“We’ve cleared the second and third floors,” Baxter told her. “There’s a lot of stuff, a lot of space, boss, but so far nothing hinky. I’m going to say these people know how to live. Or he did until he didn’t.”
“What’s McNab’s status?”
“He’s still up there. When we broke for eats, he’d finished with the vic’s assistant’s e’s and was into the first of Lane’s assistants. No hinky there, either, so far. If any of these people killed Fitzhugh, they were damn careful about sweeping up bread crumbs.”
“Yeah, they would be. Anything otherwise?”
“We did have one guy get to the door here—main level. Pulled the flower delivery shtick. Reporter, bribed one of the tenants to pass him up to their floor, used the stairs to get up here. Building security spotted him.”
One way to crash a party—maybe. “He made it all the way to the main level door?”
“They alerted us when they spotted him coming up the stairwell. Quick response on their end, boss. They got up here when he’s hitting the buzzer on the door. Escorted him down and out.”
Then he grinned. “Dropped the flowers when security nabbed him. Trueheart’s taking them to his mom.” Anticipating an objection, he shrugged. “They were just going to lie there and die otherwise.”
“Right.” Flowers were the least of her concerns. “Let me know your status at end of shift. If you can’t clear it all, pick it up in the morning. Tell McNab the same.”
“Got that. You know, Dallas, I started out thinking this was my dream house, but there’s just too damn much of it. You’d have to have the domestics or droids—they don’t have any droids—the assistants and whatever the fuck poking around all the damn time. The whole third floor’s basically laid out for assistants, and the domestics have a space about the size of my apartment down here.”
He shook his head. “How’s a guy supposed to walk around naked with all these people around?”
“That’s one benchmark for city living. Dallas out.”
“I’m trying not to imagine Baxter walking around naked in his apartment, and failing.” Peabody scrubbed at her eyes. “Samantha Keene’s just out of dance class. She wants us to meet her at Footlights. It’s a café off Broadway. She’s heading there now.”
“Plug in the address.”
As she did, Eve’s ’link signaled. When she saw Nadine on the readout, she took it on her wrist unit.
“Dallas.”
“You made an arrest.”
“Did I?”
“Ethan Crommell, convicted of stalking Eliza Lane, assaulting Brant Fitzhugh, trespassing, harassment, and so on.”
“Oh yeah, that arrest.”
“My sources say he’ll be returned to the Gordon Institution to serve out his sentence, and face additional charges of assault with a deadly on a police officer—betting that’s you—and resisting arrest. He’s not currently being charged with Fitzhugh’s murder.”
“The investigation is active and ongoing.”
“Uh-huh. Since notified of Crommell’s release on parole, Lane’s building security, the security in the building where Upstage was in workshops, the Crystal Gardens Theater where they’ll move into rehearsals, the security in the building housing the offices for the New York base of Fitzhugh’s production company all have Crommell’s description, his photo, and instructions to detain him for the police should he attempt to enter.”
Nadine held up a finger before Eve could get a word in.
“Building security at Lane’s residence maintains, firmly, Crommell didn’t attempt to enter last night, and hasn’t attempted to enter at any time since his release.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“A girl keeps her hand in.” And Nadine polished the fingernails of that hand on her shoulder. “I’ve researched him, Dallas. He’s an obsessed fan with serious issues and delusions, in mandatory lockup and therapy for nearly three years. Supposedly rehabilitated enough to meet the standards for parole.”
“Not nearly enough, but not a suspect in the murder of Brant Fitzhugh.”
“Not nearly enough why, and why not a suspect?”
She could blow Nadine off, but calculated. If she had to do another media briefing—and odds were—she’d address all this anyway. And beyond friendship, it never hurt to have a skilled crime reporter with integrity on your side.
“During a routine interview with Crommell at his residence, as he had taken a sick day from his place of employment, the investigators found what could be called a shrine to Eliza Lane, a small area papered with her photographs and other memorabilia. When confronted with this discovery, as his probationary release was precluded on his controlling his obsession with Ms. Lane, Crommell attempted to stab the primary investigator with scissors it appeared he used to create a scrapbook containing more photos and memorabilia pertaining to Ms. Lane.”
“Did he cut you?”
“I said ‘attempted,’ but thanks for asking.”
Concern turned to amusement. “Need to get any and all facts.”
“Right. Crommell was restrained and transported to formal interview, at Cop Central, with Dr. Charlotte Mira in attendance for psychiatric observation and evaluation. During the course of the interview, the investigators and Dr. Mira concluded that while it was extremely unlikely Crommell had any part in the death of Brant Fitzhugh, his mental and emotional state, his delusions and intentions made him a danger to himself and others. In addition to his violation of the conditions of his parole, he was charged with assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon and resisting arrest.”
“Nice report, Lieutenant, but it doesn’t actually answer the questions.”
“Off the record.”
“Shit.” Nadine puffed out air, frustrated air. “Damn it. Fine. We’re off.”
“He’s batshit, Nadine, and thinks Lane talks to him, is begging him to save her. They’ve done this dance throughout time, right? Past-life crap. He’s just not capable of planning something like Fitzhugh’s death and carrying it out—even if he could’ve gotten in the building, had known about the party, been able to access cyanide. And if he had? He’d have said so. It’s his mission in this life and all his delusionary lives to reunite with Lane and live with her under rainbows while they ride unicorns or whatever.
“He didn’t kill Fitzhugh,” she concluded. “So the investigation is active and ongoing.”
“Give me a nugget.”
“All that wasn’t a nugget? Wasn’t that a nugget?” Eve asked Peabody, who just shrugged to stay neutral.
“Try this. Who’s the last person you talked to—regarding the murder?”
When Peabody shrugged again, Eve decided why not. “Rico Estaban.”
“Ah, the Holiday Hunk. It wouldn’t be Christmas without seeing Estaban, bare-chested, near a Christmas tree. He’s Vera Harrow’s latest boy toy. They came together?”
“That’s right. He isn’t a suspect at this time and was cooperative.”
Smiling, Nadine tapped a finger on her temple. “Hmmmm. ‘At this time’ makes me wonder if I should tag him up, get an interview.”