“On the twenty-second of December. We only stayed about an hour, as Edward tried to corner Dennis about selling the house.”
“I didn’t want to argue, so we left early. He sent me an e-mail shortly after the first of the year, outlining his reasons, again, and his plan of action.”
“You didn’t tell me that, Dennis.”
“You get so angry with him.” Dennis took Mira’s hand again. “And there was nothing new in it. I don’t like bringing that discord into our home. I answered him briefly that I didn’t agree, and intended to keep my promise to our grandfather. When he responded immediately, I knew he was very angry. He would usually wait as if too busy to deal with such matters. But he responded right away, and said he would give me time to be reasonable, and warned he would be forced to take legal action if I insisted on clinging to sentiment. And . . . he claimed there had been no promise, that I—as I tend to do—had mixed things up.”
“The hell with him!”
“Charlie—”
“The hell with him, that coldhearted bastard. I mean it, Dennis!” Outraged fury deepened her color, flashed in her eyes. “If you want to look at someone who’d have wanted to hurt him, look right here.”
“Dr. Mira,” Eve said coolly, “cut it out. I’m going to have EDD access those e-mails. That was your last communication?”
“Yes, it was. I didn’t respond. It was a cruel thing to say, and it was a lie. We made a promise.” Eve saw his baffled sorrow as clearly as Mira’s outraged fury. “I didn’t contact him again until today, but he didn’t answer.”
“All right.” She couldn’t help herself, and touched a hand to his knee. “You don’t mix up anything that’s important. I’ll find the answers to all this. I promise.”
She rose, grateful when the bell rang. “That’s going to be for me. I’m going to put the sweepers on the study first, and I’m going through the house personally. I’ve got uniforms who’ll knock on doors, see if any of the neighbors saw anything. I’m going to have a uniform take you home.”
She pulled out her ’link. “Would you put all the names and contact data I asked for on here?”
“Charlie should. I’m terrible with electronics.”
“So am I.” She passed her ’link to Mira. “It’s going to be okay.”
Dennis rose. “You’re such a smart woman. Such a good girl,” he added to her baffled surprise. Then he kissed her cheek, sweetly, leaving a faint tickle from the stubble he’d probably missed when shaving. “Thank you.”
Eve felt that tickle work its way into her heart as she went to answer the door.
2
Eve saw them off, spoke with the uniforms, the sweepers, and decided to take the house top to bottom. But as she started up the stairs, she stopped, sat down on one.
And tagged Roarke.
She led with “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His face filled the screen and, boy, what a face. It never failed to strike how some days the gods, the angels, the poets, the artists all got together to create something perfect. A beautifully carved mouth, wildly, impossibly blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones all framed by thick black silk.
“You’ve caught a case,” he continued, with those mists of Ireland whispering in his voice to complete the perfection.
“Sort of. No body, which makes it different. Or none yet. Dennis Mira was attacked.”
“What?” The just-for-her smile in his eyes vanished. “Is he hurt? What hospital? I’ll meet you.”
“He’s okay. I just sent them home. He took a pretty good whack to the back of the head, then smacked his temple on the floor when he fell. Probably has a mild concussion, but Mira’s on it.”
“Where are you?”
“At his grandfather’s house. Mr. Mira’s grandfather. Or it was. It’s half Mr. Mira’s, half his cousin’s—former Senator Edward Mira—who was also attacked, and is currently missing. I need to go through the house here to make sure he’s not dead and stuffed in a closet, then I have to talk to some people on the way home. I don’t know how long—”
“Give me the address there.”
“Roarke, it’s in SoHo. There’s no need for you to come all the way down here on a night like this.”
“You can give me the address or I can find it for myself. Either way, I’m on my way.”
She gave him the address.
She’d gone through the top floor—both wings—before he got there. And could admit, seeing him and the go-cup of coffee he held out lifted her mood.
“I was going to make dinner.”
Those wonderful lips curved, then brushed hers. “Were you now?”
“Hand to God. Nothing cooking at the shop, so I was heading out, figured I might beat you home, and set up wine and candles and spaghetti right in the dining room.”
“I’ll treasure the thought.”
“Mira caught me. You don’t see her seriously shaken often, and she was. Mr. Mira contacted her when he came to—took the bash downstairs in the study—and asked her to bring me.”
“Of course he did. He’s an intelligent man.”
“I’ll give you the background as I look for possibly dead Edward, but tell me first, Mr. Buys the Entire World and Its Satellites, if you were going to buy this place, what would you give for it?”
“I haven’t done a full walk-through, but from what I’ve seen it’s beautifully preserved and maintained. Likely built in the 1930s. Round about six thousand square feet, and in this neighborhood? I expect I’d offer about ten. If I were selling, I’d ask fifteen.”
“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.”