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just want to live my life.“
    Eve ended the transmission, tipped back in her chair. She was betting the letters were what the killer had been after.
    With Peabody she went back to Hopkins’s apartment for another thorough search.
    “Letters Bobbie wrote that confirm a child she had with Hop. Letters or some sort of document or recording from Hop that eventually led his grandson to Serenity Massey. Something that explosive and therefore valuable,“ she said to her partner. “I bet he had a secure hidey-hole. Security box, vault. We’ll start a search of bank boxes under his name or likely aliases.“
    “Maybe he took them with him and the killer already has them.“
    “I don’t think so. The doorman said he walked out empty-handed. Something like that, figuring the value, he’s going to want a briefcase, a portfolio. Guy liked accessories – good suit, shoes, antique watch – why miss a trick with something that earns one? But… he was hunting up money. Maybe he sold them, or at least dangled them.“
    “Bygones?“
    “Worth a trip.“
    At the door, Eve paused, turned to study the apartment again. There’d be no ghosts here, she thought. Nothing here but stale air, stale dreams.
    Legacies, she thought as she closed the door. Hopkins left one of unfulfilled ambitions, which to her mind carried on the one left by his father.
    Bobbie Bray’s granddaughter had worked hard to shut her own heritage out, to live simply. Didn’t want to be Bobbie Bray’s legacy. Eve recalled.
    Who could blame her? Or anyone else for that matter.
    “If you’re handed crap and disappointment – inherited it,“ Eve amended, “what do you do?“
    “Depends, I guess.“ Peabody frowned as they headed down. “You could wallow in it and curse your ancestors, or shovel yourself out of it.“
    “Yeah. You could try to shine it up into gold and live the high life – like Hopkins. Obsess over it like Bray’s daughter. Or you could shut the door on it and walk away. Like Bray’s granddaughter.“
    “Okay. And?“
    “There’s more than one way to shut a door. You drive,“ Eve said when they were outside.
    “Drive? Me? It’s not even my birthday!“
    “Drive, Peabody.“ In the passenger seat, Eve took out her ppc and brought up John Massey’s military ID data. She cocked her head as she studied the photo.
    He’d been young, fresh-faced. A little soft around the mouth, she mused, a little guileless in the eyes. She didn’t see either of his grandparents in him, but she saw something else.
    Inherited traits, she thought. Legacies.
    Using the dash ‘link, she contacted police artist Detective Yancy.
    “Got a quick one for you,“ she told him. “I’m going to shoot you an ID photo. I need you to age it for me.“

Eight
    Eve had Peabody stop at the bank Hopkins had used for his loan on Number Twelve. But there was no safety deposit box listed under his name, or Bray’s, or any combination.
    To Peabody’s disappointment, Eve took the wheel when they left the bank.
    She couldn’t justify asking Roarke to do the search for a safety deposit box, though it passed through her mind. He could no doubt pinpoint one, if one was there to be pinpointed, faster than she could. Even faster than EDD. But she couldn’t term it a matter of life and death.
    Just a matter of irritation.
    She put in a request to Feeney to assign the task to EDD ace, and Peabody’s heartthrob, Ian McNab while she and Peabody headed back to Bygones.
    “McNab will be so completely jazzed about this.“ Smiling – as if even saying his name put a dopey look on her face – Peabody wiggled in the passenger seat. “Looking for a ghost and all that.“
    “He’s looking for a bank box.“
    “Well yeah, but in a roundabout way, it’s about Bobbie Bray and the ghost thereof. Number Twelve.“
    “Stop saying that.“ Eve wanted to grip her own hair and yank, but her hands were currently busy on the wheel. She used those hands to whip around a farting maxibus