Traffic bumped its way along, so she drove with her windows open to the summer air. She smelled the truly terrible glide cart coffee, grilling soy dogs, the occasional whiff of flowers from outdoor stalls or the concrete troughs planted by the city that competed with an overstuffed and out of order recycler.
When she stopped at a light, she heard a sidewalk vendor with a Bronx accent she couldn’t have cut with an axe tell a customer to “Fock off if yous don’t like it, bud.”
And the customer focked off in a huff down the sidewalk.
Christ, she loved New York.
At the morgue, she made her way down the long white tunnel. The smells here, as always, carried the scent of death under chemical lemons and bleach.
She opened the doors of Morris’s arena to the music of Broadway. Even she recognized Broadway as a woman’s voice belted it to the back rows.
Morris stood over Brant Fitzhugh, carefully completing the stitches on the Y-cut. The ME wore a blue linen suit under his protective cape, with a crisp white shirt and deep blue tie.
His hair, braided and wound into a coil at the back of his neck, left his sharply boned face unframed.
He called for the music to lower as he looked up at Eve.
“I thought he’d enjoy hearing his wife sing, as they had a fairy-tale sort of romance, from all the reports and interviews. A strong talent cut down in his prime. And one in superior physical shape.”
“Yeah, he kept in tune. COD?”
“Exactly what you discerned. Potassium cyanide, ingested via a good champagne, sugar, and bitters. A painful death, but a quick one. No signs of violence on the body other than the contusions where he fell. No signs of substance abuse. And remarkably, given his physique, no signs of work on the body. A bit here and there on the face, and understandable given his line of work. Nothing obsessive.”
Stitching complete, Morris walked over to rinse his hands of blood and sealant. As Eve walked to the body, he got two tubes of Pepsi from his cold box.
“Thanks. Did he tell you anything?”
“That he took his health and physique seriously. His muscle tone is admirable. He had good nutrition, and I would surmise good medical care. He’s had a broken bone or two in his time, but well healed. Prime,” Morris repeated as he broke open his tube. “I liked his work, and his activism for the homeless.”
“Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot. We don’t know if the poison was meant for him or for Lane. It was her drink,” she added. “But he ended up drinking it while she…” Eve pointed up and the voice rang. “Performed.”
“So a mystery within the mystery.”
“Crowded party, he schmoozed and mingled with the glass in his hand. No way to know when the poison went in. So … His widow wants to see him.”
“I can have him ready for her at her convenience.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her to contact you and set it up. I’ll have some officers bring her in. Media’s got her building staked out, so we’ll send an unmarked car. Pain in the ass.”
“Price of fame.”
“Can’t see it’d be worth it. I appreciate the quick work.”
“All in a day’s. And I’ll wish you the same—quick work on finding his killer.”
“If I can pinpoint the target, I’d have better luck with that.”
Delegating gave her a solid thirty minutes to spare when she walked into Homicide. Detectives Jenkinson and Reineke huddled together at Jenkinson’s desk. She marveled that Reineke willingly stood so close to his partner’s nuclear reactor of a tie.
This one sported madly purple and pink dots over a piss-yellow field. A glance at the bullpen board told her Detectives Carmichael and Santiago had just caught one, a floater.
Since Jenkinson and Reineke were three days into an investigation of a stabbing in Alphabet City, she left them to it and veered into her office.
She snagged coffee and downed it while she set up her board, dealt with the murder book, adding what she’d gotten from Morris.
Then, finally still and with a few minutes to spare, she sat and studied the board.
Lots of pretty people, she thought, all polished and smooth. She needed time to study what lived under all the polished and smooth.
Not a crime of passion or a murder of the moment, but one planned, timed, and executed with some skill. Even at a crowded party, someone could notice another person slipping something into a drink.
Willing to take the risk.
Women went for poison more than men, she considered, though that wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule by any stretch. But it did speak to a lack of violence, or the need to use force, to spill blood.
Her vic, a man in his prime. A well-muscled, healthy man. Strong. Poison didn’t require physical strength.
She might even say the method, the vehicle used presented a kind of elegance. And that, too, fit with many of the images on the board.
She rose and, pulling out her ’link, contacted the estate lawyer as she took the glides up. And found herself pleasantly surprised to learn Eliza Lane had already cleared the way there.
Whitney’s admin glanced over as she came through. Nodded.
“They’re waiting for you.”
Even so, she gave one brisk knock before she opened the door.
Whitney sat at his desk, a big man whose shoulders carried the weight of command. His dark, close-cropped hair was salted with gray, and the dignity of it suited him.
Behind him, the city he stood for spread.
Kyung, who she’d designate as polished and smooth, stood by the wall of glass, tall and lean in his excellent charcoal suit. It baffled her anyone would happily steer the public relations ship, but as she knew he respected the work above the media, he ranked as not an asshole.
“Lieutenant.” Whitney merely spread his hands.
“Sir. Morris has confirmed the COD as cyanide poisoning. The victim shows no signs of violence, was in good health and excellent physical shape. I’ve contacted the estate lawyer, and his office is sending a copy of Fitzhugh’s will. They’ll also provide a copy of Lane’s. This was requested and cleared by Eliza Lane. Morris is arranging for her to view the body early this afternoon. I’ve arranged an unmarked car to transport her and her party to and from the morgue.”
“Yes, that’s best. The media frenzy’s barely begun.”
“At this time,” she continued, “Detectives Baxter and Trueheart are continuing the search of the crime scene, and Detective McNab is working on the electronics. Thus far we’ve found nothing that points to motive or a suspect. However, Vera Harrow, in her own statement, admitted to grudges held against both Lane and Fitzhugh.”
“The actress?”
“Yes, sir.”
Whitney sent a steely glance at Kyung. “Just what we need. Another celebrity as a suspect.”
“The bulk of the party consisted of actors or those attached to the entertainment business,” Eve said.
“I’m aware,” Whitney responded. “All too well aware.”
“Detective Peabody and I will interview the individual convicted of stalking Ms. Lane three years ago, and recently released on parole from the MD facility.”
She paused a moment.
“I realize most of this information was included in my report this morning, but the investigation is in its very early stages, with a great deal of work to do. We haven’t formally interviewed all of the guests present at the time of the murder.”