“You didn’t warn McNab,” Roarke pointed out as they walked to the elevator.
“Did you see his getup? Maybe they make him as a cop, but they’re third- or fourth-string, since they’re stuck out there hoping for a mark, so I doubt it.”
In the elevator, she called for Bowen’s floor. “Here’s what I think.”
He trailed a fingertip down the dent in her chin. “I always want to know.”
“Lane or Fitzhugh or both, probably both, were extremely careful with who they hired who’d have access to their home. They probably have custodian staff in their other properties, and we’ll find the same. And those they hired, if they want to keep the job, know the rules of the road and keep to them.”
“Sounds sensible to me. I’d think those in the public eye would value their privacy even more than most. When the door closes, those eyes are shut out.”
“And you let out only what you want—that’s control. Handpicked media at the party. I’ll bet not one of them has written a nasty feature or review pertaining to either of them.”
“You find that odd, or suspicious?”
“No,” she admitted. “Just interesting and telling. I’m going to find it interesting to hear what you think after we talk to the widow and her best friend.”
10
When they stepped on the elevator, Eve turned to Roarke.
“I think Lane was the target.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, here’s why. Her drink—that’s the most obvious. He clearly had it made for her. Anyone at the party—and undoubtedly the killer—knew it was her drink. That’s basic observation and research. The killer’s not stupid. Multiple opportunities to slip something into the drink as the victim worked his way through the party. Multiple statements verify that.”
“But she didn’t drink it.”
“That’s the glitch in the plan. She decides to perform, hands the drink back for Fitzhugh to hold.”
“And as you pointed out before, there were also multiple opportunities to slip the poison into the drink when he worked his way back through the party to watch the duet.”
“Yeah, and he’s the dead guy, but—” When the elevator doors opened, she pressed hold. “Sure, there’s the possibility he drinks it, because he did. But it was just as likely he’d hold it for her, give it back to her after she took her bow. What I’m hearing, and seeing, is he drank it on impulse. ‘Here’s to you, Eliza.’ Drink, choke, die.”
“Harsh, but true.”
“Another factor, motive. I’m not getting any sense he had genuine enemies. People liked him. I’m not getting any subtle digs. You know, ‘How I loved that bastard, he was a fucking prince among men. Even when he was a dick, he was a prince.’”
“A prince of a dick.”
“That’s how it goes a lot of times. ‘Dead Jack? Sweet guy. Sure, he had a temper, but mostly when he was drunk.’ Or, ‘Dead Bob? He’d give you the shirt off his back—when he wanted it laundered.’”
“You know such interesting dead people.”
“I got files of them. But with Fitzhugh, there’s none of that. It may be bullshit, because everybody’s a dick sometimes, but it comes off sincere. Even with Harrow, who calls him the Shitheel.”
“I’m going to agree about Brant,” Roarke decided. “As no one who mentioned him to me today did so with the dick or drunk qualifiers.”
“It’s different with Lane.”
“In what way?”
“Nobody’s calling her a dick, but I’m getting ‘She’s tough, she’s a perfectionist, she’ll let you know when you don’t meet her standards,’ that kind of thing. All respectful, even admiring—not counting Harrow—but it’s a different sensibility.”
“Are you going to tell her you’re leaning, and hard it seems, toward her as the target?”
“She’s already got that in her head. I’m looking three ways. The killer didn’t care which one of them died—you could look at Harrow on that. Lane was the target, and there I look at a lot of people. Harrow again, and former employees, somebody who didn’t get a part because they didn’t meet her standards, ex-lovers, and so on. Or it was Fitzhugh all along, and there you look at Harrow, or somebody who just wanted him gone for reasons we haven’t found yet. Or you look at Lane.”
“As the killer? Because?”
“She didn’t drink it, she gave it back to him. She’s the spouse, and the spouse is always a contender.”
“Ah. Is that part of the Marriage Rules?”
“It’s in the—what do you call it?—forward. The Pros and Cons of Marriage.”
He had to laugh. “You have a list of pros and cons?”
“Sure.” She released the hold and stepped out.
“Is it a general list, or specific to us?”
“Oh, you’ve got your own separate list, pal. The coffee and the sex weigh heavy on the pro side. But in general, pros are companionship, accessibility to free sex, like minds—or close enough—if you’re lucky, somebody who tolerates your flaws, and so on. Cons are potential cheating, assholeyness—”
“Is that a word?”
“In my book, yeah. Boredom, which leads to both of the above, someone who ends up griping about all your flaws because now they’re living with them, meddling in-laws, divorce. And the big? Somebody who decides to kill you dead.”
“Is that it?”
“No, plenty more on both sides. So I’ll look at Lane, as target, as suspect. Add her best pal Sylvie as possible suspect, and/or her faithful assistants.”
“Then it appears your investigation got wider rather than more narrow over the course of your day.”
“We’ll squeeze it down. Be your usual,” she added as they approached Sylvie’s door.
He skimmed a hand over her hair. “Which is?”
“Do the sympathetic charm thing.”
“Ah, and is that a pro or con on the list?”
“It goes back and forth, depending.”
Charmed himself, he ran a hand down her back, then patted her ass. “I adore you.”
“That doesn’t hurt.” She paused to look at him. “Mutual,” she said, and pressed the buzzer.
Sylvie answered the door herself. She’d dressed casually, cropped pants, a simple shirt. She’d done minimal makeup and yanked her hair back in a tail.
And Eve saw, instantly, the minute Sylvie’s eyes landed on Roarke, she wished she’d groomed more.
“Oh, Lieutenant Dallas, please come in. And Roarke. I recognized you.”
“And I you, Ms. Bowen. I very much admire your work.”
“Thank you so much, and it’s Sylvie. Eliza’s out on the terrace. I’d just come in to get us some wine. Please, go right out. I hope you’ll join us in a glass.”
“Thanks, but I’m on duty.”
“I’m not,” Roarke said, “and would love one. The lieutenant’s for black coffee if you have it. Can I help you with that?”