“The media’s already gone wild, Lieutenant.”
“I understand that, Commander, but I can’t possibly begin to tame that without some solid facts. And without determining which of those facts can and should be released to the public.”
He said nothing for a moment as his wide, dark face filled the screen. “Noon. We can hold it off until noon. This is going to be a media shit show, Dallas, so prepare for that. You’ll be giving updates regularly, even if it’s just repeating the same damn thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me that report.”
“Within the hour.”
When he clicked off, she scrubbed her hands over her face. “Don’t say it.”
“Now then, Eve, when have you known me to say I told you so?”
She shot him a stony stare. “How about now?”
He laughed. “I did sneak that in, didn’t I then? I’ll get started on those financials.”
She programmed more coffee and started on the board. As she printed out data and photos, she sat to write up the report. She’d rather have the book in place, the board set up so she could study it, but when Whitney said asap, he damn well meant it.
By the time she’d written the report, opened the murder book, Roarke came back in.
“You can’t have dug down that deep already.” She paused after adding another photo to the catering section of the board.
“I gave you the hour, and a bit more,” he began.
“It hasn’t been—hell, it has been that long. Damn it. Can you give me what you’ve got while I finish this?”
“I can, as I found nothing that hints at hidden accounts or shady practices. They have excellent business managers and share the same excellent financial advisers. They invest well, if conservatively, and are each very wealthy in their own right. He died worth about eight-point-six million. His production company is in the black—barely at this point, but it’s solid enough. She has a bit more, at about nine-point-two.
“They live well,” he continued. “Expenses are what you might expect given their financial status, their lifestyle and careers. And nothing indicates outlays that would support secret lovers.”
“Secret lovers are secret for a reason.”
“So they are,” he agreed. “But secrets cost to keep. He’s been more generous than she—particularly to Home Front—but she hasn’t been stingy about it. They pay their staff well, maintain their various residences—which is, at this point, the bulk of their debt. But it’s not a debt out of line with their income.”
He picked up her coffee from her command center, drank a little. “I can dig a bit more later, but my sense is there’s nothing there for your motive. Not from her to him, and not to anyone else. I suppose his will may tell a different story, but she certainly didn’t need his money to live her life as she’s used to living it.”
“Okay. So if that pans out and we can eliminate money and cheating as motives, we’re left with secrets, envy, and whack jobs as top of the lists. Thanks.”
“Anytime at all.”
“She had a whack job awhile back.”
“Did she?”
“A stalker. Ended up doing time in a whack job facility. He’s out, two months ago. I ran him on the way home. He lives in Queens. So we’ll pay him a visit, try his court-appointed therapist, too. I don’t see him getting through their security, but it’s possible.”
She tapped a photo, stepped back.
Ethan Crommell had shaggy brown hair, and the eyes of a puppy who might decide to take a quick bite at any moment. At thirty-eight, he had the look of a Zoner-head college student. Scruffy, soft, vaguely pretty.
“That’s his most recent ID shot, but you can see he hasn’t changed much from the one from his stalker days. She’d have recognized him, and so, I imagine, would Fitzhugh. Unless he’s become a master of disguise and got his hands on some swank clothes. Since he’s working as a stock boy at a market in Queens, I don’t think his income runs there.”
“He looks harmless at first glance,” Roarke remarked. “Then he doesn’t and not at all.”
“Yeah, not harmless, so a trip to Queens. If he’s still obsessed with Lane, that’s motive. Opportunity’s another thing. And where would someone like him get his hands on cyanide?”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out. I have to go.”
“Yeah, me, too, in a couple minutes.”
“I’ll wish you luck, Lieutenant.” He pulled her in for a kiss. “And see you take care of my cop.”
“If I have a lot of luck, I’ll be taking care of a killer.”
When he left, she looked back at her board. Vera Harrow and Ethan Crommell. Her two top suspects, such as they were, couldn’t have been more different.
“But … maybe one of you will give me a buzz today.”
Crime scene, she thought, Lane, Morris, and she really wanted to jam the lawyer in there and get a sense of Fitzhugh’s will before she met with Whitney.
And then the damn stupid annoying media conference.
“Better get started,” she murmured, but gave herself five minutes to sit there and just study the board.
5
Eve got to the scene early, unsealed the door. Inside the foyer, she stood, scanned the space, the distance from where she’d examined the body and the piano, the terrace doors.
The sweepers had examined the portable bars and cleared them, as well as the catering equipment in the kitchen, the dishes and serving platters.
At some point she’d need to let the caterer know they could take it all away.
Meanwhile, she crossed to the terrace doors, unlocked and opened them. The party debris remained, empty glasses, half-full glasses, plates, napkins, candles that had guttered out. The sweepers had done their job there, too, but she took the time to go over everything, search under cushions, inside pots of flowers and greenery.
From there, she moved into the main living area and did the same. Cushions, drawers, cabinets, behind paintings, closets.
When she heard someone mastering in, she laid a hand on her weapon. Then dropped it as Peabody came in first, followed by McNab.
Baxter, in one of his slick suits, and the earnest-eyed Trueheart came in behind them.
“Swank digs.” Baxter looked around, nodding in approval. “Superior swank digs. Shame about Fitzhugh,” he added. “I liked his work.”
“My mother has a major crush on him,” Trueheart said. “She tagged me this morning to ask if it was true about him being murdered.”
“Seal up. I’ve finished the terrace on this level, and nearly with this living space. McNab, you can hit the rest of the electronics. Master bedroom, second level’s also cleared. Peabody and I can take this level, Baxter and Trueheart the second floor. Oh, McNab, there are safes in the master bedroom closets, his and hers. Let’s open those up. And if we find more, the same.”
She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and looked around again. “There’s a third floor—assistants’ offices, two sitting rooms, bathrooms, a small kitchen, and a couple bedrooms. Clear what you can today, record everything.”