Ryan and I indicated understanding.

“Rose’s father is the current patriarch, a sorry old bastard named Edward Allen. Not Ed. Not Al. Not E. A. Edward Allen. Rose was a black sheep, throughout her life refusing to follow any course Edward Allen deemed suitable. In 1968, instead of making her debut, she made the Tribune for assaulting a cop at the Democratic National Convention. Instead of enrolling at Smith or Vassar, she went off to Hollywood to become a star. Instead of marrying, she chose a lesbian lifestyle.

“When Rose turned thirty, Edward Allen pulled the plug. Deleted her from his will and forbade the family to have any contact.”

“Until she saw the light,” I guessed.

“Exactly. But that wasn’t Rose’s style. Thumbing her nose at Daddy, she chose to live on a small trust fund provided by Grandpa. Money Edward Allen was unable to touch.”

“A real free spirit,” I said.

“Yes. But things weren’t all sunshine and poppies. According to her partner, Janice Spitz, at the time of her disappearance, Rose was depressed and suffering from chronic insomnia. She was also drinking a lot.”

“That clicks with what we learned,” Ryan said.

“Did Spitz think she was suicidal?” I asked.

“If so, she never said.”

“So what gives?” I asked. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Two weeks ago, Edward Allen received an anonymous call at his home.”

Corcoran was always a blusher, did so often and deeply when embarrassed or anxious. He did so now.

“Concerning Rose’s death?” I asked.

Corcoran nodded, avoiding my eyes. I felt the first stirrings of uneasiness.

“What did this anonymous tipster say?”

“Walczak didn’t share that information with me. All I know is I was tasked with overseeing a review of the case from this end.”