing good works, as you see here from all the plaques displayed. An admirable man who, by all accounts, lived a good and productive life.”
“Mr. Mira loved him, that comes through loud and clear. Twenty million?”
With those wild and canny blue eyes, Roarke scanned. “With the right buyer, yes.”
“Half of that’s big motivation to find the right buyer. I need to talk to this Realtor, which means I have to talk to whoever made the appointment for Edward Mira. But now, I want to talk to the housekeeper and the wife. Housekeeper’s on the way to the wife.”
“Why don’t I drive, and you can run backgrounds?”
“It’s a plan. Let me check on the canvass first.”
Sila Robarts lived with her husband of twenty-seven years a few blocks away in the second-floor apartment of a converted townhome. She ran a cleaning company, Maid to Order, while her husband owned and operated We’re Handy—a handyman business.
They’d raised two children, both of whom worked within the two companies, and had three grandchildren.
“They own the place.” Eve nodded at the white brick townhouse after Roarke parked. “Use the first floor for their businesses, live on the second.” She pressed the buzzer for the apartment at the front entrance.
A woman’s voice, brisk and impatient, said, “Yes?”
“NYPSD, Mrs. Robarts. We need to speak with you.”
“What the hell for? Let me see ID. Hold it up for the camera.”
Eve held up her badge.
“What happened? Is one of my kids hurt?”
“No, ma’am. We just need to speak with you. Dennis Mira gave me your name and address.”
