J. Robb - Creation In Death

“We track it down. Start by getting full accountings from those facilities of these drugs. Any deviation, we take another push.”

“I can do this. A doctor for the dead’s still a doctor,” he added when she frowned at him. “I think I could help on this.”

“Take it to Peabody,” Eve repeated. “Work with her. I’ll check back with you when I’m done in here.”

I n the war room Roarke saved, copied, and printed out the real estate list. Curious, he took out his PPC to access the last few minutes of Eve’s briefing while he wandered out for another bottle of water. She looked, he thought, rough and tough-and if you knew her as he did, a little ragged around the edges.

She’d make herself ill if this wasn’t over soon, he concluded. Push herself until she, very literally, collapsed.

There was absolutely no point in nagging or browbeating her this time as he was in it too deeply himself. He switched off as she was finishing up, then shifted to communications.

He thought if he ordered a dozen pizzas, she’d at least end up eating something. And he could damn well do with some food himself at this point.

After returning to his station, he took a fresh look at his list. Lowell’s Funeral Home, Lower East location, he mused. Sarifina York’s memorial was being held there. Today, he remembered. He should go, pay his respects.

He called up the funeral home on his comp to check the time of the service. If he couldn’t get away from the work-and the living took precedence over the dead-he could and would at least send flowers.

He noted down the time, the address, the specific room where the memorial was scheduled to be held. Cleverly, he thought, the page linked to a local florist. Handy and quick, he decided, but he preferred to trust Caro for the floral tribute.

Thoughtfully, he glanced at the link labeled “History,” and tapped it. It might tell him more than the standard data he’d already unearthed from the records.

Moments later his eyes went cool, his blood went hot. Roarke glanced over at Feeney, who was pushing at his own search.

“Feeney. I believe I have something.”

EVE STOOD, HANDS FISTED ON HER HIPS, STUDYING the data Roarke ordered on wall screen.

“The property didn’t pop in the initial searches as it’s been retitled a number of times, and not officially owned by the same person, persons, or company for the time period you asked I check. But with a deeper search, the ownership is-buried under some clever cover-held by the Lowell Family Trust.”

“Funeral parlor. Death house.”

“Indeed. As you see from the website history, the building first belonged to the Lowell family in the early nineteen-twenties, used both as a residence and as a funeral home. James Lowell established his business there, and lived in residence with his wife, two sons, and one daughter. The older son was killed in the Second World War, and the younger, Robert Lowell, joined the business, taking it over at his father’s death. He expanded, opening other locations in New York and New Jersey.”

“Death’s a profitable business,” Eve commented.

“So it is. And more so during wartime. Robert Lowell’s eldest son, another James, joined in the business, residing in their Lower West Side location-they had a second by that time. During the Urbans, this location, the original, was used as a clinic and base camp for the Home Force. Many of the dead were brought there, and tended to by the Lowells, who were reputed to be staunch supporters of the HF.”

“The second James Lowell is too old.” With her hands on her hips, Eve studied the data. “There are some spry centurians, but not spry enough for this.”

“Agreed. But he, in turn, had a son. Only one child, from his first marriage. He was widowed when his wife died from complications in childbirth. And he subsequently remarried six years later.”

“Pop,” Eve said quietly. “Have we got the second wife? The son?”

“There’s no record of the second wife that we’ve found as yet. A lot of records were destroyed during the Urbans. And the databases were far from complete in any case.”

“It’s one of the reasons these clowns-the Lowells,” Feeney said, “were able to manipulate the records.”

“Likely for tax purposes at one time,” Roarke continued. “Changed the name from Lowell’s to Manhattan Mortuary during the Urbans-with a bogus sale of the building. Then to Sunset Bereavement Center, another sale, roughly twenty years ago, with a return-five years ago-to the original name, with another deed transfer in the officials.”

“Just kept switching.”

“With a bit of creative bookkeeping, I imagine,” Roarke confirmed. “It caught my interest when I read that a Lowell has been at the helm of the business for four generations. Interested enough, I scraped away a bit.”

“The man’s got a golden e-shovel,” Feeney commented, and gave Roarke a slap on the back.

“Well, digging in, it turns out that the Lowell Family Trust owned companies that owned companies, and so on, which included the ones who ostensibly purchased the building.”

“Meaning they’ve been there all along.”

“Exactly so. And on the last generation, Robert-named for his grandfather-we have this.”

He pulled up the ID shot and data. Eve stepped closer to the screen, frowned. “He doesn’t look like Yancy’s sketch. The eyes, yes, maybe the mouth, but he doesn’t look like the sketch. Age is right, professional data, okay. Address in London.”

“Which is the English National Opera,” Feeney put in. “We ran it.” He tapped the image on screen. “Could Yancy have been this far off?”

“Never known him to be. And we have two wits verifying. That’s not him.” Eve shoved her fingers through her hair. Time to move. “Print it out. I want a team of five: Feeney, Roarke, Peabody, McNab, Newkirk. We’ll pay a visit to a funeral home. I want the team ten minutes behind me.”

“Ten?” Roarke repeated.

“That’s right. It’s time to open that window a little wider. Time’s moving for Ariel Greenfeld. And this might be when he makes his move on me, either en route to this place or when I’m inside it.”

She held up a hand as Yancy came in. “Feeney, get us a warrant. I don’t want any trouble going through that building. Yancy, give me a face.”

“Here she is.”

A strong face, Eve thought. Strong and very feminine, almond-shaped eyes, slim nose, a wide, full mouth, and a cascade of dark hair. She was smiling, looking directly out. Her shoulders were bare but for two slim, sparkling straps. Around her neck was a glittering chain holding a pendant in the shape of a tree.

Tree of Life, Eve remembered. “Well, son of a bitch.” Another point for the Romanian psychic.

“Callendar, get a copy of this face. Find her. Run a data match for her picture. Search the newspapers, the magazines, the media reports from 1980 through 2015. Cross-check her with opera.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yancy.” Eve jerked her chin at the image still on screen. “That’s what his official ID has him looking like.”

“No.” Yancy just shook his head. “No way. Trina had him. This is a relative, maybe. Brother, cousin. But that’s not the guy Trina gave me, or the one Ms. Pruitt described from Tiffany’s.”

“Okay. Morris, you all right working on the meds alone?”

“I can handle it.”

“You get a hit, I get the buzz. Let’s move it, people. Ten minutes at my back. And nobody comes inside until I give the signal.”

“Sarifina York’s memorial is being held there,” Roarke reminded her. “It would be completely appropriate for me to pay my respects.”

Eve gave it a moment’s thought. “Ten minutes at my back,” she repeated. “Unless I signal sooner, you come on in to pay your respects. Get us that warrant, Feeney.”