“They have a business manager, financial guys, but yeah, easier to dip if the person with the till isn’t paying as much attention. Or maybe somebody already did.”
Roarke would have seen it, she thought. But …
“They’ve all got free access to the big fancy place with all the fancy stuff. Maybe one of them lifted a couple things they figure wouldn’t be noticed, pawned them. But Fitzhugh noticed. Mr. Nice Guy gave them a second chance, but you’re worried he’ll change his mind. Or you’re just greedy.”
She hissed out a breath as she drove. “And all that’s just weak. If money is motive, the surviving spouse benefits most. But both of them were loaded on their own, so it doesn’t stick well. The homeless deal. It’s solid, but there might be somebody who works there who’s just sick greedy and weirdly driven. And still, Fitzhugh was likely worth more than the eight-plus mil alive by bringing the cause into the public consciousness, drumming up big-ticket donations.”
“I’m with you on that. He hyped it on social media all the time. Did PSAs, attended benefits, hosted them, and gave them money annually. But say Lane was the intended victim.”
“How does that change any of the above?”
“From what I know—that’s going from media, and statements, interviews—she’s not as soft a touch as he was. If she noticed something went missing, I think she’d start kicking ass. And there’s the production company.”
“His. But hers now.” Eve nodded. “She’ll have something to say about that now, or at least her lawyers will have a look there.”
“And maybe there’s been some hanky in the panky Fitzhugh didn’t know about, or was handling in a soft-touch way. That’s big money, right? All those millions that go into producing a feature or a series, and just running the day-to-day expenses.”
“That’s a good thought.” And yet another area to look at, Eve decided. “That was his baby, not hers. If it’s not doing as well as it looks on the surface, if money’s sliding away somewhere, you don’t want her nosing in. And you don’t want to kill him—he’s the name, he’s the draw. Kill her, get her out of the picture, distract him. Either you figure to recoup the losses before he notices, or wring it all dry and blow. Could play.”
In Queens, she hunted for parking on a narrow street and opted for a squat, two-decker parking garage.
“Twenty bucks an hour.” Disgusted, she aimed her ’link at the device on the gate to record her time in and pay the required hour minimum. “Shouldn’t be legal.”
Despite the cost, she had to wind to the second level and take one of three empty slots left.
“We’ll check his work first.” From the open second level, she pointed down. “He stocks shelves at that Mini-Super. I don’t get the ‘mini’ and ‘super’ when it should be one or the other.”
“You really almost always have to go to the ’burbs for a super-super. Rent’s as pricy as parking around here.”
For a moment Eve watched bumper-to-bumper traffic inch along the skinny street.
“It’s like nobody’s heard of public transportation here.”
They took the stairs down, boots clanging on metal treads.
People shuffled along the sidewalk with the same lethargy as the vehicular traffic. A kid popped out of a salon and sauntered his jaywalking way across the street through the creeping cars.
A woman popped her head out the salon door. The hair came first, a swirl of pink and blue like an ice cream cone served on Pluto. “Julio! Get me an iced coffee and a cruller!” she shouted in a voice thick with Queens before she slammed the door again.
Music banged out of cars; voices rang out of windows. A man in baggy shorts and a tight white tee with every inch of his muscular arms tatted led a dog the size of a well-fed rat on a pink leash.
A pair of women who looked as if they’d recently visited Ice Cream Cone’s salon stood outside a shop with little portable fans whirling at their faces as they dished about someone named Ernestine and her recent weight loss.
“Paid to have it sculpted off, take my word.”
“Don’t I know it! All that talk about diet and exercise? As if! She paid good money for that new ass.”
“Why would they care?” Eve wondered while they waited at the crosswalk. “It’s Ernestine’s ass, and her money either way.”
“They’re checking out your ass now and deciding you paid for it.”
“Yeah?” Eve tipped down her sunshades—ones she’d managed not to lose in the short time she’d had them—and aimed a long, cool look. It had the women turning away casually, much like Galahad did after Roarke aimed a look at him.
They crossed the street, hiked up to the Mini-Super.
Inside, the air blasted cool to the point of cold. Business ran as brisk as the air at all five checkout stations. One offered a human element to ring up and bag. The rest ran on auto and self-serve.
Eve headed toward the human.
“We’re looking for Ethan Crommell.”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen ’im.” Her fingers—nails tipped with sky blue—flew as they rang up a carton of egg substitute, a sack of fake coffee. “Ask the manager.”
“Where’s the manager?”
She sighed audibly, then tapped her lapel mic. “Carmine to Checkout One!”
She finished with a carton of ice pops and a jumbo carton of soy milk. “Your total’s ninety-eight-fifty-six today, Ms. Mussy.”
“Lord, lord, lord.” Ms. Mussy ran her ’link over the scanner while Blue Nails began to bag.
A man built like an overweight fireplug with slicked-down ink-black hair and a mustache that actually curled at the edges waddled up.
“Help you?”
Eve shifted, palmed her badge. “We need to speak with Ethan Crommell.”
“That boy in trouble again?” Carmine fisted his hands on his husky hips. “Try to do a public service, try to give somebody a second chance, and what do you get?”
“We just need to speak with him.”
“Well, he ain’t here. Called in sick this morning—texted it, middle of the damn night. Gave him a chance ’cause his parole officer’s my second cousin once removed. He’s been reliable, I’ll say that. Does his job and doesn’t screw off too much.”
“Does he call or text in sick much?”
“First time for it. And here the cops show up. If he’s in trouble with the law, I don’t want him back here.”
“We just want to talk to him. Did he work yesterday?”
“Eight to three.” The mustache quivered as if alive and outraged. “Didn’t look sick, either.”
“Seemed like a good one to me,” Ms. Mussy put in. “Didn’t he help me take my groceries home once when he was on his break? Then you hear axe murderers can seem like good ones until they chop your head off your shoulders. Hack the rest of you up into little pieces to feed to the dogs.”
“We don’t want to talk to him about decapitation,” Eve assured her. “It’s just routine.”
Ms. Mussy nodded wisely. “They say that a lot, then—” She made a chopping motion with her hand before wheeling her cart away.