Remember When

had a wife and child. This could make them targets."
    "Well, my God." As it struck home, Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. "I never thought of it.
    Never considered it."
    "Or the person who killed Andrea Jacobs and Tina Cobb may be connected to Crew. It may be his son, who's decided he wants to get back what he feels belonged to his father."
    "We always assumed... Everything my grandparents found out about Judith showed, clearly showed, she was doing everything she could to give her son a normal life. We assumed she succeeded. Just because his father was a murderer, a thief, a son of a bitch, doesn't mean the child took on his image. I don't believe we work that way, Lieutenant. That we're genetically fated. Do you?"
    "No." She glanced at Roarke. "No, I don't. But I do believe, whatever their parentage, some people are just born bad."
    "What a happy thought," Roarke murmured.
    "Not finished. However we're born, we end up making choices. Right ones, wrong ones. I need to find Westley Crew and determine what choices he made. This needs to be closed out, Samantha.
    It needs to end."
    "They'll never forgive themselves. If somehow this has come full circle and struck out at me, my grandparents will never forgive themselves for making the choice they made all those years ago."
    "I hope they're smarter than that," Roarke said. "They made a choice, for a child they didn't even know. If that child made choices as a man, it's on him. What we do with our lives always is."
    They left together, with Eve bouncing the new information in her head until she formed patterns.
    "I need you to find them," she said to Roarke.
    "Understood."
    "Coincidence happens, but mostly it's bullshit. I'm not buying that some guy read Gannon's book and got a hard-on for missing diamonds and decided to kill a couple of women in order to find them. He's got an investment in them, a connection to them. The book set it off, but the connection goes further back. How long before the book came out did the hype for it start?"
    "I'll find out. There will also be a list of some sort of people, reviewers, accounts and so forth, that were sent advance copies. You have to add word of mouth to that, I'm afraid. People the editorial staff, publicity and others might have spoken to."
    "We've got this great book coming out," Peabody began. "It's about this diamond heist right here in New York."
    "Exactly so. The man you're looking for might have heard of it over drinks somewhere. Might have an acquaintance or attended a party with one of the editors, a reviewer, someone in sales who spoke about it."
    "Won't that be fun to wade through? Get me the list," she repeated as they stepped out into the lobby. "And let me know who you put on her, security-wise. I want my people to know your people. Oh, and I need two box seats, Mets game."
    "Personal use or bribe?"
    "Bribe. Please, you know I'm a Yankees fan."
    "What was I thinking. How do you want them?"
    "Just send the authorization to Dickhead at the lab. Berenski. Thanks. I gotta book."
    "Kiss me goodbye."
    "I already kissed you goodbye this morning. Twice."
    "Third time lucky." He planted his lips firmly on hers. "I'll be in touch, Lieutenant." He strolled out. Even before he hit the sidewalk a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and a driver hopped out to open the door.
    Like magic, Eve thought.
    "I'd like to be in touch with him. Anytime. Anywhere. Any way."
    Eve turned her head slowly. "Did you say something, Peabody?"
    "Who, sir, me, sir? Nope. Absolutely not."
    "Good."
    ***
    She took the meeting with Mira next while Peabody ate lunch at her desk and updated the file. As far as food went, Eve figured Peabody had the better end of the stick.
    The Eatery was always crowded, always noisy, no matter what the time of day. It made Eve think of a public school cafeteria, except the food was even worse and most of the people chowing down were armed.
    Mira was there ahead of her and had a booth. She'd either gotten very lucky, Eve thought, or had used some clout to order one up earlier. Either way, a booth was a big step up from one of the tiny four-tops crammed together, or the counter service, where cop asses hung over the stingy stools.
    Mira wasn't a cop-technically-and sure as hell didn't look like one. She didn't, to Eve's mind, look like a criminologist, a doctor or a psychiatrist either. Though she was all of those.
    What she looked like was a pretty, well-dressed woman who might be seen browsing the high-end shops