“Why do you get insulted when I say you think like a cop when you think like a cop?”
“The reasons should be clear to a trained observer. I’ll accept that, situationally, I’m able to think like my cop.”
When they walked in, Summerset stood, scarecrow thin in funereal black, with the pudge of a cat at his feet.
“Together, no visible bloodstains or bruises, and barely an hour late. A red-letter day.”
“We had drinks with two luminaries of stage and screen,” Roarke told him, effectively cutting off Eve’s snark du jour. “Eliza Lane and Sylvie Bowen.”
“Ah. The media’s been ripe all day on Brant Fitzhugh’s murder. I enjoyed your media conference, Lieutenant.”
“That makes one of us.” She sidestepped the cat, currently ribboning his way through her legs, and started for the stairs.
“Is there pie?” Roarke asked. “Pie came up earlier and now I’ve a yen.”
“Lemon meringue.”
“Well now, that’s perfect, isn’t it? Enjoy your evening.”
“I’m nearly out the door. Ivanna’s goddaughter is performing in a string quartet.”
“Give her my best.”
When he caught up to Eve on the stairs, she looked at him. “Why is it a red-letter day? Why isn’t it ever a blue-letter day, or a green-number day?”
“There’s something to ponder on. Absolutely never.”
“I bet you know anyway.”
In her office, he walked over, opened the terrace doors. “Something to do with calendars and marking the dates of festivals in red.”
She went straight to her command center, opened operations. “Then why isn’t it a red-number day? Calendars have numbers, not letters.”
He crossed to the wine cabinet, uncorked a bottle. After he set a glass beside her, he bent down to kiss the top of her head. “We’ll take it up with the management.”
She looked up at him. “Things should make sense, and half the time they don’t. Stuff that shouldn’t make sense, half the time does.”
“Then it all evens out, doesn’t it? Half an hour,” he added, then went into his own office.
“It’s chaos!” she called out. “How is that even?”
“Someone once said chaos is a ladder—but then he died a brutal death.”
“Ha.” She started her update, then paused. “Chaos is a ladder … maybe.”
Witnesses described the scene after Fitzhugh’s collapse as chaos, as confusion. Wouldn’t that be a handy ladder for the killer?
She tucked it away, let it brew while she updated her book, wrote a report for Whitney. Roarke came back as she began to update her board.
“Who said that thing about chaos and the ladder?”
“A character in a screen series. One you’d enjoy now that I think of it.” He answered from the kitchen, where Galahad had followed hopefully. “And, as I think of it, tailor-made for Brant Fitzhugh. Swords and battles, dragons and political intrigue.
“You’ve been fed already,” he said to the cat.
And Eve knew without needing to see that Roarke caved and set out some of the much-loved cat treats.
She worked on the board as he carried out two domed plates.
“You can climb out of a hole or into a window with a ladder, and if there’s chaos, nobody notices.”
“True enough.” He went back for the wine, then stopped by her board to study it with her. “So many well-known faces.”
“And the ones behind them. A party’s a kind of chaos.”
That made him smile. “For you they are.”
“No, really. A lot of people wandering around, clutched into groups, music, food, drinks. Say, controlled chaos. Still, some people, at least some, are paying attention. Servers, for instance, or people who like to watch people, judge what they’re wearing—that’s a big one. Listen to what they’re saying in other groups.”
Absently, she took the glass of wine he offered her. “They’ve got a big space.” She gestured to various photos of the crime scene. “Limited to the main level for the party, though they wouldn’t do regular sweeps of the two other floors if people didn’t get through—like the drunk in the tub.”
He nudged her toward the table. “And with people mingling, moving, the conversation, the music, the space, it’s not hard to tip a bit of poison into a glass.”
“He wasn’t going to drink it,” she pointed out. “Like the glass you just handed me. That was for me, so you didn’t hold it up here.” She brought the glass up. “We’re talking, drinking, blah blah, I’m more likely to hold the glass up. But you’re taking it across the room, so you’re more likely to hold it down, not really paying attention to it, especially if you’re closing in, having a quick conversation, getting the dumbass kiss-kiss greeting.
“Controlled chaos is still a ladder.”
When she sat, he removed the domes, set them aside. She saw fat hunks of pork smothered in sauce, a cold pasta salad, and a bunch of colorful vegetables she didn’t bother to identify.
“But after,” she continued, and cut into the pork, “chaotic chaos. Shock, panic, people scrambling back or rushing toward. In those first seconds, people react that way—panic—a what the fuck. Except for the killer because the killer knows what the fuck. You could climb that ladder to conceal whatever held the cyanide. If the target’s Lane, you would’ve already done that during controlled chaos. Hell, it’s going to be small, has to fit in your pocket and be easily palmed. You could flush it on a quick trip to the john.
“I’ve asked myself why that night—all those wits—but the fact is, that night was perfect because of all the wits. Jesus, this is really good. What is it?”
“Boneless barbecued ribs. You’re sure about the bartender being clear?”
“Fitzhugh directed her step-by-step. That’s not only her statement, but Vera Harrow’s. And she’s clean, no connection we’ve found to either the victim or Lane, no motive.”
“I’m going to tell you, so far, the same applies to Sylvie Bowen, at least as far as her finances go. She was very generous with her ex, which to my eye, he took regular advantage of while he worked on rejected screenplays. I’ll wager she never had to piss him off to convince him to take some cash for his pocket.”
She shot a finger at him, then shrugged. “I earn a paycheck,” she reminded him.
“And he didn’t, or only sporadically. His finances—I couldn’t resist—are shaky at best. And since she—wisely—transferred her funds out of the account he grabbed from, put a block on him, and had her lawyers contact him using the word embezzlement, I suspect they’ll be shakier.”
Now he shrugged. “Otherwise? Nothing sends up a flag. She actually lives rather conservatively for someone in her position. She has the flat here, a place in the Hollywood Hills, as she often works there, but her parents, both alive and well, live there year-round. She’s given generously to Fitzhugh’s cause.”
“We’ll cross that off. It wouldn’t be about money if she’s involved. It would be about loyalty. If Lane wanted Fitzhugh dead, and Bowen helped, it’s loyalty and friendship.”