“Insistent how?”
“He accosted Mr. Fitzhugh once, claiming he—Mr. Fitzhugh—kept Ms. Lane away from him—Ethan Crommell—by force and intimidation. At one point, he had to be physically removed from a restaurant where Mr. Fitzhugh and Ms. Lane were dining. The police who responded found he had a knife in his possession—one he claimed he intended to use to cut the bonds that tied Ms. Lane, unwillingly, to Mr. Fitzhugh. He was arrested and charged, and is, I believe, currently in a facility for mental disorders.”
“No one else mentioned this.”
“I suppose because it was years ago, and he certainly wasn’t here tonight. Guests and catering staff are checked through security downstairs, and again at the door here. I keep the list of invitees. I gave that list to the other officer.”
“Yes, we appreciate that. And thank you for your cooperation. If you think of anything else that might help, please contact me. You’re free to go.”
“Is there anything I can do for Ms. Lane?”
“I’m sure she’ll want your help over the next days, but tonight, she’s with her friend.”
“Ms. Bowen, a most excellent friend.” She rose. “If this was murder, Lieutenant, it was a despicable act.”
“Murder tends to be.”
“Yes, of course, but … While I worked for Ms. Lane, she and her husband were very close. I saw him nearly every day if he wasn’t away on a project. I knew him to be a very good man, a kind one, and a loving, considerate husband. Good night.”
She left the handful of interviews remaining to Peabody and went upstairs to McNab.
“Hey, Dallas. Nothing smoky on any of the devices so far—and they’ve got a crapload of them. First-rate, every one.” He gestured to the D and C on Eliza’s office desk. “I’ve been through the vic’s, and most of the widow’s. Nothing that smells like either of them had any side action going on. Nothing that smacks of problems. Have to say the opposite. Found some notes between the two of them, all snuggly-like. She does have a sad face emoji on her calendar for tomorrow. Well, today now, considering the time,” he corrected. “It says Brant to NZ, sad face.”
“He was starting a vid in New Zealand.”
“Gotcha. Both of them have a crowded calendar. Meetings, dress or suit fittings, lunches, dinners, interviews. Lots of party arrangement dates on hers. Not so much on his. But nothing smoky.
“Zipped through his ’link, his tablets,” McNab continued, one airbooted foot tapping as he spoke. “He’s got one just for scripts, the other for mobile communication, another calendar that mirrors the one on his desk. He was having flowers delivered to her today—sad face day—and every week following.”
“You can keep at it while Peabody finishes up, then take off. We’ll turn the place over tomorrow. I’m just going to have a look at the bedroom first and do a walk-through.”
“I haven’t started on the offices upstairs.”
“We’ll secure the place and get to them tomorrow.”
“Today. Because tomorrow’s today.”
“Right. If necessary, we’ll take them in, but I’m doubtful we’ll find a handy invoice for cyanide on any of the electronics. How old is that thing?”
“This unit.” He stroked it like he might a beloved pet. “This model, and it’s sweet, only came out last year.”
“Yeah, I figured something like that. Run a search on it anyway for Ethan Crommell. Maybe they transferred files. Any communication from or to him, any data on him. He got kicked for stalking Lane about three years ago.”
“I’ll get that going, and plug it into the vic’s, too.”
“Good. If you find anything, copy it to me.”
She moved on to the master. Judging the distance, she estimated Cela would have taken a full minute—more if she hadn’t hurried—to walk from the master to the stairs.
It tracked, time-wise.
She saw Eliza’s dress, a red streak on the bed, and the shoes beside the bed. Either she or Sylvie had closed and locked the terrace doors, but the water glasses remained on the table outside.
She opened a bedside drawer, found a tablet. Since it wasn’t passcoded, she opened it, found what she recognized as a script, with some notes added. Eliza’s. She found song lyrics, with notes, a list of names with character names or positions. Dir, AD, SM, PM, LD, and so on.
She set the tablet aside to examine the other contents. The stylus for making notes, a jar of hand cream, a hand mirror—who looked at themselves after they went to bed?—a couple of sex toys.
She walked around the bed to the other drawer. No tablet here, so the vic kept his, at least that day, in his office. Likely would’ve packed them. A single joint of what a sniff told her was Zoner, meticulously rolled and unused, and a couple of sex toys. No condoms, so that wasn’t a concern.
She moved to a dressing area, and tried not to be embarrassed her closet portion was nearly as large. Then again, this one opened into a dressing area holding a vanity with drawers loaded with facial enhancements, hair stuff, body creams, and a lighted tri-fold mirror.
Well organized, she noted, like the clothes, the bags, the footwear, the undergarments, the sex-me-up lingerie. A single bottle of scent sat on the vanity. Fancy bottle with a script running across the glass.
Eliza
Signature scent, she thought. One made for her. She’d done that for Charlotte Mira once as a gift. Curious, she gave it a spritz, sniffed.
More floral than fruity, she decided. But not crazy with it. And … maybe mature was the word. It wasn’t like girl-dancing-in-the-meadow floral, but more woman-gliding-through.
She poked around in a few handbags, opened cupboards, but found nothing of interest other than the expected safe. A big one, fitted behind a tall cabinet.
A woman like Eliza Lane would have plenty of sparkles, she thought. The safe could wait.
She did the same look-through in the victim’s closet. No vanity here, but what she supposed he’d thought of as a grooming station, and a large section of athletic and workout gear. Suits, and plenty of them, three tuxes, sportswear, and another good-size safe.
She wandered to the bathroom. A multi-head and jetted shower big enough for a dozen close friends, with a soaking tub inside the sparkling glass doors. A long white counter with clear glass vessel sinks at either end.
Flowers—a trio of slim vases—between. An army of drawers holding more grooming products, hair products, skin gunk, hygiene products, all high-end but nothing surprising.
Vitamins, but over-the-counter type.
No hidden cache of illegals (she didn’t count the single joint), no signs of any dark sexual proclivities or multi-partner games. Just a space shared by two privileged, successful, and apparently busy people.
She started out and met McNab in the long, wide hall.
“Got your Crommell, and he’s a loony squared. Copied everything on him to your units—home and Central. She’s got a lot of fan mail on file, has an address for that specifically that goes to her assistant, but gets copied to a file for her. Fitzhugh had the same docs, so he kept the Crommell stuff. Media report, too. He got three years in, mandatory psych evals and treatment.”
“Three?”