“How many axe murders have we investigated since you came to Homicide, Peabody?” Eve asked when they walked back outside and into the heat.
“I believe that number is zero.”
“Exactly. But people sure like to talk about them like they happen every day. Crommell lives just down the block.”
“We had that decapitation,” Peabody recalled. “But that was a sword, so it doesn’t count as an axe murder. Anyway. It’s funny he’d call in sick the first time on the night Fitzhugh dies.”
“Yeah, that’s funny all right. It’d be funnier to me if he’d called in the day of the murder, then had that time to get to the Upper West, execute whatever plan he had for getting into the building, much less the party, poison Fitzhugh, and get out again. But it’s still funny.”
She stopped outside the building—four stories of graffiti-etched pitted block with barred windows as the only visible security.
Since the single door didn’t require a buzz in, she didn’t need the master to step into the closet of a lobby. With no elevator to reject, they took the stairs.
She heard music, voices, a baby screaming as if that axe murderer got busy chopping it up for the dogs. She smelled old piss, more recent Zoner smoke, and somebody’s takeout that had gone bad at least a day before.
On the third floor, a cat howled behind one of the closed doors, and the tinny laughter of a comedy on-screen sounded behind another.
She heard Eliza Lane speak clearly behind Crommell’s door. Even as her eyes narrowed, Peabody spoke up.
“That’s from a vid. He’s watching one of her vids.”
Eve banged the side of her fist against the door.
From inside, sound of the vid shut off. Eve heard footsteps, hurried ones, heard another door close.
Whatcha hiding, Ethan? Eve wondered.
It took a couple of minutes before she saw the shadow cross the Judas hole.
“Whaddaya want?”
“Police, Mr. Crommell.” Eve held up her badge. “We need to speak to you.”
“I haven’t done anything! I’m sick. I’m taking a sick day. I called in and everything. I didn’t break parole.”
“Yes, sir. We were informed of that. We just need to speak with you.”
She heard a lock click, another thump, then the rattle of a security chain.
No, Crommell didn’t look sick, Eve thought when he opened the door. In fact he looked better, healthier, than in his mug shots or ID shot.
He hit about five-ten in his bare feet. He wore cotton pajama pants with blue-and-white checks and a baggy white tee that could’ve used a good wash. He had a headful of curling dark hair, a full, well-shaped mouth, slim blade of a nose. The light scruff on his face helped disguise a weak jaw.
He might have been deemed almost handsome—if you ignored the eyes. Though an inoffensive pale blue, they carried a look in them that said clearly to Eve:
I’m not quite right.
“I’m allowed to take a day off work when I’m sick. Nobody wants you coming in sick and spreading germs all over. I got a stomach bug.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. If we could come in to speak to you and avoid contacting your parole officer? We could also report back to your manager that you are, indeed, not feeling well today.”
“It’s not fair a man can’t take a day off when he’s sick.”
“We’ll make this as quick as possible.”
“It’s not fair,” he repeated, but backed away to let them in.
She smelled candle wax, something very fragrant, very sweet, but saw no candles in the room. A room, she noted, very spare and very clean, but for the pullout bed where he’d obviously nested with a huge bowl of popcorn, a smaller bowl of gummy-type candy, a bag of chips, and a dish of white gunk he’d used for dip.
The pullout and all the snacks sat across from the wall screen.
The table beside the pullout held a quart bottle of Coke, half full.
“You’re probably not doing that stomach bug much good with the junk food,” Peabody commented.
“I can eat what I want. It’s not illegal. I was just lying down, taking it easy.”
“Watching some screen,” Eve added. “Eliza Lane.”
“I’m allowed to watch vids. I made a mistake, and I had treatment and therapy. I’m allowed to watch vids. Ms. Lane is a talented actress, and her vids are very entertaining.”
“Uh-huh.” Eve wandered a bit, noted Crommell’s eyes tracking her. No increased nerves when she stepped closer to the kitchen alcove. “Just watching vids while you’re recovering? No news media today?”
Those eyes cut away. “Not today. News isn’t happy. I wanted happy because I’m sick.”
“I get that,” Peabody said as Eve wandered.
“What’s this about anyway? I want to go back to bed. I gotta get better so I don’t miss more work.”
“I guess you got sick last night. That’s when you texted your manager.”
“Yeah, woke up puking, if you have to know.”
“Where’d you go after work yesterday? You got off at three.”
“Home, right here. I wasn’t feeling all that good.” His fingers scratched at the sides of his thighs, and his feet couldn’t stand quite still. “Had this stomach bug coming on so I went to bed, tried to sleep it off.”
“See anybody, talk to anybody from the time you got home, right after three, until you texted your manager?”
“No. I said I wasn’t feeling good, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.” She watched the nerves light in his eyes as she stepped toward the pullout, and the closed door beside it. “I guess that takes care of it. We appreciate the time, and sure hope you feel better soon. Hey, we’ve got a long ride back. Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“I guess.”
“Thanks.” As she turned the knob on the closed door, he jumped.
“Not there, not there. It’s over there.”
But she’d already opened the door.
And found the shrine to Eliza Lane inside.
7
Photos of Eliza Lane covered the walls of the narrow space. Some struck as paparazzi-style shots, others he’d obviously printed out from articles or interviews.
Vid posters she imagined he’d bought from some fan-based online site crowded in.
A shelf ran across the closet and held more photos—framed—along with flowers and the candles she’d smelled. On a higher shelf he’d arranged signed playbills, also framed.
Eve took it all in at a glance.
“Well, Ethan, I wonder what your therapist would say about this.”
“That’s my personal property!” His voice hiked up two or three registers, and his face burned red. “You get out! You get out now.”
“I think we’ll all get out, head into Central for a nice chat. We’ll see if your parole officer wants to join in.”
“I’m not going back in that place. I’m not going back! You can’t make me.”
He dropped to the floor. Like a toddler, Eve thought, and wondered if he’d start banging his fists and kicking his feet.
Instead, he swiped a hand under the pullout and came out with scissors.