“Fucking A,” she said, and swung into Homicide. “Plus-ones—wrap it up in thirty.”
She headed straight to her office, sat down, and ordered the guest list on-screen. A long list, she thought, but she’d had longer. And damn it, she didn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, could’ve cared less about scope and theater and whatever the fuck.
She cared about murder, the victim, and hunting the killer.
She’d do the damn media briefing—no choice anyway, but she’d do it because Kyung wasn’t wrong. It was part of the job—a tiny sliver of an ass-pain part, but part.
But she’d avoid the “help” coming her way for as long as possible. If you scattered the work into too many other hands, in her opinion, you risked having something slip through the fingers.
On the thirty-minute mark, she broke away, allowed herself a full minute of creative mental cursing. Then walked into the bullpen.
Peabody rode solo in the detective area.
“Jenkinson and Reineke lured their prime suspect on the Dobson case into Interview. They think they’ve got him.”
“Good. Let’s go get this bullshit over with. I’ve got three soft connections that we’ll dig into,” Eve added as they started out.
“I’ve got one, but it’s almost squishy soft.”
“We’ll work them and keep eliminating. Stalker Guy’s the most promising right now, if we can place him at the party—which heads into the squishy—or find a cohort. Catering staff or a plus-one’s most likely there.”
“You’d need somebody who’d kill for him.”
“Yeah, either because hey, that’ll be fun, or profitable if he’s got any ready cash, or through blackmail or other pressures. It’s worth a trip to Queens, even if it’s just another elimination.”
Eve suffered the elevator because, as far as she was concerned, this entire deal was suffering.
“Say Lane was the target,” Peabody speculated. “It could come down to competition. She snags a lot of major parts—stage and screen. Major vids, guest spots, important interviews, endorsements. Maybe we look to see somebody who was up for a big part, and she got it instead.”
“Same goes for him, right? But yeah, we look there, too. Roarke told me Fitzhugh’s newish, I guess it’s ‘ish,’ production company’s doing some solid stuff. Looking at him as the target again, somebody whose project didn’t get picked up, or again, somebody who didn’t get a part, or a job.”
She rolled it over, again and again, then ultimately pushed off the elevator as more pushed on. Enough suffering.
“It feels personal. Not the method, as poison creates a distance. But the choice of when and where. The party, the celebration, and just before Lane goes into rehearsals, and Fitzhugh leaves to start a big shoot. That’s a deliberate choice.”
On the glide, she turned to face Peabody. “I’ve looked at their calendars and appointment books. Busy. Lots of events, parties, galas, red carpet crap. Lots of opportunity, right, for just exactly what went down. But you pick this time, this place. Their home. That’s personal.”
Hopping off the glide, Eve walked toward the media room.
Kyung waited, signaled to her.
“You’re prompt. Appreciated. The mayor’s just finishing up. Detective Peabody, if you’d stand to the lieutenant’s right, and be prepared if any questions are addressed to you. Chief Tibble and Commander Whitney will be on the left, and also prepared to take the podium if necessary. Lieutenant, Ms. Lane’s statement is on the podium screen. She’s asked that you read it. Well done, Detective. It’s brief, clear, and just emotional enough.
“Excuse me.”
Kyung walked out where questions still flew like manic butterflies. In his smooth way, he stepped beside the mayor, took charge.
“Thank you. Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody will give an update from the investigative area. Chief Tibble and Commander Whitney remain available to answer any relevant questions. Thank you, Mayor, for your time and information.”
With that, he effectively shifted the focus from politics to cop work.
“Lieutenant. Detective.”
Eve stepped out, and Peabody took her place. She knew cameras whirled, and in studios some talking head blathered.
She spotted Nadine, front row—no flies on her—in the packed seats.
“I’ll begin by reading, at her request, a statement from Mr. Fitzhugh’s widow, Eliza Lane.
“‘My heart is broken from the sudden, inexplicable death of my husband, my partner, my life mate. Brant Fitzhugh was a man filled with love and talent and kindness, and the world is a darker place without his light shining. It is my deepest hope that the authorities identify and apprehend the person or persons responsible for this despicable act. And it is my heartfelt plea to be granted the privacy to mourn my loss as I know the world mourns with me.’”
She scanned the room, thinking what Roarke had said to her earlier: Good luck with that.
The media hounds would hunt and howl relentlessly, just as Whitney had said.
“The chief medical examiner of New York has confirmed Brant Fitzhugh died of cyanide poisoning. And shut the hell up,” she added as a handful began to shout questions. “I’m standing here instead of working this case in order to inform you of what I can inform you. My partner, Detective Peabody, and I are leading the investigation into Mr. Fitzhugh’s death. I arrived at the residence he shares with Ms. Lane last night at shortly after twenty-three hundred hours. The medical team who responded to the nine-one-one pronounced Brant Fitzhugh dead on the scene. The uniformed officers responding to the nine-one-one call had secured the scene prior to my arrival.”
6
It wasn’t sexy, and it wasn’t dramatic, but she went over the salient details that could be made public. The hounds, she could clearly see, were restless. They wanted to pop up, shout out, get their faces on-screen. And, though every one of them should know better, to try to squeeze out some shocking detail, some slippery bit they could finesse for their particular audience.
“We are in the very earliest stages of this investigation and will pursue same with the full force of the NYPSD until Mr. Fitzhugh’s killer is identified. We will follow any and all leads, compile any and all evidence, and continue to do the work necessary to bring the person or persons responsible for Mr. Fitzhugh’s death to justice.”
She paused a moment, then held up a hand to hold off the questions that started shooting out.
“There’s no point in any of you asking if we have a suspect or suspects. If we did, I wouldn’t tell you and risk compromising the investigation. There’s no point in asking if we have any leads, as we are, as I’ve said, following any and all leads. There’s no point in asking me or anyone up here for more information on the investigation, as we’ve given you all we’re free to give at this time. So anybody who wastes my time will be ignored.”
Hands shot up, questions flew. She deliberately didn’t call on Nadine—not first. It would look like bias—when, in fact, it would’ve been logical. Nadine wouldn’t waste her time.
She pointed to a camera-ready man with shining blond hair in a dark suit.