“Statements have been pretty positive there, too.”
“She’s fired assistants,” Eve reminded her. “Keene was positive, but she also mentioned Lane lets you know if you don’t meet her standards. She had no problem going after a man who was involved with another woman at the time. Maybe she invited Harrow—they’re not pals—because she likes rubbing her nose in it.”
Eve glanced at the time. “Shit. I’m dropping you at the subway. Go play with paint or whatever, but cull through gossip stories, find us anything bitching about Lane.”
“Those are both fun things. It’s like a reward! What are you doing?”
“I’m going to talk to Lane again, then go work this at home. I need to lay it out, start putting people in places.” She veered to the curb. “We’ll set up interviews—let’s go to them—with the composer and choreographer. And the director and her wife. I want to put those people in those places first, so that’s for tomorrow.”
“Paint and gossip tonight, more celeb types tomorrow. I love my life!”
Eve pulled away to head across town. Close to home, she thought, and followed impulse to tag Roarke.
“Lieutenant. In the car, I see.”
“Yeah, you, too. Where are you?”
“Actually nearly home. I had a meeting canceled so I’m taking advantage of it. And you?”
“I’m going to talk to Eliza Lane again. You said you know her.”
“Met her, which isn’t at all the same.”
“Point. I sprang Peabody. I could use another set of eyes and ears if you’re up for it.”
“I’ll have the car drop me at her building, wait for you outside unless you beat me there.” She waited while he gave his driver the new address.
“I’m heading over from the East Side, so you’re closer. Who cancels on the emperor of the business universe?”
“I could say some impressive head of state, but an engineer whose fiancée went into labor.”
“Okay then. See you in a few.”
When she did, the emperor of the business universe stood outside, chatting companionably with the doorman. Because he had, said doorman gave her no guff about leaving her car at the entrance.
“Lieutenant Dallas, ma’am.”
He beamed so cheerfully she swallowed the ma’am.
“You’re already cleared up to Ms. Bowen’s apartment. We’re all real sorry about Mr. Fitzhugh. A hell of a guy.”
“So I’m told.”
Reporters—she counted six—raced up or down or across the street, already shouting questions.
“Hey!” The doorman went from cheerful to tiger snarl in two seconds flat. “What’d I tell you? You back off or I call the cops again. You don’t get to harass residents or visitors.”
Since they’d obviously gone this round before, not one of them came within ten feet of the entrance.
It didn’t stop them from shouting questions or recording, but Eve ignored that.
“A hell of a guy,” the doorman repeated. “Always took a minute to say hello. Never puffed himself up.”
“How about her, Ms. Lane?”
“Oh, maybe she doesn’t always say hello, but no snoot there.” He pushed up the tip of his nose. “Remembers your name. Got me house seats once when she heard my wife wanted to see a show.”
“Do you know if my men are still in the building?”
“I couldn’t say, but I can sure find out for you.”
“It’s okay, I’ll take care of it.”
He beat her to the door, opened it for her and Roarke.
“Maybe you could tell Ms. Lane condolences from Henry on the door.”
“All right. How much did you give him?” she muttered to Roarke.
“Now, that would be telling. And speaking of your men.”
She watched Baxter, Trueheart, and McNab pile off an elevator. Baxter in his slick, tailored suit, Trueheart in his off-the-rack navy, and McNab in his EDD circus gear of bright baggies, brighter T-shirt, and neon-orange air sneaks.
“Dallas, fancy meeting you here. Hey, Roarke.”
“Status, Baxter.”
“Cleared. We decided to stick it out—only about thirty past shift. Nothing there, boss.”
“Party clutter,” Trueheart added, and tucked a florist box under his arm. “And the sweeper dust, but under it, the whole place is really clean. Everything has a place, no secret stashes.”
“The catering kitchen recyclers were run twice yesterday. From the timing, I’d say during food prep, and again about an hour in. Sweepers took the contents anyway. All recycler contents. Saved us, right, pal?”
Trueheart just smiled at Baxter. “They have a lot of really nice things.”
“Any more trouble with reporters?”
“There’s a couple camped in a unit in the building across the street.”
Trueheart nodded. “We saw them hanging out the windows with cams. We’ve had the privacy shades down all day, but they got some shots when we went out to process the terraces.”
“A bunch of them outside. Anyway, your go, McNab.”
“Nothing funny on the e’s. These people liked order. Makes my own system look like chaos, and it’s just not. But everything’s in place, just like the stuff. Personal stuff separate, and nothing weird or off about it. Assistant Ricardo’s been seeing some guy for about a month, but I ran him, and nothing popped. Assistant Kessler had a bad breakup—bad for him because heartbreak and all that—about four months back. He’s dipped his toe back in, but nothing serious. He’s got a tight circle of friends, mostly theater people, two of them roommates. They come off clean. Little bumps here and there, but nothing violent, nothing major.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I ran Assistant Jacoby by you already, and that’s it for him. Nothing squirrelly on Jacoby’s assistant—she’s been in New Zealand for a few days already.
“Cara Rowan, the housekeeper, she’s into crosswords and word jumbles and scrabble—plays online with a group. Lots of correspondence with her sister, a niece, a nephew, her mother, her mother-in-law, some pals. He’s into food, cooking, baking, and a little soft porn. Really soft. They’re planning a vacation, like a family reunion deal, next Thanksgiving.”
He shrugged. “There’s no vibe there, Dallas. If their bosses come up in personal correspondence, their response is pretty much everything’s frosty. They don’t gossip, at least not over the e’s.”
“Okay. I’ll let Lane know the scene’s cleared. Peabody’s on the way home, or probably to the house.”
“I’ll tag her up. Need to rain-check it, guys. Cha!”
“We’re heading out for a brew,” Baxter said as McNab pranced off. “Maybe some eats. There’s a nice tavern down the block if you finish up and want to join.”
“Can’t. I’ve got a pile left to work on.”
“Aren’t we glad we’re not the boss?” Baxter slapped Trueheart on the shoulder. “Let’s go drink, eat, and be men, my young apprentice.”
“Reporters outside,” Eve called. “Avoid.”