“These are the choices that define our lives.”
Peabody just smiled. “You let me go over two minutes.”
“Maybe I’m going soft. But time’s up. Run the choreographer.”
“Minerva Novak.” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “Age thirty-six, lives on West Forty-sixth. Married, six years, to Malcomb Furrier, age thirty-six, one offspring, female, age two. He’s a composer. Born in Columbia, Maryland, parents Roger Novak and Alyson Crupke, divorced—she’d have been six. Both remarried, subsequent divorce for Alyson. Three half-sibs, two from the father and one from the mother. She studied dance at Juilliard, worked as a professional dancer—has a list of credits—then moved into choreography about eight years ago. More credits. She’s worked with Tessa Long—that’s the Upstage director—on two other shows. The best I can tell this is her first time working with Lane. No connection to Fitzhugh shows here.”
“We’ll look closer. Do you have her statement from last night?”
“Yeah, McNab talked to her and her husband. They were, they both believe, standing next to the victim for a few moments. But he was behind them when he collapsed. They have their arrival time as about eight-fifty, both spoke with Lane and Fitzhugh—separately—and spent time with others from the show. Spoke with Long and her wife for a longer period, out on the terrace. They were actually about to say their goodbyes—had told the babysitter they’d be home before eleven—when Lane and Keene started the number. So they watched. McNab’s notes say she was visibly upset, kept a grip on her husband’s hand throughout the short interview, but they were both cooperative.”
“Okay, I’ll poke around there tonight.”
Vera Harrow had her own penthouse on the Upper East Side. Eve took advantage of their guest parking, on-site, using her badge to clear the way.
She termed the building Old New York. Dignified elegance, edging toward Deco, with solid security, including a doorman, and a lush lobby centered with an intricate tile rug and ripe with flowers in clear glass tubes suspended from the west wall.
The suit manning the lobby counter gave them a polite, uptown smile. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”
“We’re here to see Ms. Harrow.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Harrow has issued a Do Not Disturb. If you’d like to leave a card or a message, I’ll be sure she gets it when she’s available.”
Pleased to erase the snooty smile, Eve pulled out her badge. “I think she should be available now. Why don’t you check?”
“Officer—”
“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped the badge, where her rank was clearly posted. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody, Homicide, NYPSD.”
“If I may verify your identification?”
“Have at it.” Eve held it out for the scanner.
“Thank you. Lieutenant,” she said, very deliberately. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll check with Ms. Harrow’s domestic and see if she’s available.”
“Great, do that. When you do, you might mention that Ms. Harrow can be available here, or available later—at Cop Central.”
“Excuse me.” All dignity, like the building she served, the suit stepped back from the counter to put some distance between them, then murmured into her headset.
She didn’t bother with the smile when she stepped back.
“You’re cleared. Please take elevator three to the thirty-sixth floor. Ms. Harrow is available for your visit in Penthouse C.”
“Great.”
She moved to the silvered elevator doors with Peabody.
“Why do people like that, working a lobby desk, figure they’re so superior to the rest of the world?”
“Brushes with the rich and/or famous, I guess. And the little secrets they know about them. Who visited Ms. Rich when Ms. Rich’s spouse was away? How many times a month does Mr. Famous hire an LC? How about that time Mr. and Ms. R and F’s minor kid stumbled in drunk and/or stoned?”
Peabody shrugged as they got in the elevator. “I bet it gives some a real sense of power.”
“Cops know lots better secrets than that. So … Harrow’s got a DND on her place. Didn’t you say she does some screen series? Shouldn’t it be a workday for her, like it is for Estaban?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re on summer hiatus.”
“We’ll find out. You’ve seen it?”
“Sure. I’ve caught some episodes. It’s good. Pretty solid.”
“Let her know that. She’ll play to that.”
The dignified elegance continued on the thirty-sixth. More flowers, but in standard vertical vases here. Matte black doors—each with cams—to contrast against snow-white walls.
Penthouse C had two of those doors. The left opened seconds after she pressed the buzzer.
The droid replicated a young, fit male of mixed race with deep brown eyes and flowing brown hair highlighted with blond. It wore a dark suit with a white shirt open at the collar.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant, Detective.” It spoke with a cultured British accent. “I’m James. May I see your identification?”
The dark eyes scanned their badges with a thin red light.
“Very good. Please come in.”
9
The droid ushered them into a living area done in what Eve supposed Peabody would call soft colors. Lots of curvy furniture, she noted, and silky fabrics. A many-tiered crystal chandelier spilled from the high ceiling, and art in ornate gold frames crowded the walls.
The triple glass on the east wall invited the river view in. Beyond the glass, verdant ornamental trees in dark blue pots stood in the sunlight.
“Please sit. Ms. Harrow will be down momentarily to join you. She was resting when you requested the visitation. Perhaps you’d enjoy a cool drink while you wait.”
“We’re good, thanks. Is Ms. Harrow home alone?”
“She is. Please sit,” it invited again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have duties. You’ve only to press the button on the house intercom if you require anything.”
“A hunked-up house droid,” Eve observed when it left them. “Droids know secrets, too, but all you have to do is wipe them or reprogram.”
Rather than sit, she wandered. A more intimate sitting room to the right, and double pocket doors closing off the area where the droid had gone to the left.
Stairs wound up to an open second-floor balcony. More little conversation areas there and, she assumed, bedrooms. Likely another terrace off the master and that same killer view, as the glass rose to the lofty ceiling.
She continued to look up when she heard a door open and close, so watched Vera glide along the balcony.
She wore wide-legged white lounging pants and a flowing top. Also, Eve noted, full makeup, diamond studs, a ruby ring that could’ve put someone’s eye out, and a ruby pendant in the shape of a heart.
She cast her eyes down. It surprised Eve they didn’t stay that way given the heft of the false eyelashes.
“I don’t appreciate being disturbed this way.”
“I’m betting Brant Fitzhugh doesn’t appreciate getting dead. We have some follow-up questions regarding same.”