Encore in Death, page 6
“And say what? I haven’t even started the murder board or book. I haven’t consulted with Morris. The media can just bite me.”
“Be sure to mention that to Nadine. I’ve no doubt she’ll be tagging you, and might even beat Whitney there.”
“Christ.” She took her coffee and her foul mood into the shower.
“It’s a heavy burden for our Eve, isn’t it?” He gave Galahad a long stroke. “We can paraphrase in that some are born in the limelight, some achieve the limelight, and some, like the Lieutenant, have the limelight thrust upon them.
“Let’s set her up with a full Irish. She’ll need the fuel.”
When she came out in a short white robe, he sat, scrolling through his tablet. She stared at him, this man of hers in his perfect power suit. The black silk hair glorious around a face kissed by clever angels.
And she damn well knew he enjoyed what she considered a monumental ass pain. Notoriety was a bitch.
“Nadine Furst is absolutely not writing a book about this bullshit.”
“Hmm. I believe she’s already at work on one highlighting the murderous cult you broke. And,” he said before Eve could speak, “you’ll have to agree it will, particularly in her skilled hands, bring that particular evil into the public consciousness.”
“Damn it.”
“Come now, sit and eat.” He patted the seat beside him. “You’ll need it.”
“You’re riding on all this.”
“Not the murder, no. I admired Brant Fitzhugh, as an actor, an activist, and a person. But I will ride on watching you hunt his killer, and have no doubt you’ll bring them to ground. And the rest, it’s not just fluff, Eve.”
She sat, muttering, “Seems pretty damn fluffy to me.”
“Not altogether. He deserves you and your team—every victim does, but he was an admirable sort of man, at least from what I know of him. The interest in his death, and the way he died, is a natural thing. And the reality is, you won’t be able to brush it aside, so best prepare for it.”
He lifted the covers off the plates and gained the cat’s attention. Galahad sauntered toward them, stopping only when Roarke aimed a long, cool look.
“If the killer had waited a couple weeks, we’d have been in Greece.”
He gave her knee a quick rub. “We’ll get there. Why don’t you tell me how you see it while we eat?”
“I’m not sure how I see it. Clearly, someone came planning to kill, and knew enough about their habits to know what kind of drink Lane goes for—or just used that moment as an opening.”
“They couldn’t know she wouldn’t drink it, and he would, so you’d be leaning toward Lane as the target.”
“Unless the killer slipped the poison into the glass when Fitzhugh moved across the room with the glass to watch her perform. People crowded in, and at that time, he didn’t have a drink of his own, just hers.”
“There’s that. Could it be it didn’t matter which one drank? Kill one, devastate the other?”
“Maybe.” She crunched into bacon. “You’d have to look at Vera there, and I will, as she held a grudge toward both of them. Seems stupid to kill that way, and she didn’t strike me as stupid. But wouldn’t it be satisfying to exact your revenge in that sort of a public way? Party time, and Lane’s up there in the spotlight. Devoted husband—the guy who tossed you for her, looking on devotedly. He’s about to head off to a major project, and she’s about to star in a major project.”
She ate, considered. “The same one that launched her long career, right? And there was a death there, too. Something about the actress cast in the role of the daughter back then overdosing. I have to look at that.”
“I couldn’t say, as I’d’ve been running the streets of Dublin at that time and more concerned with survival than Broadway musicals.”
“I need to look at it. There could be a connection. Somebody holding a really long grudge.” She shoveled in eggs as she thought it through. “Lane gets the spotlight because somebody dies. In a way, poisons themselves,” she said as Roarke topped off her coffee. “And here she is, using that same show to get all this media, the applause, maybe another whatever it is you get for plays. The statue thing.”
“A Tony.”
“Whatever. She got one all those years ago in the daughter role, I got that much. Now she’s going to try for another in the mother role.”
“A quarter century,” he commented. “A long time to wait.”
“It makes a circle. Maybe somebody connected to the original show, or more, to the original actor.” Eve shrugged. “It’s shaky, but worth some digging. Just like we’ll dig deeper in case one or both of them were smart about screwing around. Or if, say, Lane had some money issues we don’t know about. She’ll be raking it in from his estate. Other beneficiaries we’ll look at. She cleared us for a copy of his will.”
She frowned over a bite of egg. “Every single person we interviewed last night cooperated. Vera bitched, but she cooperated.”
“Any chance someone crashed the party?”
“I’ve thought about it. The security was tight, but it happens. Nobody used the private elevator. But you had a lot of those plus-one deals, so we’ll dig there. A couple hundred people in one space, a big space, but still one space. A lot of opportunity to poison a drink.
“I need to get started. Setting up a board should give me a clearer picture.”
She rose, went into her closet.
“I’ve an hour or so this morning. I could look into the financials, the victim and the widow.”
She poked her head back out. “You’re just looking to have more fun.”
“Always. I do know Fitzhugh formed his own production company a couple years ago, and they’ve done a few projects. One was up against the Icove vid for best picture. And, I believe, the one he was about to start, as lead, is the first he’d have been in as well as producing.”
“Maybe that pissed somebody off,” she called out as she stared blankly at the forest of clothes surrounding her. “Maybe one or both of them nixed some other actor from getting a part in these big deals they’re doing. Actors are weird, right?”
“Are they?” Roarke said from her open closet doors.
“They’ve got to be. They make their living pretending to be somebody else doing and saying the stuff that fake person says and does. Then somebody’s always whining they didn’t do it well enough.”
“That’s one way to look at it. You can go with black. You’ll be speaking to the widow again today, I imagine. But not severe, so a pastel shirt to soften it. Professional, but not funereal, as you’ll have that media conference as well.”
“Fine. Great.” She grabbed clothes at random. “I can maybe wheedle out of the media thing.”
He kissed her cheek, like a father to a naive child. “Good luck with that.”
She dragged on trousers, a pale blue tee, and came out for her weapon harness. “I can’t feed them what I don’t have.”
“Darling, you have quite a lot. And the fact is, you’re better at dealing with the media than you care to admit.”
“Yeah, but—” Her ’link signaled. Snatching it up, she frowned. “Nadine. I can ignore that.”
“And I repeat myself. Good luck with that, as she’ll just keep tagging until you answer. Or show up at Central with brownies.”
“Brownies make it go down easier,” she muttered, but knowing he had it right, she answered. “I got nothing but a dead guy and a couple hundred potential suspects. Don’t hound me.”
“What kind of poison? The word is cyanide, but it’s not confirmed.”
“Because it’s not confirmed.”
Nadine Furst, crime reporter, writer, friend, gave Eve a long look out of shrewd green eyes. She’d styled her blond hair, streakier than usual, in a sleek bob. A new look that framed her foxy face. She simply said:
“Dallas.”
“Morris has him, and Morris will confirm.”
“Cyanide in a champagne cocktail.”
Damn public crime scenes, Eve thought.
“I’m not prepared to confirm or deny.”
“I met them. Brant Fitzhugh and Eliza Lane.”
Eve shrugged into her jacket. “Why weren’t you at the party? Media types there.”
“Entertainment media types,” Nadine pointed out. “And I met them. We weren’t friends, not even really acquaintances. I met them at one of the after parties at the Oscars. They were both very gracious—very,” she repeated, “considering we beat them out on three of the major awards they were also nominated for. I liked them,” she added. “It wasn’t just the dazzle of the moment.”
Because she knew Nadine had an exceptional gauge, Eve decided to pump the source as she walked out of the bedroom. “How did they strike you as a couple? A married couple.”
“Happy, and in tune. While we were chatting, he slipped away, and came back with a drink for her. Champagne cocktail, twist of lemon. I’ve had time since I got word on this to look, and that’s her signature drink. How come he drank it?”
“Circumstances.” Then she decided what the hell. “He brought it to her, but she decided to do a number, and he ended up drinking it.”
“So she was the intended victim—some of the reports are hinting pretty strongly there.”
“That’s not what I said. I’d be careful there, Nadine.” Here she warned both reporter and friend. “We still have witnesses to interview, data to accumulate, and Morris has yet to confirm COD.”
“Give me something, any little thing.”
“The bartender who made the drink is clear. The victim stood there telling her just how to make it to his wife’s preferences. She couldn’t have slipped anything into the glass.”
“Okay, that’s a good little thing. What’s her name?”
“I bet a hotshot reporter like you can find that out. Shit, shit, I’ve got another tag. It’s Whitney. I have to go.”
“Wait—”
She didn’t, simply broke the transmission with Nadine and answered her commander as she walked into her office. “Sir.”
“I need a full report on the Fitzhugh investigation asap.”
“Yes, sir. I’m working from home right now. I’ll have the report to you within the hour.”
“Bring it with you. One hour, my office. We’ll have Kyung set up the media briefing at ten hundred hours.”
“Sir. I have a team meeting at the crime scene at nine hundred, to execute a full search. At that time I plan to follow up with Ms. Lane. She’s staying in the building with a friend. I have a man on the door. I would also like to consult with Morris, ascertain the official COD, and any other information he can provide.”
“The media’s already gone wild, Lieutenant.”
“I understand that, Commander, but I can’t possibly begin to tame that without some solid facts. And without determining which of those facts can and should be released to the public.”
He said nothing for a moment as his wide, dark face filled the screen. “Noon. We can hold it off until noon. This is going to be a media shit show, Dallas, so prepare for that. You’ll be giving updates regularly, even if it’s just repeating the same damn thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me that report.”
“Within the hour.”
When he clicked off, she scrubbed her hands over her face. “Don’t say it.”
“Now then, Eve, when have you known me to say I told you so?”
She shot him a stony stare. “How about now?”
He laughed. “I did sneak that in, didn’t I then? I’ll get started on those financials.”
She programmed more coffee and started on the board. As she printed out data and photos, she sat to write up the report. She’d rather have the book in place, the board set up so she could study it, but when Whitney said asap, he damn well meant it.
By the time she’d written the report, opened the murder book, Roarke came back in.
“You can’t have dug down that deep already.” She paused after adding another photo to the catering section of the board.
“I gave you the hour, and a bit more,” he began.
“It hasn’t been—hell, it has been that long. Damn it. Can you give me what you’ve got while I finish this?”
“I can, as I found nothing that hints at hidden accounts or shady practices. They have excellent business managers and share the same excellent financial advisers. They invest well, if conservatively, and are each very wealthy in their own right. He died worth about eight-point-six million. His production company is in the black—barely at this point, but it’s solid enough. She has a bit more, at about nine-point-two.
“They live well,” he continued. “Expenses are what you might expect given their financial status, their lifestyle and careers. And nothing indicates outlays that would support secret lovers.”
“Secret lovers are secret for a reason.”
“So they are,” he agreed. “But secrets cost to keep. He’s been more generous than she—particularly to Home Front—but she hasn’t been stingy about it. They pay their staff well, maintain their various residences—which is, at this point, the bulk of their debt. But it’s not a debt out of line with their income.”
He picked up her coffee from her command center, drank a little. “I can dig a bit more later, but my sense is there’s nothing there for your motive. Not from her to him, and not to anyone else. I suppose his will may tell a different story, but she certainly didn’t need his money to live her life as she’s used to living it.”
“Okay. So if that pans out and we can eliminate money and cheating as motives, we’re left with secrets, envy, and whack jobs as top of the lists. Thanks.”
“Anytime at all.”
“She had a whack job awhile back.”
“Did she?”
“A stalker. Ended up doing time in a whack job facility. He’s out, two months ago. I ran him on the way home. He lives in Queens. So we’ll pay him a visit, try his court-appointed therapist, too. I don’t see him getting through their security, but it’s possible.”
She tapped a photo, stepped back.
Ethan Crommell had shaggy brown hair, and the eyes of a puppy who might decide to take a quick bite at any moment. At thirty-eight, he had the look of a Zoner-head college student. Scruffy, soft, vaguely pretty.
“That’s his most recent ID shot, but you can see he hasn’t changed much from the one from his stalker days. She’d have recognized him, and so, I imagine, would Fitzhugh. Unless he’s become a master of disguise and got his hands on some swank clothes. Since he’s working as a stock boy at a market in Queens, I don’t think his income runs there.”
“He looks harmless at first glance,” Roarke remarked. “Then he doesn’t and not at all.”
“Yeah, not harmless, so a trip to Queens. If he’s still obsessed with Lane, that’s motive. Opportunity’s another thing. And where would someone like him get his hands on cyanide?”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out. I have to go.”
“Yeah, me, too, in a couple minutes.”
“I’ll wish you luck, Lieutenant.” He pulled her in for a kiss. “And see you take care of my cop.”
“If I have a lot of luck, I’ll be taking care of a killer.”
When he left, she looked back at her board. Vera Harrow and Ethan Crommell. Her two top suspects, such as they were, couldn’t have been more different.
“But … maybe one of you will give me a buzz today.”
Crime scene, she thought, Lane, Morris, and she really wanted to jam the lawyer in there and get a sense of Fitzhugh’s will before she met with Whitney.
And then the damn stupid annoying media conference.
“Better get started,” she murmured, but gave herself five minutes to sit there and just study the board.
5
Eve got to the scene early, unsealed the door. Inside the foyer, she stood, scanned the space, the distance from where she’d examined the body and the piano, the terrace doors.
The sweepers had examined the portable bars and cleared them, as well as the catering equipment in the kitchen, the dishes and serving platters.
At some point she’d need to let the caterer know they could take it all away.
Meanwhile, she crossed to the terrace doors, unlocked and opened them. The party debris remained, empty glasses, half-full glasses, plates, napkins, candles that had guttered out. The sweepers had done their job there, too, but she took the time to go over everything, search under cushions, inside pots of flowers and greenery.
From there, she moved into the main living area and did the same. Cushions, drawers, cabinets, behind paintings, closets.
When she heard someone mastering in, she laid a hand on her weapon. Then dropped it as Peabody came in first, followed by McNab.
Baxter, in one of his slick suits, and the earnest-eyed Trueheart came in behind them.
“Swank digs.” Baxter looked around, nodding in approval. “Superior swank digs. Shame about Fitzhugh,” he added. “I liked his work.”
“My mother has a major crush on him,” Trueheart said. “She tagged me this morning to ask if it was true about him being murdered.”
“Seal up. I’ve finished the terrace on this level, and nearly with this living space. McNab, you can hit the rest of the electronics. Master bedroom, second level’s also cleared. Peabody and I can take this level, Baxter and Trueheart the second floor. Oh, McNab, there are safes in the master bedroom closets, his and hers. Let’s open those up. And if we find more, the same.”
She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and looked around again. “There’s a third floor—assistants’ offices, two sitting rooms, bathrooms, a small kitchen, and a couple bedrooms. Clear what you can today, record everything.”
She blew out a breath. “I can give it another hour, two, tops, before talking to Morris. I have to meet Whitney and Kyung in Whitney’s office by noon.”
