Brotherhood in Death (4 page)

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.

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.”

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.”

“Mr. Dennis? Is he okay? What's this— Hell.” The woman cut herself off, buzzed them in.

A hallway cut the first floor in half, with doors to the maid service and the handyman business on either side. Another door at the back was marked
PRIVATE
.

It, too, buzzed open.

They took the stairs up to the second floor, and a pair of double doors. One of them swung open.

“Are you sure Mr. Dennis is okay? Who are you?”

“NYPSD,” Eve repeated, and once again offered her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Dallas? Dallas?” The woman had enormous eyes of bitter-chocolate brown and hair nearly the same color piled in a knot on top of her head. At the name, the eyes went big as planets. “Roarke? Dallas? I saw the vid, I listened to the book. Oh my sweet Jesus. Mel! Mel! Get out here. Something terrible's happened to the Miras.”

“Mrs. Robarts, calm down. The Miras are fine.”

“You're Homicide,” Sila snapped, pulling at the neck of a sweatshirt bearing her company's logo. “You think I don't
know
that?” she demanded as footsteps pounded in from the rear of the apartment. “You work with Miss Charlotte.”

“What happened to them?” The man who ran in moved fast for a big guy. He had to be two-fifty spread over about six foot two. An Arena Ball player's build. “Was there an accident?”

“I think they were murdered!”

“What? What?” The big guy grabbed his hysterical wife, and looked about to join her in the wailing parade. “Oh my God. My God! How—”

“Quiet!” Eve boomed it over the hysteria. “Both the Miras are fine, and probably sitting down eating dinner and maybe having a really big drink. Now everybody just calm the hell down, and sit the hell down!”

Tears rolled out of those bitter-chocolate eyes. “They're all right? You swear it?”

“If it'll stop the madness I'll sign an oath on it in my own blood.”

“Okay, sorry.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Sorry, Mel.”

“What the hell, Sila?”

“It's Dallas and Roarke.”

“Dallas and . . . somebody's dead.”

“A lot of people are dead,” Eve pointed out. “But none of them are Charlotte and/or Dennis Mira.”

“I got scared, that's all.” Sila sniffled. “I got so scared. They're family.”

“Then understand they're mine, too.”

“Mr. Dennis speaks highly of you. He came by when I was cleaning the big house, and listening to the book. The Icove book. I asked if he knew you, seeing as you worked with Miss Charlotte, and he said he did, and you were good, caring people. And courageous. I just love that man.”

“Okay.” Eve could relate. “He's okay.”

“I'm going to get you a glass of wine,” Mel said to his wife. “I can get you some wine,” he added to Eve and Roarke.

“Thanks, but on duty.”

“I'm not,” Roarke said cheerfully, “and I'd love a glass of wine.”

“I can get you something else, Miss Dallas. Coffee, tea maybe. Got Pepsi.”

“Pepsi?” Sila narrowed her still damp eyes. “Melville Robarts, you said you were cutting that out.”

The big man hunched his shoulders like a small boy caught swiping cookies. “Maybe there's a stray tube or two around.”

“I'll take it,” Eve said to settle the matter. “It's Lieutenant. You work for Dennis Mira, clean his grandfather's house.”

“Yeah, that's right. Look, let's sit down, like you said.”

Sila moved off into the living area, a comfortable space and so clean it nearly sparkled, sank into a high-backed chair of bold blue.

“My mama did for Judge Mira and Miss Gwen almost as long as I can remember. When I got old enough, I'd help out sometimes. Miss
Gwen, she passed. So sudden, too, and the judge, he just lost his heart, and he passed some months after. My mama still misses them. So do I.”

“Me, too.” Mel came in with a tray holding three glasses of red wine and one of iced Pepsi. “I did work for them around the house when they needed. That's how I first met Sila—we were sixteen. Is there trouble, Miss—Lieutenant Dallas?”

“There's trouble. Mr. Mira is fine,” she said again, “but he was attacked earlier this evening, in his grandfather's house.”

“Attacked? In the house?” Once again those dark eyes narrowed. “The senator went at him, didn't he? Couldn't push Mr. Dennis around with words, so he went at him.
Senator
Edward Mira. He's Mr. Dennis's cousin, though you wouldn't know they shared blood. Different as wet to dry.”

“Why would you think Edward Mira would attack Mr. Mira?”

“Because that man wants his own way, in everything. Nothing but a bully, and always was, if you ask me. I don't think much of him or his snooty wife. They have nice kids, though. Good people, and the kids' kids are as sweet as cherry pie. Did you arrest him?”

“No. He didn't attack Mr. Mira, and was, in fact, attacked himself. And he's missing.”

“I don't understand.”

“Mr. Mira walked in on the attack and was knocked unconscious. When he came to, Edward Mira was gone, as were the attackers.”

Sila took a gulp of wine, breathed out hard. “I'm sorry for what I said about him—it's the truth, but I'm sorry. Was someone trying to rob them? They've got really good security on that house. I never worried a minute about being there alone or with Mama or my girl.”

“When were you there last?”

“Just today, from about seven-thirty to about two-thirty. My daughter and I cleaned there today, and my mama came, too. She can't clean like
she used to, but she loves that house. We went over bright an' early, gave it top to bottom—that's once a month rotation. I swear to you, we set the alarms and the locks when we finished up.”

“Did anyone come to the door?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Have you noticed anyone, today or otherwise, who shouldn't be in the neighborhood? You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, and no, I haven't. It's a nice neighborhood. A few retired folks like the judge, and professionals, mostly. Doctors and lawyers and the like. Mr. Dennis came by every few weeks, just to say hello and spend some time in the house.”

“How about the senator?”

Her nose wrinkled. “More lately, with dollar signs in his eyes.”

“Sila.”

“I can't help it. He took some of the furniture—had it taken,” she corrected, “but Mr. Dennis said it was left to him and it was all right. I didn't tell Mr. Dennis how I overheard the senator talking on his 'link about appraisals for the pieces he took. It would have hurt Mr. Dennis's feelings to know what his grandparents loved was being sold to strangers.”

Eve asked more questions, digging into what she already sensed was fallow ground. When they rose to leave, Sila touched her arm.

“I want to contact Mr. Dennis, just want to hear his voice. I don't think I can settle down until I do. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Eve hesitated. “Give this about a week, but if you get a chance, maybe you could go back over there, clean the study. Crime Scene leaves dust.”

“You can bet I will.”

Eve brooded on their way uptown, then turned to Roarke.

“Selling furniture, wanting to sell the house. Some people are just greedy, but maybe you can take a good look at his finances. It could be
gambling debts, blackmail over an affair. Maybe he doesn't just want to sell. Maybe he needs to sell.”

“Permission to wiggle my fingers in someone else's finances is always delightful. Permission in this case, a veritable treat.”

“You really don't like him.”

“Not in the least.”

“Could he force Mr. Mira to sell?”

Smoothly, Roarke maneuvered around a mini, fishtailing on the slick streets. “I don't know the particulars, but if they own equal shares, I think it would be a considerable battle. Dennis could buy Edward out.”