Encore in Death, page 8
“You’re cleared to give them TOD and COD,” Whitney told her. “Much of the rest is, well, theater. But it’s necessary.”
“Lane is, at my request, working on a statement of her own. I also requested she run it by me before issuing it. I think running it by Kyung makes more sense.”
“I’ll see to that,” Kyung agreed. “If you, and Detective Peabody, if available, will meet me in the media room in forty minutes.”
“I’ll attend. I won’t speak.” Whitney sat again. “I’m window dressing—and reassurance and support, as is Chief Tibble, who will also attend. Theater,” he said again, “and when the show’s over, you’ll get back to work.”
He paused a moment. “I’d like an update on the investigation into the stabbing case when you have it.”
Before she could speak, Peabody knocked and stepped in. “I’m sorry, I was delayed. I spent a little more time with Ms. Lane, helping her and her assistant with her statement.”
“You have it?”
“I have a copy,” she told Eve. “I promised we’d clear it asap.”
“If you’d send it to me, Detective, I’ll see to that,” Kyung said.
“Did you get anything else out of Lane?” Eve demanded.
“Not really. She’s holding up reasonably well. Her assistant, that’s Dolby, broke down a couple times, and she did better when she focused on him. She has a lot of questions, and I gave her the standard. Media’s camped out, and security’s run a few pushier types out of the building.”
She let out a breath. “I checked in with the team on the crime scene before I left. Nothing that pops on the electronics so far, and there’s still a lot to go through in the residence, but nothing that pertains as yet.”
“Keep me informed.” Whitney tapped his wrist unit. “Forty minutes, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Peabody, with me.” She strode out, decided not to even attempt the elevators, so headed back to the glides. “Media bullshit in forty, and that’s after the mayor does a song and dance. COD and TOD confirmed, and Fitzhugh died healthy and fit. I need you to go through the guest list, start doing some runs on the plus-ones. The brass is going to overwhelm us with help on that kind of thing, but you get going on it. I’ll do the same with the invited types.”
“Okay.” Peabody slipped her PPC back in her pocket. “Statement to Kyung—it’s a good one, I think. She’s not an idiot, and kept it brief, with a plea for privacy she knows she won’t get.”
“We’re heading to Queens to shake down her former stalker after the media circus. We should have both wills by then, so you can go through them on the way. We’ll flag any beneficiary who was at the party, or connected to someone who was, take a harder look. I want us—you, me, our division if necessary, EDD—to handle as much of this as possible before they send in officers to assist in the investigation. If we need to, we’ll pass on some of the drone work, but that’s it unless we stall.”
“Jeez, we haven’t had time to stall.”
“Fucking A,” she said, and swung into Homicide. “Plus-ones—wrap it up in thirty.”
She headed straight to her office, sat down, and ordered the guest list on-screen. A long list, she thought, but she’d had longer. And damn it, she didn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, could’ve cared less about scope and theater and whatever the fuck.
She cared about murder, the victim, and hunting the killer.
She’d do the damn media briefing—no choice anyway, but she’d do it because Kyung wasn’t wrong. It was part of the job—a tiny sliver of an ass-pain part, but part.
But she’d avoid the “help” coming her way for as long as possible. If you scattered the work into too many other hands, in her opinion, you risked having something slip through the fingers.
On the thirty-minute mark, she broke away, allowed herself a full minute of creative mental cursing. Then walked into the bullpen.
Peabody rode solo in the detective area.
“Jenkinson and Reineke lured their prime suspect on the Dobson case into Interview. They think they’ve got him.”
“Good. Let’s go get this bullshit over with. I’ve got three soft connections that we’ll dig into,” Eve added as they started out.
“I’ve got one, but it’s almost squishy soft.”
“We’ll work them and keep eliminating. Stalker Guy’s the most promising right now, if we can place him at the party—which heads into the squishy—or find a cohort. Catering staff or a plus-one’s most likely there.”
“You’d need somebody who’d kill for him.”
“Yeah, either because hey, that’ll be fun, or profitable if he’s got any ready cash, or through blackmail or other pressures. It’s worth a trip to Queens, even if it’s just another elimination.”
Eve suffered the elevator because, as far as she was concerned, this entire deal was suffering.
“Say Lane was the target,” Peabody speculated. “It could come down to competition. She snags a lot of major parts—stage and screen. Major vids, guest spots, important interviews, endorsements. Maybe we look to see somebody who was up for a big part, and she got it instead.”
“Same goes for him, right? But yeah, we look there, too. Roarke told me Fitzhugh’s newish, I guess it’s ‘ish,’ production company’s doing some solid stuff. Looking at him as the target again, somebody whose project didn’t get picked up, or again, somebody who didn’t get a part, or a job.”
She rolled it over, again and again, then ultimately pushed off the elevator as more pushed on. Enough suffering.
“It feels personal. Not the method, as poison creates a distance. But the choice of when and where. The party, the celebration, and just before Lane goes into rehearsals, and Fitzhugh leaves to start a big shoot. That’s a deliberate choice.”
On the glide, she turned to face Peabody. “I’ve looked at their calendars and appointment books. Busy. Lots of events, parties, galas, red carpet crap. Lots of opportunity, right, for just exactly what went down. But you pick this time, this place. Their home. That’s personal.”
Hopping off the glide, Eve walked toward the media room.
Kyung waited, signaled to her.
“You’re prompt. Appreciated. The mayor’s just finishing up. Detective Peabody, if you’d stand to the lieutenant’s right, and be prepared if any questions are addressed to you. Chief Tibble and Commander Whitney will be on the left, and also prepared to take the podium if necessary. Lieutenant, Ms. Lane’s statement is on the podium screen. She’s asked that you read it. Well done, Detective. It’s brief, clear, and just emotional enough.
“Excuse me.”
Kyung walked out where questions still flew like manic butterflies. In his smooth way, he stepped beside the mayor, took charge.
“Thank you. Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody will give an update from the investigative area. Chief Tibble and Commander Whitney remain available to answer any relevant questions. Thank you, Mayor, for your time and information.”
With that, he effectively shifted the focus from politics to cop work.
“Lieutenant. Detective.”
Eve stepped out, and Peabody took her place. She knew cameras whirled, and in studios some talking head blathered.
She spotted Nadine, front row—no flies on her—in the packed seats.
“I’ll begin by reading, at her request, a statement from Mr. Fitzhugh’s widow, Eliza Lane.
“‘My heart is broken from the sudden, inexplicable death of my husband, my partner, my life mate. Brant Fitzhugh was a man filled with love and talent and kindness, and the world is a darker place without his light shining. It is my deepest hope that the authorities identify and apprehend the person or persons responsible for this despicable act. And it is my heartfelt plea to be granted the privacy to mourn my loss as I know the world mourns with me.’”
She scanned the room, thinking what Roarke had said to her earlier: Good luck with that.
The media hounds would hunt and howl relentlessly, just as Whitney had said.
“The chief medical examiner of New York has confirmed Brant Fitzhugh died of cyanide poisoning. And shut the hell up,” she added as a handful began to shout questions. “I’m standing here instead of working this case in order to inform you of what I can inform you. My partner, Detective Peabody, and I are leading the investigation into Mr. Fitzhugh’s death. I arrived at the residence he shares with Ms. Lane last night at shortly after twenty-three hundred hours. The medical team who responded to the nine-one-one pronounced Brant Fitzhugh dead on the scene. The uniformed officers responding to the nine-one-one call had secured the scene prior to my arrival.”
6
It wasn’t sexy, and it wasn’t dramatic, but she went over the salient details that could be made public. The hounds, she could clearly see, were restless. They wanted to pop up, shout out, get their faces on-screen. And, though every one of them should know better, to try to squeeze out some shocking detail, some slippery bit they could finesse for their particular audience.
“We are in the very earliest stages of this investigation and will pursue same with the full force of the NYPSD until Mr. Fitzhugh’s killer is identified. We will follow any and all leads, compile any and all evidence, and continue to do the work necessary to bring the person or persons responsible for Mr. Fitzhugh’s death to justice.”
She paused a moment, then held up a hand to hold off the questions that started shooting out.
“There’s no point in any of you asking if we have a suspect or suspects. If we did, I wouldn’t tell you and risk compromising the investigation. There’s no point in asking if we have any leads, as we are, as I’ve said, following any and all leads. There’s no point in asking me or anyone up here for more information on the investigation, as we’ve given you all we’re free to give at this time. So anybody who wastes my time will be ignored.”
Hands shot up, questions flew. She deliberately didn’t call on Nadine—not first. It would look like bias—when, in fact, it would’ve been logical. Nadine wouldn’t waste her time.
She pointed to a camera-ready man with shining blond hair in a dark suit.
“Gregg Ortz with GNN. Lieutenant, it’s been more than twelve hours since Brant Fitzhugh’s murder, a public murder, as there were, by accounts, about two hundred people present. Have you, in these twelve hours, eliminated any of those present as suspects?”
“That’s pretty much the long way around of asking if we have any suspects. So that part’s ignored. Twelve hours? To respond to a dispatch, secure a crime scene, examine a body, bring in crime scene investigators for forensics, begin to interview and vet a couple hundred witnesses, gather evidence, process evidence.
“And for all of that, starting the clock on that over twelve hours at twenty-two-forty-three and the first nine-one-one call. That’s ten-forty-three P.M.”
She let that hang a moment. “We’re working on it, Gregg Ortz with GNN. You,” she said, pointing to another.
“Abbie Korick with Entertainment Daily. Can you confirm the name of the catering company the Fitzhugh-Lanes engaged for the event last night?”
“No.” She tried another.
“Lowell Tucker, Blogasphere. Some of the guests attending have granted interviews. As statements and recollections differ somewhat, can you tell us what Fitzhugh drank that killed him?”
“Cyanide.”
“Sorry, I meant what drink the poison was added to?”
“Champagne.”
She took two more that earned ignore status, two others to which she answered with information she’d already given, then acknowledged Nadine.
“Nadine Furst, Channel Seventy-Five. My information is the guest list included the cast and crew of Eliza Lane’s upcoming revival of Upstage, as well as other friends, acquaintances, plus-ones, and members of the media. Can you confirm that?”
“Yes.”
“Follow-up, please. My information is security was two-leveled. A name check in the lobby of their building before giving access to their apartment, and again at the door. If you can confirm this, would you say, in your professional opinion, the chances of someone slipping through security, not on the list, would be slim?”
“That’s two questions in one. However, security was two-leveled. In my professional opinion, it’s never impossible for someone to slip through solid security, if they’re motivated enough.”
“What was the motive!” someone shouted out.
“To kill.” She barely glanced at Kyung, but he stepped out.
“That’s all, ladies and gentlemen.”
It didn’t stop the barrage of questions, but she walked away.
Peabody said nothing until they were well out of earshot. “You don’t actually believe somebody snuck in and poisoned Fitzhugh.”
“No, but I answered the question accurately, and it’s done. A plus-one has reasonable probability,” she continued. “But managing that means somehow making a connection, or already having one, with an invited guest. Enough of one to get that tagalong to a fancy party.”
“With enough time in there to access some cyanide. The invitations went out ten days before the event.”
“True, but word went out prior. Planning started nearly three weeks before. And that expands the time.”
She shoved out of the elevator, with gratitude, on her level of the garage.
“Some people came stag,” Peabody began, “but—”
“What does that mean? ‘Stag’? It’s a kind of deer, right, with the horn things? How does that translate to somebody going to a party alone?”
“I … Um.” Peabody got into the passenger seat. “Maybe stags are loners?”
“Are they? Are they really? How do they get other deer? They’ve got to hook up sometime.”
“I could look it up.” At Eve’s slow stare, Peabody shrugged. “Or not.” Maybe later, she thought. “Some came alone, some were invited as a couple, but a lot of people had a plus-one. I get that because fancy party, bring your spouse or cohab, show it off to a date, or bring a pal to treat them. And some sort of came as a group.”
“We’ll eliminate the stalker—or get lucky and find out he managed to hit the low probability of slipping in, past security, went unrecognized, and dumped some poison in his rival’s drink. Or meant it for Lane. ‘I can’t have you, nobody can.’”
She streamed out into traffic. “Check out the wills, give me beneficiaries if they’ve come through.”
While Peabody pulled out her PPC, Eve programmed coffee for both of them from the in-dash AC.
“Okay, lots of legal mumbo, but Lane gets it all—but for specifics. A lot of their stuff, from the last decade, is joint anyhow, but he had a property in California prior to the marriage, and she gets it. He leaves a good chunk to his parents, a smaller chunk and a classic roadster to his brother.”
“None of whom were at the party, or in New York at the time.”
“No. He leaves a cool million to Lin Jacoby, along with some personal items. A wrist unit, cuff links, and so on. He leaves a half mil to the cook and housekeeper. Another classic car, wrist unit to his agent. He designated two million to the homeless organization, and there are some smaller bequests to other charities.”
“How about hers?”
“Let me switch over. And blah blah, wherefore, bullshit blah. Okay, much the same. He gets the bulk, including the property she owned prior to marriage on the Italian Riviera. Dolby Kessler gets a million, a pair of diamond stud earrings—Cartier—a framed caricature of Lane—an original by Jorje Talbet. Famous for them,” Peabody added, “so that’s probably worth something. Cela Ricardo gets fifty thousand a year for every year of employment. Sylvie Bowen—no cash bequest but several pieces of jewelry, a collection of perfume bottles, and other odds and ends. The house domestics get half a mil, her dance instructor her toe shoes, tap shoes, and the costume she wore in the ‘Swing Around’ number in the original production of Upstage.”
Peabody shrugged again, shifted toward Eve. “Some small stuff, some charities.”
“So, motive—monetarily—the spouses each benefit most, with the personal assistants raking it in. There’s Bowen—the jewelry’s probably worth considerable. And Lin likes to play the horses. A million places a lot of bets. A half million either way for the house crew, so it wouldn’t matter much which one of them downed the poison—but statements indicate they were in their quarters at the time.”
She stopped at a light, tapped her fingers on the wheel. “The domestics. They draw a good salary, with benefits, have exceptional living quarters. Kill off one of the employers for the quick payoff? You risk losing all that. Doesn’t play for me, especially since both come off squeaky clean.”
“I’d say the same for Ricardo. If you’re going to get fifty large for every year you work, you’d be inclined to want to keep the job a long time.”
“Unless you hate the job, or the boss. Alternately, you aim for Fitzhugh because you calculate Lane will need you more as a widow. That’s stretching it,” Eve admitted, “but I’d put her above the domestics.”
“You could say that about Kessler, too. She’d be more emotionally dependent on him now, at least in the short term. Maybe it’s not so much the money but the dependence. With him gone, she’ll lean on me, need me. And maybe Fitzhugh handled the money areas, or more of them. Kill him, and possibly dig into the till without getting caught.”
“They have a business manager, financial guys, but yeah, easier to dip if the person with the till isn’t paying as much attention. Or maybe somebody already did.”
Roarke would have seen it, she thought. But …
“They’ve all got free access to the big fancy place with all the fancy stuff. Maybe one of them lifted a couple things they figure wouldn’t be noticed, pawned them. But Fitzhugh noticed. Mr. Nice Guy gave them a second chance, but you’re worried he’ll change his mind. Or you’re just greedy.”
She hissed out a breath as she drove. “And all that’s just weak. If money is motive, the surviving spouse benefits most. But both of them were loaded on their own, so it doesn’t stick well. The homeless deal. It’s solid, but there might be somebody who works there who’s just sick greedy and weirdly driven. And still, Fitzhugh was likely worth more than the eight-plus mil alive by bringing the cause into the public consciousness, drumming up big-ticket donations.”
