Encore in Death, page 11
“Detective, I love your boots. Ride ’em, cowgirl. And you must be Lieutenant Dallas.” He offered a hand. “We didn’t meet at the unfortunate event last night.”
“No, we didn’t. We have some questions.”
“I’ll do my best to answer them. Do you mind if we walk over there? Craft services has the world’s best lemonade, and some shade.”
Taking their assent for granted, he started toward a trio of carts, several picnic-style tables, all under a big awning.
“We lost a legend last night,” he began. “It was my first time meeting Brant in person.”
“You came with Ms. Harrow.”
“With Vera, yes. Three lemonades, Dru darling. You’ll thank me,” he said to Eve and Peabody.
“You spoke to Mr. Fitzhugh shortly before his death.”
“I did, and it was a thrill. I’ve been a fan since I was a boy, and my years in the business haven’t jaded me. In fact, the opposite. To have maintained that career, that level of professional and creative excellence?” Estaban shook his head as he passed Peabody, then Eve, a cup of lemonade. “A legend.”
He took his own, gestured to an empty table. “Here, I’m playing a new love interest for our aspiring actress, who works at the Café Olé. It won’t work out, but it’ll be fun while it lasts. I’m a major league pitcher,” he explained, “and I can’t count the hours of training I’ve done for the handful of minutes I’ll be on the mound. And there’s Brant, decades of work—the riding, the swordplay, the fight scenes.” He shook his head again.
“How would you describe your relationship with Vera Harrow?”
“Oh. Gloriously sexual,” he said, and beamed that killer smile.
8
“Okay. That’s it?”
Estaban laughed. “I failed to shock you. Vera is a beautiful woman, an energetic one. We enjoy a robust physical relationship. It won’t last, of course, any more than my ballplayer and the wannabe actress, but we enjoy the moment. I enjoy her. She has a biting wit, a towering talent. And she’s generous.”
“How long have you been involved?”
“Who keeps track?” He drank some lemonade. “A month or two, I think. Yes, a couple of months now. We met at a party, hit it off. So we ditched our dates, went back to her place, and had glorious sex.”
He drank again. “She likes that I’m younger and not nearly on the same level as she is professionally. I like that she’s older. More mature women are so interesting—they’ve lived, they understand who they are and what they want.”
With a smile, he gave an elegant shrug. “And, without shame, I like that at her level she may help boost my career. We’re media hounds, Vera and I. If the paparazzi want to snap pictures of us naked on her rooftop terrace, it’s press. And fortunately, we both look very good naked.”
“Being a guest at a party where a major celebrity’s murdered generates press.”
“It certainly does.” He agreed with ease. “I’ve already done an in-person interview in studio this morning, conducted three others via ’link, and I’m booked on Screen Talk tonight. Brant Fitzhugh’s dead, and I can’t change that.”
He spread his fingers, and as Peabody said, looked directly in Eve’s eyes. “I wasn’t blowing smoke about being a fan. I can’t count the number of times, as a boy, as a man, I’ve seen The Sorcerer’s Quest or Hunt the Dark. But I can’t change what happened, and I have to work at my own career.”
“How does Vera feel about his death?”
“She’s shaken more than she’ll let show, if I’m a judge. A shitheel—that’s how she described him before this happened. You don’t end things with Vera, you see. She ends it.”
He shrugged again. “So Brant would forever be the Shitheel, and Eliza the Whorehound. But last night, she was shaken. Physically as well as emotionally. I took her out to the terrace for air, she was so pale, got her a brandy from the bar there to help steady her. It’s the first time I’ve seen her vulnerable.
“Some part of her loved the Shitheel.” He polished off his lemonade. “It may be in the way you love what you lose, but it’s still a kind of love, isn’t it?”
“Some people hurt what they love,” Eve countered. “Especially if they’ve lost it.”
“I guess that’s true. But I’d say, again if I’m a judge, Vera’s more the kick-you-in-the-balls type than the cyanide-in-the-champagne sort.”
“Eliza Lane might have drunk the champagne, and she doesn’t have balls to kick.”
“Hmm.” He sat back, and those deep, dream-god eyes went to calculating. “Now, that’s a thought, isn’t it? We were standing fairly close to Brant when he stepped through to watch Eliza sing. It seems to me, if Vera had gone crazy, decided to poison Eliza, she could have easily stopped Brant from drinking. Just knocked the glass out of his hand, for instance. Oops!”
“How close?”
“Ah, let me think. I was on Vera’s right. Yes, on her right. There was someone—another woman—thirty-something, redhead, attractive—on Vera’s other side. And someone just behind her and Brant, just to his right. I can’t tell you who else. We were all sort of massed together in the moment.”
The woman with orange hair came bounding back. “Rico, we really need you for the long shot.”
“Right there. Is there anything else?” he asked Eve.
“Not right now. We appreciate your time and cooperation.”
“It was my first murder.” He rose. “I really hope I live the rest of my life without an encore. And I really hope you catch whoever killed him. I was, sincerely, a fan.”
Eve signaled Peabody to walk back to the barricade.
“Let’s see if we can talk to Samantha Keene. See if you can find out where she is. We’ll take her, and another shot at Vera Harrow.”
While Peabody set it up, Eve checked in with the search team.
“We’ve cleared the second and third floors,” Baxter told her. “There’s a lot of stuff, a lot of space, boss, but so far nothing hinky. I’m going to say these people know how to live. Or he did until he didn’t.”
“What’s McNab’s status?”
“He’s still up there. When we broke for eats, he’d finished with the vic’s assistant’s e’s and was into the first of Lane’s assistants. No hinky there, either, so far. If any of these people killed Fitzhugh, they were damn careful about sweeping up bread crumbs.”
“Yeah, they would be. Anything otherwise?”
“We did have one guy get to the door here—main level. Pulled the flower delivery shtick. Reporter, bribed one of the tenants to pass him up to their floor, used the stairs to get up here. Building security spotted him.”
One way to crash a party—maybe. “He made it all the way to the main level door?”
“They alerted us when they spotted him coming up the stairwell. Quick response on their end, boss. They got up here when he’s hitting the buzzer on the door. Escorted him down and out.”
Then he grinned. “Dropped the flowers when security nabbed him. Trueheart’s taking them to his mom.” Anticipating an objection, he shrugged. “They were just going to lie there and die otherwise.”
“Right.” Flowers were the least of her concerns. “Let me know your status at end of shift. If you can’t clear it all, pick it up in the morning. Tell McNab the same.”
“Got that. You know, Dallas, I started out thinking this was my dream house, but there’s just too damn much of it. You’d have to have the domestics or droids—they don’t have any droids—the assistants and whatever the fuck poking around all the damn time. The whole third floor’s basically laid out for assistants, and the domestics have a space about the size of my apartment down here.”
He shook his head. “How’s a guy supposed to walk around naked with all these people around?”
“That’s one benchmark for city living. Dallas out.”
“I’m trying not to imagine Baxter walking around naked in his apartment, and failing.” Peabody scrubbed at her eyes. “Samantha Keene’s just out of dance class. She wants us to meet her at Footlights. It’s a café off Broadway. She’s heading there now.”
“Plug in the address.”
As she did, Eve’s ’link signaled. When she saw Nadine on the readout, she took it on her wrist unit.
“Dallas.”
“You made an arrest.”
“Did I?”
“Ethan Crommell, convicted of stalking Eliza Lane, assaulting Brant Fitzhugh, trespassing, harassment, and so on.”
“Oh yeah, that arrest.”
“My sources say he’ll be returned to the Gordon Institution to serve out his sentence, and face additional charges of assault with a deadly on a police officer—betting that’s you—and resisting arrest. He’s not currently being charged with Fitzhugh’s murder.”
“The investigation is active and ongoing.”
“Uh-huh. Since notified of Crommell’s release on parole, Lane’s building security, the security in the building where Upstage was in workshops, the Crystal Gardens Theater where they’ll move into rehearsals, the security in the building housing the offices for the New York base of Fitzhugh’s production company all have Crommell’s description, his photo, and instructions to detain him for the police should he attempt to enter.”
Nadine held up a finger before Eve could get a word in.
“Building security at Lane’s residence maintains, firmly, Crommell didn’t attempt to enter last night, and hasn’t attempted to enter at any time since his release.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“A girl keeps her hand in.” And Nadine polished the fingernails of that hand on her shoulder. “I’ve researched him, Dallas. He’s an obsessed fan with serious issues and delusions, in mandatory lockup and therapy for nearly three years. Supposedly rehabilitated enough to meet the standards for parole.”
“Not nearly enough, but not a suspect in the murder of Brant Fitzhugh.”
“Not nearly enough why, and why not a suspect?”
She could blow Nadine off, but calculated. If she had to do another media briefing—and odds were—she’d address all this anyway. And beyond friendship, it never hurt to have a skilled crime reporter with integrity on your side.
“During a routine interview with Crommell at his residence, as he had taken a sick day from his place of employment, the investigators found what could be called a shrine to Eliza Lane, a small area papered with her photographs and other memorabilia. When confronted with this discovery, as his probationary release was precluded on his controlling his obsession with Ms. Lane, Crommell attempted to stab the primary investigator with scissors it appeared he used to create a scrapbook containing more photos and memorabilia pertaining to Ms. Lane.”
“Did he cut you?”
“I said ‘attempted,’ but thanks for asking.”
Concern turned to amusement. “Need to get any and all facts.”
“Right. Crommell was restrained and transported to formal interview, at Cop Central, with Dr. Charlotte Mira in attendance for psychiatric observation and evaluation. During the course of the interview, the investigators and Dr. Mira concluded that while it was extremely unlikely Crommell had any part in the death of Brant Fitzhugh, his mental and emotional state, his delusions and intentions made him a danger to himself and others. In addition to his violation of the conditions of his parole, he was charged with assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon and resisting arrest.”
“Nice report, Lieutenant, but it doesn’t actually answer the questions.”
“Off the record.”
“Shit.” Nadine puffed out air, frustrated air. “Damn it. Fine. We’re off.”
“He’s batshit, Nadine, and thinks Lane talks to him, is begging him to save her. They’ve done this dance throughout time, right? Past-life crap. He’s just not capable of planning something like Fitzhugh’s death and carrying it out—even if he could’ve gotten in the building, had known about the party, been able to access cyanide. And if he had? He’d have said so. It’s his mission in this life and all his delusionary lives to reunite with Lane and live with her under rainbows while they ride unicorns or whatever.
“He didn’t kill Fitzhugh,” she concluded. “So the investigation is active and ongoing.”
“Give me a nugget.”
“All that wasn’t a nugget? Wasn’t that a nugget?” Eve asked Peabody, who just shrugged to stay neutral.
“Try this. Who’s the last person you talked to—regarding the murder?”
When Peabody shrugged again, Eve decided why not. “Rico Estaban.”
“Ah, the Holiday Hunk. It wouldn’t be Christmas without seeing Estaban, bare-chested, near a Christmas tree. He’s Vera Harrow’s latest boy toy. They came together?”
“That’s right. He isn’t a suspect at this time and was cooperative.”
Smiling, Nadine tapped a finger on her temple. “Hmmmm. ‘At this time’ makes me wonder if I should tag him up, get an interview.”
“I can tell you he’d jump at it. He may be able to serve you up some dish, but other than bouncing on Harrow, he’s not connected.”
“The dish could do. About Harrow—”
“Gee, this was fun. We really have to do it more often.”
And Eve cut her off. Peabody had to laugh.
“I’m surprised you didn’t do that sooner.”
“It passed the time and helped me lay it out again in my own head.”
She veered into a loading zone, flipped her On Duty.
“Crommell has motive but no skill, no brains for it, and no opportunity. Estaban’s going to have skill, brains, had opportunity, but no motive. Add Estaban’s focused on himself, his career, and his own pleasures.”
Gauging the traffic lumbering down the side street, Eve waited, waited, then pushed out to skirt around the hood of the car to the sidewalk.
“You could project Harrow saying, ‘Drop this cyanide in the Shitheel’s glass, and I’ll make you the star he was.’ But I don’t see him trusting her enough to kill for her. It puts him on the hook. Now, say she said, ‘Look the other way, give me a little cover while I drop this poison in the Shitheel’s glass—or the Whorehound’s’? Yeah, maybe.”
“And if we busted her for it?” Peabody put on her shocked face. “‘Oh my God, I can’t believe she did it! I was standing right there.’ And get lots and lots of media attention if she went down for it.”
As they walked the half block to the café, Peabody sighed. “If it turns out that way, or close to it, I’m never going to be able to watch him catch the Christmas-loving heroine when she slips off the stepladder while hanging the shining star on the top of the tree, then go in for the long, slow kiss. I resent that.”
“Your loss would be, of course, the major downside.”
“It’s a personal downside.”
Footlights hummed with voices. Its fake brick walls displayed dozens of photos of what she assumed were Broadway stars, troupes, productions. Couples and groups filled tables and booths, most of which had backpacks or duffel bags crammed beneath. Waitstaff chattered with them while they served fizzy water, iced coffee or tea, oddly colored protein drinks, and smoothies.
A few sat on stools at the bar where a blender whirled, making those smoothies.
She spotted Samantha alone at a booth, frowning into a smoothie.
Given its army-green color, Eve would have frowned, too.
The pretty young blonde had her hair twisted into a single braid and wore a short-sleeved black sweater over a pink tank and a minuscule black skirt.
No makeup, Eve observed—or none that showed. No jewelry but for the trio of tiny studs curving up both ears.
She looked up as Eve approached, and her bright blue eyes lost the frown. “Eve Dallas. Wow. Detective Peabody, we talked a little last night. Please, sit down. I appreciate you meeting me here. I didn’t want to talk about this at my apartment. My roommate’s at an audition, but I’m not sure when she’d come back.”
“No problem.”
She had a voice as clear as church bells, and tired eyes.
“I was sitting here wondering why I ordered a kale and berry smoothie when what I really want is a double espresso.”
She shrugged, downed a gulp of the smoothie. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“Understandable.”
A waitress glided up. “What can I get you today?”
“Got Pepsi?”
“We do.”
“Diet version for me,” Peabody told her.
“Coming right up. How’s the smoothie, Sam?”
“You make the best.” She smiled, then sighed again when the waitress moved on. “They’re horrible. Or, they’re not if you like kale and berry smoothies. But sometimes I ask myself does anyone, does anyone really? And I’m making small talk, my way of procrastinating.”
“Last night was a shock.” Peabody spoke gently, all sympathy.
“God, yes. I’ve played it over and over in my head—who can sleep?—and it still doesn’t seem real.”
“How well did you know Brant Fitzhugh?” Eve asked her.
“Well enough to know he was a sweetheart. He dropped in on workshops a few times. After I got the part, they had me over for dinner. Eliza and I worked at their place a few times. He was just so nice—not that I-have-to-be-nice-or-she’ll-bitch-about-me, but real.”
Tears swirled into her eyes as the waitress brought the drinks.
“Just shout out if you need anything.” The waitress rubbed a hand on Samantha’s shoulder before she left them.
“I really liked him. I liked watching them together. They’re good together, and witty and fun. My parents divorced when I was nine, so it felt good to see a couple who genuinely liked each other.”
“How about Eliza? Do you like her? Please be honest.”
“Absolutely. I won’t say she’s a sweetheart, not like Brant. If you screw up a number or miss a line too many times, she’ll sure as hell let you know it. But she’ll work with you until you get it right. And she’ll let you know you got it right. She’s exacting, and I’m learning a lot. She’s, obviously, old enough to be my mother, and there are times I can barely keep up.”
