“I couldn’t say. So then you can’t be sure, at this point, if Fitzhugh or Lane was the intended victim.”
“No.” She pulled on a sleep shirt. “Lane’s most likely the target, at least on the surface. That’s her particular drink, and he was taking it to her. But there was time and opportunity to slip the poison into the glass after she gave it back to him.
“That’s my spot,” she told Galahad, then nudged him aside to curl up beside Roarke.
“But he’s dead and she isn’t, so.”
“Would she have any motive for pulling the switch herself?”
With their faces close, she smiled at him. “See, that’s what I like about you. You think like a cop.”
“Much too late at night for insults, darling Eve.”
“Everything points to them having a solid marriage. No side pieces, no money issues—always the top two. But you’ve gotta look at the spouse, and she handed him the drink. The trick here is the spouse might have been the intended victim. Right now, I’m going to treat them both as victims on one hand, and keep her on the suspect list on the other.”
“The media will be all over this.”
“Especially since they invited some to the party. Nothing I can do about that, or the fact the crime scene was fucked when I got there. I’m going to start work here tomorrow, then meet Peabody, McNab if Feeney clears it, and Baxter and Trueheart. We have to go through the place. A lot of place in that place.”
“Then you need some sleep. Turn that brain off for a bit.” He pressed his lips to her forehead.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling myself. Thanks for leaving the lights on.”
“Always. And now? Lights out.”
In the dark, he drew her close, and the cat curled against the small of her back.
Home.
She woke with a vague memory of a dream where people in glamorous costumes sang and danced their way around a stage. Until one by one, they all dropped dead.
Then she had to wade through the bodies, trying to figure out who was actually dead and who was acting.
She thought, as she surfaced, she’d found a lot of both.
Roarke sat, already dressed in a pale gray suit, pale gray shirt, and a precisely knotted, striped tie of gray and burgundy.
The financial reports scrolled by on the wall screen while, with the cat across his lap, he worked on a tablet.
She smelled coffee, and yearned.
“Even the financial news headlined Brant Fitzhugh’s death,” Roarke said conversationally. “I had a meeting with Singapore shortly ago, and it wound its way into the conversation. So did you.”
“Me?” Because the idea annoyed, she scowled as she rose to hit the AutoChef for coffee. “Why?”
“‘Lieutenant Eve Dallas, who solved the Icove case and starred in the person of Marlo Durn in the Oscar-winning vid The Icove Agenda, has taken charge of the investigation of Brant Fitzhugh’s murder.’”
“You don’t solve a damn case, you close it.”
“Take that up with the reporter.” He smiled at her. “When a star of Fitzhugh’s magnitude dies in his wife’s arms—which was captured on camera—the media will run with it. For days if not weeks. Add you and two of your high-profile cases as the thrust for two bestselling books—”
“Damn it, Nadine.”
“Well then, Lieutenant, there’s a cargo hold of juice to squeeze. Lamentations and tributes are pouring in. From Hollywood, Broadway, across the globe. He was an important man, and as I said, a well-respected one.”
“Someone disrespected him, big-time.”
“Or meant to disrespect Eliza Lane, who is another important actor, and well-respected. You should grab your shower and get some breakfast into you. I expect you’ll be getting tags, and very soon, from your commander, from Kyung.” He held up a hand as if to ward off a curse. “Kyung, as you’re fond of saying, isn’t an asshole. And he knows you’ll have to do a media conference.”
“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.”