Celebrity in Death

  “I think you enjoy considering me—my counterpart in any case—as your prime suspect.”

  “It has a certain entertaining irony. But more, he’s just not too bright, and the drunken stupor on the sofa afterward could read as burying his head in the sand. Let’s make this go away.”

  She nodded as it played out in her head. “In the imagination portion of police work, I can see him killing her—mostly through accident followed by cover-this-up, followed by avoidance of reality.”

  Eve eased a hip on the corner of her desk. “Steinburger, who I need to talk to again. She’s threatening his profits, the shiny gleam to the project. She’s a major pain in his ass. And, as she had something on several other players here, she may very well have had something up her sleeve on him. Same scenario. Confrontation, fall, cover up.

  “She’s threatening Preston—same deal. This project’s a major break for him, working with Roundtree, major stars, major budget, and she wants to screw him because he can’t give in to all her demands. He doesn’t have the power, but she doesn’t care about that.”

  “So far you’ve only eliminated Marlo and Matthew,” Roarke pointed out.

  “And Roundtree. He just couldn’t have gotten out of the room, up on the roof, killed her, and gotten back in the time frame. He was too much front and center. But Connie wasn’t, and by her own admission left the theater. She was furious with Harris, and since my impression is Roundtree talks to her about the work, the ups and down, likely already had a nice store of pissed-off going. Again, no buzz, but again, she’s a pro. And again, K.T. may have had something on her, or on Roundtree.

  “Then there’s Valerie. Keeps quiet, does the work, follows orders. She’s the one spinning the promotion wheel, and K.T.’s threatening to throw pliers in it.”

  “That’s wrench, but just the same.”

  “She could’ve confronted K.T., warned her to cooperate, and the scenario plays out.”

  “All right, Lieutenant, you’ve laid it out. Who do you like for it?”

  “Just hunch and supposition, or imagination, I guess. In descending order: Julian, Steinburger, Valerie, Andrea, Connie, Preston. Which means I talk to all of them again, go back to the beginning, and try to shake them up. After I talk to the PI. I may get something out of him that changes that order.”

  She pushed up to go around the desk and sit. “But it’s one of them, and whichever one is nervous, worried, and sweating it out. First kills will do that to you.”

  13

  EVE YANKED HERSELF OUT OF THE DREAM AND into the hazy light of dawn. Breathing, just breathing, to give herself a moment to be sure she was awake, and not making that jerky transition from one segment of a dream to another.

  Her throat begged for water, but she lay still another moment, eyes closed, waiting for her pulse to slow.

  Roarke’s arm came around her, drew her close against him. Anchored her. “I’m here.”

  “It’s nothing. I have to get up, get started.”

  “Ssh.”

  She closed her eyes again. She hated this waking fragility, this thin, shaky sensation as if she’d crack if she moved too quickly. She knew it would pass, it would smooth away again, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated, too, knowing he’d broken his habit of being up, dressed, and having accomplished God knew what in the business world before she stirred.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing,” she repeated, but he brushed his lips over her hair. Undid her.

  “Stella, in the bedroom of the place she had in Dallas. The one we searched. But it’s like the bedroom from before, too, when I was a kid. I don’t know where we were then. It doesn’t matter. She’s sitting at this little table, with all her lip dyes and creams and paints—all that stuff. I can smell her, that perfume—too sweet. It makes my stomach hurt. Her back’s to me, but she’s looking at me in the mirror with all that hate, that contempt. I can smell that, too. It’s hot and bitter.

  “I need some water.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She didn’t argue, no point. In any case, she felt a little better, a little stronger. Just a dream, she reminded herself. And she’d known it for what it was while she’d been in it.

  That had to matter.

  She took the water Roarke brought her, ordered herself to drink it slowly.

  “Thanks.”

  He said nothing, only set the empty glass aside, took her hand.

  “Her throat,” Eve continued, bringing her fingers to her own. “Blood pouring out of her throat, down the front of the pink dress she was wearing when I busted her, when I wrecked the van. She’s so angry. It’s my fault, she says. Look at her dress. I ruined it. I ruined everything. Then I see him in the mirror, I see him behind me. McQueen. Or my father. It’s so hard to tell. I reach for my weapon, but it’s not there. I don’t have my weapon. And she smiles. In the mirror, she smiles, and it’s horrible.

  “I have to get out, I have to wake up. So I wake up.”

  “Is it always the same?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m not afraid of her. I want to ask why she hated me so much, but I know there’s no answer. I’m not afraid until, at whatever angle the dream takes, I go for my weapon and it’s not there. Then I’m afraid. So I have to wake up.”

  “None of them can touch you, not ever again.”

  “I know. And when I wake up I’m here. It’s okay; I’m okay, because I’m here. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll just feel guilty.”

  “I’ll try to worry only a little so you’ll only feel a little guilty.”

  “I guess that’ll have to do.” She shifted so they were nose-to-nose and heart-to-heart. “Don’t change your routine because of this. That’ll get me wired and worried. Besides, if you don’t keep up with your predawn quest for world financial domination, how are you going to keep me in coffee? If you slack off, I’ll have to find another Irish gazillion-aire with coffee bean connections.”

  “That would never do. I’ll continue my quest if you promise to tell me when they come.” Gently, he trailed his hand over her hair. “Don’t keep them from me anymore, Eve.”

  “Okay.”

  “And since it appears the very core of my happiness rests on your addiction to coffee, I’ll get you some.”

  “I won’t say no, but I’ve got to get moving. I’m meeting Peabody at Asner’s place. I want to hit his apartment early before he gets out.”

  “Asner?” Roarke said as he rose and walked to the AutoChef.

  “The PI.”

  “Ah, yes. A light breakfast then.” The cat bumped against his legs, wound through them. “For some of us.”

  She got up, knowing he’d try to pamper her into taking her coffee—and possibly the light breakfast—in bed. She took the mug from him, knocked some back.

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” she told him. “You’d better catch up on the world domination.”

  “I’ll get right on that, after I feed the cat.”

  He did so while she went for the shower. Then, drinking his own coffee, stood by the window.

  Careful with each other, she’d said. Yes, they were just now. And it looked as if they’d need to be for a little longer yet.

  She felt like herself—maybe even just a little better due to the magic coat—when she drove downtown. She left the windows down so the brisk air could slap her cheeks, pleased that the ad blimps had yet to start their hyping lumber in the sky, and the snarl and piss of New York traffic could rage on without the blast from above.

  Too early for blimps, too early for most tourists. It felt like New York nearly belonged to New Yorkers. Glide-carts did their morning business, heavy on the soy coffee and egg pockets. Maxibuses burped and farted their commuters to the early shift or breakfast meetings while those on foot clipped along or swarmed the crosswalks like purposeful ants.

  She had a plan, and it started with cornering A. A. Asner. Charges of breaking-and-entering, criminal trespass, electronic trespass, accessory
to blackmail—to start—and the threat of losing his license and livelihood should make him talk like a toddler on a sugar high.

  She’d bargain some of that against him turning over the original recording—and all copies, as well as spilling any and all data he had on K.T. Harris, her movements, her intentions, her meets.

  If he hadn’t done some research on Harris, some shadowing, she’d eat her new magic coat.

  And to cover bases, she’d requested a warrant for both his home and offices, citing his business with the victim.

  She expected to get it.

  She settled for a second-level spot a block and a half from Asner’s apartment building. Decent neighborhood, she noted. Better than what he’d chosen for his office. Packs of kids shuffled down the sidewalk, heading for school, she imagined, some of them herded by parents or nannies. Their chatter piped through the air as most headed along the sidewalks in what she assumed was the latest kid fashion of mid-calf boots with soles thick as a slab of wood.

  Those who didn’t shuffle, clumped.

  A woman in overalls hefted up the safety grill on a small market. She shot Eve a smile.

  Fresher weather, Eve thought, fresher people.

  She enjoyed the walk, promised herself she’d get in the solid workout the preshift visit to Asner had postponed until the evening.

  She spotted Peabody coming from the opposite direction in kind of a quick march. The cowboy boots Roarke decided Peabody had to have from Dallas flashed sizzling pink with every stride.

  The stride hitched, and Peabody’s mouth formed a stunned O. Instinctively, Eve laid a hand on her weapon, checked behind her, but Peabody was already dancing—the only word that fit—down the sidewalk.

  She said, “Ohhhh,” and reached out.

  “Hey. Hands off.”

  “Please. Please, please, soooo pretty. Lemme just have one little touch.”

  “Peabody, isn’t it embarrassing enough you’re wearing pink cowboy boots, again, without standing here drooling on my coat?”

  “I love them. Love, love my pink cowboy boots. I think they’re going to be my signature footwear.” She snuck in a stroke along the sleeve of Eve’s coat. She said, again, “Ohhhh, ultra-squared. It’s like butter.”

  “If it was like butter it’d be melting all over me.”

  “It sort of does. It’s all gushy and soft and so completely uptown. When you were walking it just swished. It’s just as mag as your long one.”

  “Now that we’ve discussed our wardrobe choices for the day, maybe we can go roust Asner. Since we’re here anyway.”

  Peabody’s hand came up again, and Eve pointed a warning finger. “You already touched.” When she turned to the building’s entrance, Peabody let out her third ohhhh of the morning.

  “The belt detail in the back. It highlights your butt.”

  “What?” Stunned, Eve tried to crane her neck and look. “Christ.”

  “No, no, in a good way, not in a skanky way.” She snuck in another stroke. “Was it a just-because? I love just-because presents the best. Last month McNab gave me the cutest pair of earrings—like chains of hearts—just because. You know a guy’s stuck on you if he springs for just-because jewelry of any kind.”

  “Okay.” Which, by Peabody’s measure, would mean Roarke was stuck on her like a man in quicksand. She stopped at the door, pulled out her master. “It’s lined with body armor.”

  “Say what?”

  Eve opened the jacket. “The lining, it’s a new material his R and D people developed. Blast-, stunner-, and blade-proof.”

  “Seriously?” This time Eve made no objection when Peabody fingered the lining material. It was, in Eve’s opinion, a cop thing and allowed.

  “It’s so thin, and light—and it moves. It shields a blast?”

  “So he says, and he’d know. I figured you could stun me later to test it out.”

  “Hot damn. You know what, the jacket’s like the car.”

  “Is this a riddle?”

  “No,” Peabody said as Eve swiped the master. “It’s an ordinary thing—well, special, but a jacket, right? And the car, it’s ordinary, it even looks it. But both of them have the special inside. Cop special especially, you know? He so gets you. That’s even better than a just-because present.”

  “You’re right. He does. And it is.” Inside, Eve paused another moment. “He’s worried about me.”

  “Going to—being in—Dallas had to be hard on both of you,” Peabody said carefully.

  “You don’t push.”

  “I read your reports, and I figure there’s a lot of stuff, personal stuff, not in them. I get you, too. Partners better get each other, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One day maybe we’ll have a drink, and you’ll tell me what wasn’t in the reports.”

  “We will.” And could, Eve realized, because Peabody got her. Because she didn’t push. “I will. Asner’s place is on the second floor.”

  As they started up Eve heard the usual morning sounds from an older, unsoundproofed, working-class building. The mutter and pulse of morning shows on-screen, music, doors closing, the whine of the elevator, and of kids not yet shuffling or clomping toward school.

  No palm plates on the doors, she noted, but plenty of sturdy locks, security peeps. She studied the Secure-One plate on Asner’s door, and figured it for show, a deterrent rather than the real deal.

  She used the side of her fist, gave the door a good trio of bangs. Almost immediately the door across the hall opened. The man who came out wore sweats, a warm-up jacket, running shoes. He carried a gym bag over his shoulder. He gave them an easy smile as he fit a ball cap over scraggly brown hair.

  “I don’t think A’s home.”

  “Oh?” Eve responded.

  “I gave him a tag a few minutes ago. We’re gym buddies, and usually head out together most mornings. He didn’t answer, so …” He shrugged.

  “Did you see him yesterday?”

  The smile faded into suspicion. “Yeah. Why?”

  Eve took out her badge. “We need to talk to Mr. Asner. When did you see him yesterday?”

  “About this time. We hit the gym. What’s this about?”

  “We need to talk to him about an ongoing investigation.”

  “Then you should probably try his office.” He gave them the address they already had. “It’s a little early, but if he’s working on something that kept him out all night, he might’ve just bunked there.”

  “Out all night?”

  The man shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m assuming. We made plans—loose ones—to watch the game together, with a couple other guys last night. My place. He didn’t show, and he’s not one to miss game night, especially when we had a bet on it. So I figured he got caught up on work. Look, you should just go to his office. I don’t like talking about a buddy to the cops. It feels off.”

  “Understood. We appreciate the time.” Eve took out a card. “Listen, if you do happen to see him at the gym, just tell him to contact me.”

  “Sure. I can do that.” He slipped the card into his bag. Relaxed again, he smiled. “If you see A first, tell him he owes me twenty.”

  “Will do.”

  Eve waited until the neighbor jogged down the steps. “We might as well try the office. It’s not far, and he might’ve bunked there, especially if he spent the day gambling and got stung.”

  Once they were in the car, Eve ran through her suppositions, conclusions, and theories reached the night before.

  “I agree about Matthew and Marlo,” Peabody said. “They’re happy lovebirds. Not that lovebirds don’t kill—the inconvenient spouse or ‘rich, just won’t give up and die’ Great-aunt Edna. But not only doesn’t Harris apply, but neither has a spouse, and they’re both more than sound financially. Was there anything on the recording I should know about?”

  “They had sex, some post-coital mushy pillow talk. They did some yoga together, then ordered Chinese food, ate it while they—what
do you call it—ran lines on upcoming scenes. He helped her with the choreography of a fight scene. Talk that wasn’t work-oriented stuck mostly to choices of a getaway. It’s between Fiji and Corfu—or was. They watched some screen in bed, had another—shorter—round of sex, went to sleep.”

  “Sounds kind of normal,” Peabody observed, “settled. Happy lovebirds.”

  “The morning routine was no surprises. A workout, shower sex—which I assume, as they left the bathroom door open and the audio picked up some sex sounds—fruit and yogurt for breakfast, more work and getaway talk. They laugh a lot. Dressed and out the door.”

  “No sign of Harris, or the PI picking up the cameras?”

  “He’d have edited himself out, if he had a brain. Since the recording ends with them leaving, he has a brain. No sign of Harris, and very little said about her from either spied-on party. Which probably burned her ass.”

  Eve parked, checking Asner’s office window as she got out. The overcast sky made the day a little gloomy, but no lights shone in his office.

  “He’s either not in yet, or still asleep.”

  As they went in, started up, she asked herself why, if he had a brain, he dodged the cops. He had to know they’d pin him down, and the longer it took, the less friendly the pinning. Maybe working out a story, a cover, maybe consulting his lawyer.

  Or maybe he’d taken his big paycheck and smoked.

  She didn’t much like that idea, and liked the other possibility that circled her mind even less.

  She approached Asner’s office door, started to rap on the glass. “It’s not secured.”

  The other possibility stopped circling to hover. She drew her weapon, as did Peabody.

  “He could have forgotten to lock it,” Peabody said quietly.

  “A waste of good locks.” She nodded, counted off, and they went in the door together.

  The quick initial sweep showed her the disorder of the reception area. All that was left of the computer on the desk was the screen. The drawers had been pulled out, upended.