Encore in Death, page 9
“I’m with you on that. He hyped it on social media all the time. Did PSAs, attended benefits, hosted them, and gave them money annually. But say Lane was the intended victim.”
“How does that change any of the above?”
“From what I know—that’s going from media, and statements, interviews—she’s not as soft a touch as he was. If she noticed something went missing, I think she’d start kicking ass. And there’s the production company.”
“His. But hers now.” Eve nodded. “She’ll have something to say about that now, or at least her lawyers will have a look there.”
“And maybe there’s been some hanky in the panky Fitzhugh didn’t know about, or was handling in a soft-touch way. That’s big money, right? All those millions that go into producing a feature or a series, and just running the day-to-day expenses.”
“That’s a good thought.” And yet another area to look at, Eve decided. “That was his baby, not hers. If it’s not doing as well as it looks on the surface, if money’s sliding away somewhere, you don’t want her nosing in. And you don’t want to kill him—he’s the name, he’s the draw. Kill her, get her out of the picture, distract him. Either you figure to recoup the losses before he notices, or wring it all dry and blow. Could play.”
In Queens, she hunted for parking on a narrow street and opted for a squat, two-decker parking garage.
“Twenty bucks an hour.” Disgusted, she aimed her ’link at the device on the gate to record her time in and pay the required hour minimum. “Shouldn’t be legal.”
Despite the cost, she had to wind to the second level and take one of three empty slots left.
“We’ll check his work first.” From the open second level, she pointed down. “He stocks shelves at that Mini-Super. I don’t get the ‘mini’ and ‘super’ when it should be one or the other.”
“You really almost always have to go to the ’burbs for a super-super. Rent’s as pricy as parking around here.”
For a moment Eve watched bumper-to-bumper traffic inch along the skinny street.
“It’s like nobody’s heard of public transportation here.”
They took the stairs down, boots clanging on metal treads.
People shuffled along the sidewalk with the same lethargy as the vehicular traffic. A kid popped out of a salon and sauntered his jaywalking way across the street through the creeping cars.
A woman popped her head out the salon door. The hair came first, a swirl of pink and blue like an ice cream cone served on Pluto. “Julio! Get me an iced coffee and a cruller!” she shouted in a voice thick with Queens before she slammed the door again.
Music banged out of cars; voices rang out of windows. A man in baggy shorts and a tight white tee with every inch of his muscular arms tatted led a dog the size of a well-fed rat on a pink leash.
A pair of women who looked as if they’d recently visited Ice Cream Cone’s salon stood outside a shop with little portable fans whirling at their faces as they dished about someone named Ernestine and her recent weight loss.
“Paid to have it sculpted off, take my word.”
“Don’t I know it! All that talk about diet and exercise? As if! She paid good money for that new ass.”
“Why would they care?” Eve wondered while they waited at the crosswalk. “It’s Ernestine’s ass, and her money either way.”
“They’re checking out your ass now and deciding you paid for it.”
“Yeah?” Eve tipped down her sunshades—ones she’d managed not to lose in the short time she’d had them—and aimed a long, cool look. It had the women turning away casually, much like Galahad did after Roarke aimed a look at him.
They crossed the street, hiked up to the Mini-Super.
Inside, the air blasted cool to the point of cold. Business ran as brisk as the air at all five checkout stations. One offered a human element to ring up and bag. The rest ran on auto and self-serve.
Eve headed toward the human.
“We’re looking for Ethan Crommell.”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen ’im.” Her fingers—nails tipped with sky blue—flew as they rang up a carton of egg substitute, a sack of fake coffee. “Ask the manager.”
“Where’s the manager?”
She sighed audibly, then tapped her lapel mic. “Carmine to Checkout One!”
She finished with a carton of ice pops and a jumbo carton of soy milk. “Your total’s ninety-eight-fifty-six today, Ms. Mussy.”
“Lord, lord, lord.” Ms. Mussy ran her ’link over the scanner while Blue Nails began to bag.
A man built like an overweight fireplug with slicked-down ink-black hair and a mustache that actually curled at the edges waddled up.
“Help you?”
Eve shifted, palmed her badge. “We need to speak with Ethan Crommell.”
“That boy in trouble again?” Carmine fisted his hands on his husky hips. “Try to do a public service, try to give somebody a second chance, and what do you get?”
“We just need to speak with him.”
“Well, he ain’t here. Called in sick this morning—texted it, middle of the damn night. Gave him a chance ’cause his parole officer’s my second cousin once removed. He’s been reliable, I’ll say that. Does his job and doesn’t screw off too much.”
“Does he call or text in sick much?”
“First time for it. And here the cops show up. If he’s in trouble with the law, I don’t want him back here.”
“We just want to talk to him. Did he work yesterday?”
“Eight to three.” The mustache quivered as if alive and outraged. “Didn’t look sick, either.”
“Seemed like a good one to me,” Ms. Mussy put in. “Didn’t he help me take my groceries home once when he was on his break? Then you hear axe murderers can seem like good ones until they chop your head off your shoulders. Hack the rest of you up into little pieces to feed to the dogs.”
“We don’t want to talk to him about decapitation,” Eve assured her. “It’s just routine.”
Ms. Mussy nodded wisely. “They say that a lot, then—” She made a chopping motion with her hand before wheeling her cart away.
“How many axe murders have we investigated since you came to Homicide, Peabody?” Eve asked when they walked back outside and into the heat.
“I believe that number is zero.”
“Exactly. But people sure like to talk about them like they happen every day. Crommell lives just down the block.”
“We had that decapitation,” Peabody recalled. “But that was a sword, so it doesn’t count as an axe murder. Anyway. It’s funny he’d call in sick the first time on the night Fitzhugh dies.”
“Yeah, that’s funny all right. It’d be funnier to me if he’d called in the day of the murder, then had that time to get to the Upper West, execute whatever plan he had for getting into the building, much less the party, poison Fitzhugh, and get out again. But it’s still funny.”
She stopped outside the building—four stories of graffiti-etched pitted block with barred windows as the only visible security.
Since the single door didn’t require a buzz in, she didn’t need the master to step into the closet of a lobby. With no elevator to reject, they took the stairs.
She heard music, voices, a baby screaming as if that axe murderer got busy chopping it up for the dogs. She smelled old piss, more recent Zoner smoke, and somebody’s takeout that had gone bad at least a day before.
On the third floor, a cat howled behind one of the closed doors, and the tinny laughter of a comedy on-screen sounded behind another.
She heard Eliza Lane speak clearly behind Crommell’s door. Even as her eyes narrowed, Peabody spoke up.
“That’s from a vid. He’s watching one of her vids.”
Eve banged the side of her fist against the door.
From inside, sound of the vid shut off. Eve heard footsteps, hurried ones, heard another door close.
Whatcha hiding, Ethan? Eve wondered.
It took a couple of minutes before she saw the shadow cross the Judas hole.
“Whaddaya want?”
“Police, Mr. Crommell.” Eve held up her badge. “We need to speak to you.”
“I haven’t done anything! I’m sick. I’m taking a sick day. I called in and everything. I didn’t break parole.”
“Yes, sir. We were informed of that. We just need to speak with you.”
She heard a lock click, another thump, then the rattle of a security chain.
No, Crommell didn’t look sick, Eve thought when he opened the door. In fact he looked better, healthier, than in his mug shots or ID shot.
He hit about five-ten in his bare feet. He wore cotton pajama pants with blue-and-white checks and a baggy white tee that could’ve used a good wash. He had a headful of curling dark hair, a full, well-shaped mouth, slim blade of a nose. The light scruff on his face helped disguise a weak jaw.
He might have been deemed almost handsome—if you ignored the eyes. Though an inoffensive pale blue, they carried a look in them that said clearly to Eve:
I’m not quite right.
“I’m allowed to take a day off work when I’m sick. Nobody wants you coming in sick and spreading germs all over. I got a stomach bug.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. If we could come in to speak to you and avoid contacting your parole officer? We could also report back to your manager that you are, indeed, not feeling well today.”
“It’s not fair a man can’t take a day off when he’s sick.”
“We’ll make this as quick as possible.”
“It’s not fair,” he repeated, but backed away to let them in.
She smelled candle wax, something very fragrant, very sweet, but saw no candles in the room. A room, she noted, very spare and very clean, but for the pullout bed where he’d obviously nested with a huge bowl of popcorn, a smaller bowl of gummy-type candy, a bag of chips, and a dish of white gunk he’d used for dip.
The pullout and all the snacks sat across from the wall screen.
The table beside the pullout held a quart bottle of Coke, half full.
“You’re probably not doing that stomach bug much good with the junk food,” Peabody commented.
“I can eat what I want. It’s not illegal. I was just lying down, taking it easy.”
“Watching some screen,” Eve added. “Eliza Lane.”
“I’m allowed to watch vids. I made a mistake, and I had treatment and therapy. I’m allowed to watch vids. Ms. Lane is a talented actress, and her vids are very entertaining.”
“Uh-huh.” Eve wandered a bit, noted Crommell’s eyes tracking her. No increased nerves when she stepped closer to the kitchen alcove. “Just watching vids while you’re recovering? No news media today?”
Those eyes cut away. “Not today. News isn’t happy. I wanted happy because I’m sick.”
“I get that,” Peabody said as Eve wandered.
“What’s this about anyway? I want to go back to bed. I gotta get better so I don’t miss more work.”
“I guess you got sick last night. That’s when you texted your manager.”
“Yeah, woke up puking, if you have to know.”
“Where’d you go after work yesterday? You got off at three.”
“Home, right here. I wasn’t feeling all that good.” His fingers scratched at the sides of his thighs, and his feet couldn’t stand quite still. “Had this stomach bug coming on so I went to bed, tried to sleep it off.”
“See anybody, talk to anybody from the time you got home, right after three, until you texted your manager?”
“No. I said I wasn’t feeling good, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.” She watched the nerves light in his eyes as she stepped toward the pullout, and the closed door beside it. “I guess that takes care of it. We appreciate the time, and sure hope you feel better soon. Hey, we’ve got a long ride back. Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“I guess.”
“Thanks.” As she turned the knob on the closed door, he jumped.
“Not there, not there. It’s over there.”
But she’d already opened the door.
And found the shrine to Eliza Lane inside.
7
Photos of Eliza Lane covered the walls of the narrow space. Some struck as paparazzi-style shots, others he’d obviously printed out from articles or interviews.
Vid posters she imagined he’d bought from some fan-based online site crowded in.
A shelf ran across the closet and held more photos—framed—along with flowers and the candles she’d smelled. On a higher shelf he’d arranged signed playbills, also framed.
Eve took it all in at a glance.
“Well, Ethan, I wonder what your therapist would say about this.”
“That’s my personal property!” His voice hiked up two or three registers, and his face burned red. “You get out! You get out now.”
“I think we’ll all get out, head into Central for a nice chat. We’ll see if your parole officer wants to join in.”
“I’m not going back in that place. I’m not going back! You can’t make me.”
He dropped to the floor. Like a toddler, Eve thought, and wondered if he’d start banging his fists and kicking his feet.
Instead, he swiped a hand under the pullout and came out with scissors.
She said, “Seriously?”
“I’ll cut you to pieces!”
“Okay. Hey, don’t look now, but my partner has a stunner aimed at you.” His head swiveled to where Peabody stood, stunner in hand. “Told you not to look. Now I’ve got a stunner aimed at you, too. Let’s do the math here, Ethan,” she said as his eyes wheeled back and forth. “Two police-issue stunners in the hands of trained officers. One pair of scissors in the hand of a delusional fuckwit. What do you figure that equals?”
She gave Peabody the barest head shake to signal her to hold fire. “Put those down.”
Instead, he lunged toward her. When she blocked his arm, brought her elbow up to tap his chin, the scissors clattered away. He dropped to the floor again. Though he didn’t bang his fists, kick his feet, he did cry like a baby.
“I’m not going back there. You can’t keep me from her, you can’t keep us apart, she needs me!”
“Who needs you?”
“Eliza!”
“How do you know she needs you?”
“She told me!”
“Yeah? Did she tag you on your ’link, maybe come by to pay a visit?”
“She speaks to me.” He lifted his tear-drenched face and his crazy eyes. “We’re connected. Our minds and hearts are one. He had to die, you see. He was keeping her prisoner, keeping us apart. She’s so brave! She’s waiting for me to go to her, to find the way. And we’ll go away together.”
“Okay, Ethan, you need to put some shoes on.” Eve hauled him to his feet. When he shoved against her, she ignored it, swung him around to cuff his hands behind his back. “Find him some shoes, Peabody, and get those scissors. Ethan Crommell, you’re under arrest for violation of conditions of parole, for assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent,” she began, and read off the Revised Miranda.
“Got shoes under the bed, and a scrapbook. Lots of Eliza Lane in here.”
She held up the book so Eve could see it.
He’d drawn a big heart on the cover, and inside had merged a headshot of himself, one of Lane, so they appeared to smile out, cheek to cheek.
He’d titled the book E&E 4 EVER.
She debated: Pathetic or pathological? And concluded it could be both.
“Bring it.”
When Peabody brought out a pair of what Eve thought of as institutional shower slides, she ordered Ethan to slip them on.
“Peabody, make sure we’ve got an open Interview room, and check to see if Mira’s free to observe.”
“You won’t keep us apart!”
Pretty sure we will, Eve thought.
He wept all the way to Central.
He blubbered on the elevator. Since he’d exhibited violent behavior, she didn’t feel justified in yanking him out and onto the glides. She let him blubber and wail as cops shuffled on, shuffled off.
“What’s his problem?” one asked her.
“Love,” she said. “Mad, mad love.”
“It’ll get you every time.”
When they reached Homicide, he was down to snorting sniffles.
“Set him up, Peabody. Let’s give him a few to compose himself. I’ll contact his parole officer.”
That set off another round of wailing. “I’m not going back! You can’t keep us apart!”
“Christ,” Eve muttered, and escaped to her office.
She contacted the parole officer, who looked weary, frazzled, and unsurprised. She grabbed coffee as she reviewed Ethan’s file.
And rolled her eyes at the conclusions and recommendations of his facility shrink.
“Conquered his obsession with Eliza Lane, my ass,” she muttered. “Cooperative, productive, nonviolent. Oh yeah? Try saying that after he stabs you in the throat with his scrapbook scissors. Parole recommended with conditions of continued weekly talk therapy, gainful employment. No contact with Ms. Lane, blah blah blah.”
Peabody tapped the doorjamb.
“Interview B. I got him some ginger ale and a bunch of tissues. Mira’s on her way.”
“Great. I think we’ll have her in the interview instead of observing it.”
“Can I?” When Peabody pointed at the AutoChef, Eve waved an affirmative. “It’s hard for me to see the crybaby we just hauled in having the skill and smarts to pull off Fitzhugh’s murder.”
“The crybaby who tried to punch a hole in me?”
“Yeah, he’s got a violent streak, but poison’s not. Not physical violence.”
