Page 66 of Passions in Death
Along the way, five years before ChiChi came along, they opened Abuela’s. Six years later, they bought the building.
Nothing she found indicated anything but a large, hardworking, savvy family. No doubt if she dug into each one, she’d find some bumps, some issues, some problems, but unless she hit on something that applied to her investigation, she’d stay out of that rabbit hole.
She zeroed in on ChiChi.
Private school education, dance lessons. She unearthed several articles giving her raves for school musicals. Which explained the major in theater, at least at the start of her college career.
That switched to business major third year in.
Two dings for assault, charges dropped. Anger management required.
Worked as a server, then a line chef at the restaurant. And at twenty-one started as a dancer at the club. Worked her way up to headliner within a year.
And it paid, Eve noted. It paid damn well. From what she could see, Lopez reported her tips. Probably not all of them, but enough to keep the tax man from knocking on her door.
No cohabs, no marriages, no civil unions.
Picking through the finances, Eve noted she continued to take dance classes, spent a hell of a lot on clothes—most custom tailored—more on salons and spas.
She had weekly payments to a Dr. Rene Koons—a shrink on the Lower West Side. Another weekly to a Stefan Michael, a masseur.
And several payments over the last eight years to the gallery where Erin sold her work.
She glanced up when Roarke walked in.
“Lopez has two dings for assault—mandatory anger management fulfilled. She sees a shrink every week. Might still have those anger issues. Started off as a theater major in college, switched to business major halfway through. Kind of a star in school musicals prior, so maybe she couldn’t cut it in a bigger pool of talent. And maybe some of the anger issues come from there. She’s spent a good chunk of change at the gallery where Erin has some of her work.”
“She invests well—smart investments. It’s easy enough to find—through her insurance—how much of that chunk of change went for Erin’s art. I’ll look at it. For now, I can tell you she invests well, has no hidden accounts, is very careful with her accounting. She’s in excellent financial shape.”
Walking to her workstation, he programmed coffee for himself. “As are her siblings and parents. I can go back further if you like, but there’s a pattern. Work hard, invest wisely, live within your means, but live well.”
“The money—from the increase in art value—that would be a bonus, not the main driver. Feelings, passions, anger, sex—that would drive this. I keep coming back to that. What does a woman with a solid family, solid financials, living how she appears to want to live need weekly shrink sessions for? And why is she so pissed off?”
“I couldn’t say, but I can see you have a thought on it.”
“Because at the end of the day, she’s alone. She comes from a family where people end up married and popping out more family, and she’s alone. She’s got an older brother, age thirty-one, married two years ago, already has a kid. Younger sister got married last May. She has no cohab on record. She may have wanted Erin Albright to fill that spot.”
Pushing up, Eve paced. “She’s got that nice house, nice neighborhood, and she lives alone in it. She clicks with Albright, the struggling artist. She could make life easier for her. Move in with me, don’t worry about rent, concentrate on your art. Your art and me.”
Pausing, she studied the board. “Lopez’s family knew Albright, so Lopez brought her around.”
“You’re thinking for approval.”
As usual, he followed her line of thinking.
“It’s possible, more probable. I’d bet she didn’t bring all her bed partners around to meet her abuela. She didn’t like Hunnicut, and most of that, it strikes me, comes from jealousy. They both wanted Erin Albright, but Shauna Hunnicut got her.”
“You sound half-convinced. Not all the way convinced.”
“Half’s about right. If she did it, what did she do with the murder weapon, the jewelry she took off the body, the ’link?”
“Little time to dispose of it all.”
And that was the sticker, Eve admitted.
“Little, but not no time. Maybe fifteen minutes. But nobody noticed her missing for that long. So it’s a stretch.”
“An accomplice,” Roarke suggested. “A family member or lover—or someone she promised sex to. Take the things to the back door, pass them off.”
