“Yeah, he was released according to the files. I can take a quick pass at the third-floor e’s.”
“No, let’s get a fresh start in the morning. Clear that with Feeney, since there’s so damn many of them.”
As they both heard Peabody’s signature clomp, he looked over his shoulder. “There’s my girl!”
“We’re clear. Nothing new popped, Dallas. The servers backed off when Lane and Keene started to sing. Standard policy for a party here, according to the caterer. Don’t get in the way of the performance or the guests. The cook and housekeeper were in their quarters. It’s soundproofed, so they didn’t hear anything until Dolby knocked on their door.”
“Lane had a stalker a few years ago. McNab will fill you in. I’m going to do a run, make sure he’s still inside. We’ll meet back here in the morning. Given the size of this place, I’m going to call in Baxter and Trueheart, if they’re clear, to help comb through it. Nine hundred—we’ll say nine hundred so I can start a board and book at home. I’ll lock up and secure the scene. I want a walk-through first.”
“Nine hundred. I’ll tag Baxter,” Peabody offered.
“Yeah, do that.”
She listened to their voices, Peabody’s quick laugh at something McNab said, then the silence.
She walked back to the bedroom where Cela said she’d been when she heard the scream from downstairs. Yeah, she decided, the noise would have carried up the stairs if the doors had been open.
Probably stood, wondered what the hell, then lots of commotion, so walks down to see what the hell. Takes a minute to get to the stairs, start down. Stop at the curve.
As she did so herself, Eve looked down. Bird’s-eye view, she noted. Even with the crowd around, she’d have seen the victim on the floor as she’d stated.
Eve went the rest of the way down, stood where Lane and Bowen stated they’d chatted.
Lots of people milling around, somebody playing the piano, servers winding through. Lots of conversation.
Victim on the terrace, getting the drink, talking to Jacoby, making nice with the bartender. Starts in, gets waylaid by Vera Harrow, Jacoby heads off.
Kiss, hug, opportunity.
Not clear, at this time, how many others Fitzhugh spoke with or had contact with, had opportunity on his way across the large room to where his wife and her friend huddled. Also not absolutely clear how many he mixed with after Lane left the huddle to get Keene and start performing.
And still, he held Lane’s signature drink, not his own preference.
Going by probabilities, the poison was for her, not him. He just had bad luck.
But.
She took another long look, walked out to the terrace, then back again. Secured the doors, retrieved her field kit. She checked the block on the private elevator. Sealed it.
She went out, locked the doors, sealed them.
One person out of all they’d interviewed had spoken ill of either of them. And in Vera Harrow’s case, of both of them.
And sometimes, Eve thought as she walked to the main elevators, life and death were just that simple.
She’d run Harrow on the way home, she decided, and see what she could dig up.
And she’d run Crommell.
Then she’d start fresh in the morning.
4
Eve drove through the gates well after two A.M. She saw, down the long wind of the drive, lights glimmering. Security lights splashed against the towers and turrets of the castle-like house Roarke built. But it was the gleam against the windows that offered a welcome home she cherished.
Though her body felt the length of the day and the lateness of the hour, her mind refused to turn off, and picked apart the scene, the interviews, the data she’d accessed on the short drive home.
Part of her wanted to keep going, head to her office instead of bed. Start her board, her book. But she told herself to let it settle in, give it and herself a rest so she could pick it up fresh in a few hours.
The warm night air smelled of flowers she’d never identify, of green summer grass, and, she admitted, of peace. The city revved and rumbled along, no matter the hour, but here, the quiet held like a tiny miracle as she walked from her car to the front door.
The foyer light glowed, but quietly, like the air.
She climbed the stairs thinking only a handful of blocks away, another grand and privileged space lay empty and smelling of flowers and sweepers’ dust.
He’d left the light on low in the bedroom, and it occurred to her that he never did that for himself when he, routinely, rose before dawn to dress in one of his god-of-the-business-world suits.
The cat lay sprawled, a pudge of gray, where she’d normally be. For a moment, she just took in the picture, the sleeping cat, the sleeping man, a man so ridiculously gorgeous it clutched at her heart.
And they belonged to her.
She didn’t make a sound, and still the man’s wild blue eyes opened. Even in the dim light she saw them come fully awake in a finger snap. Beside him, Galahad’s bicolored eyes opened, lazily, to stare at her.
Yeah, they belonged to her.
“And there she is,” Roarke murmured with a hint of Ireland in his voice.
“Sorry. It’s really late.”
“Later for someone.”
“Yeah, there’s that. Brant Fitzhugh,” she said as she took off her linen jacket, tossed it over the sofa in the sitting area.
“The actor?” With that, Roarke sat up.
“That’s the one.” She removed her weapon harness, her badge, set them on the dresser. “Cyanide in the champagne. Morris will confirm, but that’s how he ended.”
“That’s a bloody shame. A very talented man, and a well-respected one.”
She frowned over at him as she emptied her pockets. “Did you know him?”
“I met him a few times. Lunched with him once a few years ago when he pitched for a major donation for his pet cause.”
“Did he get it?”
“He did, yes. His involvement in affordable housing was genuine, and heartfelt, if I’m a judge. Suspects?”
“Since he drank the champagne at the big, splashy party he and his wife threw, plenty of them. And the drink was initially meant for her.”
“The inestimable Eliza Lane.” Roarke shoved back his mane of black hair. “I’m fascinated.”
“He brought her the drink—the bartender who made it’s clear. Good thing, as she’s one of yours. She works at Du Vin.” Eve rubbed at her tired eyes. “Then Fitzhugh schmoozed his way through the party, including a close encounter with a former—Vera Harrow.”
“Ah.”
“She’s on my list,” Eve said as she undressed. “She’s got motive, and seemed pretty pleased to tell me how much she disliked both of them. Anyway, he takes Lane the drink, and she’s with a friend. Sylvie Bowen.”
“You had a night with the stars, Lieutenant.”
“And one of them could be a murderer. Lane didn’t drink it because she decided to perform. Handed Fitzhugh the glass to hold while she got the actress who’s playing her daughter in this Broadway deal.”
“A revival of Upstage.”
“That’s the one. People crowd in, including the victim, who decides to toast his wife, drinks the champagne cocktail. And what do they call it—took his last curtain call. Why is it a call? Nobody’s calling anybody.”