“Gregg Ortz with GNN. Lieutenant, it’s been more than twelve hours since Brant Fitzhugh’s murder, a public murder, as there were, by accounts, about two hundred people present. Have you, in these twelve hours, eliminated any of those present as suspects?”
“That’s pretty much the long way around of asking if we have any suspects. So that part’s ignored. Twelve hours? To respond to a dispatch, secure a crime scene, examine a body, bring in crime scene investigators for forensics, begin to interview and vet a couple hundred witnesses, gather evidence, process evidence.
“And for all of that, starting the clock on that over twelve hours at twenty-two-forty-three and the first nine-one-one call. That’s ten-forty-three P.M.”
She let that hang a moment. “We’re working on it, Gregg Ortz with GNN. You,” she said, pointing to another.
“Abbie Korick with Entertainment Daily. Can you confirm the name of the catering company the Fitzhugh-Lanes engaged for the event last night?”
“No.” She tried another.
“Lowell Tucker, Blogasphere. Some of the guests attending have granted interviews. As statements and recollections differ somewhat, can you tell us what Fitzhugh drank that killed him?”
“Cyanide.”
“Sorry, I meant what drink the poison was added to?”
“Champagne.”
She took two more that earned ignore status, two others to which she answered with information she’d already given, then acknowledged Nadine.
“Nadine Furst, Channel Seventy-Five. My information is the guest list included the cast and crew of Eliza Lane’s upcoming revival of Upstage, as well as other friends, acquaintances, plus-ones, and members of the media. Can you confirm that?”
“Yes.”
“Follow-up, please. My information is security was two-leveled. A name check in the lobby of their building before giving access to their apartment, and again at the door. If you can confirm this, would you say, in your professional opinion, the chances of someone slipping through security, not on the list, would be slim?”
“That’s two questions in one. However, security was two-leveled. In my professional opinion, it’s never impossible for someone to slip through solid security, if they’re motivated enough.”
“What was the motive!” someone shouted out.
“To kill.” She barely glanced at Kyung, but he stepped out.
“That’s all, ladies and gentlemen.”
It didn’t stop the barrage of questions, but she walked away.
Peabody said nothing until they were well out of earshot. “You don’t actually believe somebody snuck in and poisoned Fitzhugh.”
“No, but I answered the question accurately, and it’s done. A plus-one has reasonable probability,” she continued. “But managing that means somehow making a connection, or already having one, with an invited guest. Enough of one to get that tagalong to a fancy party.”
“With enough time in there to access some cyanide. The invitations went out ten days before the event.”
“True, but word went out prior. Planning started nearly three weeks before. And that expands the time.”
She shoved out of the elevator, with gratitude, on her level of the garage.
“Some people came stag,” Peabody began, “but—”
“What does that mean? ‘Stag’? It’s a kind of deer, right, with the horn things? How does that translate to somebody going to a party alone?”
“I … Um.” Peabody got into the passenger seat. “Maybe stags are loners?”
“Are they? Are they really? How do they get other deer? They’ve got to hook up sometime.”
“I could look it up.” At Eve’s slow stare, Peabody shrugged. “Or not.” Maybe later, she thought. “Some came alone, some were invited as a couple, but a lot of people had a plus-one. I get that because fancy party, bring your spouse or cohab, show it off to a date, or bring a pal to treat them. And some sort of came as a group.”
“We’ll eliminate the stalker—or get lucky and find out he managed to hit the low probability of slipping in, past security, went unrecognized, and dumped some poison in his rival’s drink. Or meant it for Lane. ‘I can’t have you, nobody can.’”
She streamed out into traffic. “Check out the wills, give me beneficiaries if they’ve come through.”
While Peabody pulled out her PPC, Eve programmed coffee for both of them from the in-dash AC.
“Okay, lots of legal mumbo, but Lane gets it all—but for specifics. A lot of their stuff, from the last decade, is joint anyhow, but he had a property in California prior to the marriage, and she gets it. He leaves a good chunk to his parents, a smaller chunk and a classic roadster to his brother.”
“None of whom were at the party, or in New York at the time.”
“No. He leaves a cool million to Lin Jacoby, along with some personal items. A wrist unit, cuff links, and so on. He leaves a half mil to the cook and housekeeper. Another classic car, wrist unit to his agent. He designated two million to the homeless organization, and there are some smaller bequests to other charities.”
“How about hers?”
“Let me switch over. And blah blah, wherefore, bullshit blah. Okay, much the same. He gets the bulk, including the property she owned prior to marriage on the Italian Riviera. Dolby Kessler gets a million, a pair of diamond stud earrings—Cartier—a framed caricature of Lane—an original by Jorje Talbet. Famous for them,” Peabody added, “so that’s probably worth something. Cela Ricardo gets fifty thousand a year for every year of employment. Sylvie Bowen—no cash bequest but several pieces of jewelry, a collection of perfume bottles, and other odds and ends. The house domestics get half a mil, her dance instructor her toe shoes, tap shoes, and the costume she wore in the ‘Swing Around’ number in the original production of Upstage.”
Peabody shrugged again, shifted toward Eve. “Some small stuff, some charities.”
“So, motive—monetarily—the spouses each benefit most, with the personal assistants raking it in. There’s Bowen—the jewelry’s probably worth considerable. And Lin likes to play the horses. A million places a lot of bets. A half million either way for the house crew, so it wouldn’t matter much which one of them downed the poison—but statements indicate they were in their quarters at the time.”
She stopped at a light, tapped her fingers on the wheel. “The domestics. They draw a good salary, with benefits, have exceptional living quarters. Kill off one of the employers for the quick payoff? You risk losing all that. Doesn’t play for me, especially since both come off squeaky clean.”
“I’d say the same for Ricardo. If you’re going to get fifty large for every year you work, you’d be inclined to want to keep the job a long time.”
“Unless you hate the job, or the boss. Alternately, you aim for Fitzhugh because you calculate Lane will need you more as a widow. That’s stretching it,” Eve admitted, “but I’d put her above the domestics.”
“You could say that about Kessler, too. She’d be more emotionally dependent on him now, at least in the short term. Maybe it’s not so much the money but the dependence. With him gone, she’ll lean on me, need me. And maybe Fitzhugh handled the money areas, or more of them. Kill him, and possibly dig into the till without getting caught.”