She could, and would, put all of this in an official report, but she wanted to do a verbal, privately, with full disclosure.
“Sir, three years ago during the investigation of the murders committed by C. J. Morse, I met and spoke with Larinda Mars. She offered some insight and information on Morse, and in the quid pro quo she demanded for same, I allowed her to attend a party Roarke held during that period—on the provision she brought in no cameras or mics.”
Whitney steepled his fingers, tapping them together. “Was there anything in that conversation that applies or impinges upon your current investigation?”
“No, sir. She didn’t like Morse, clearly, and was more than happy to give me personally damaging information on him. She wanted an interview with me—and with Roarke. I had ignored her requests up to that point, and continued to do so afterward. Roarke did the same, though he advised me she once tried to corner him at a fund-raiser in the spring following my conversation with her.”
Whitney lowered his hands, kept his eyes level with hers. “And does this apply?”
“Only in that Roarke reports she insinuated a sort of media-style blackmail. That she would be forced to dig up information that might damage his and my reputations if he didn’t cooperate. And this applies, as evidence supports she used various forms of blackmail, and this stands as a strong motive for her murder.”
Whitney sat back, hands steepled again, fingertips lightly tapping the chin of his wide, dark face. “How did Roarke respond to her insinuations?”
“He suggested he might find buying Channel Seventy-Five an interesting investment, thereby terminating her employment. And suggested how difficult it might be for her to find other employment as a gofer for a broadcaster. In Bumfuck.”
Whitney’s lips twitched slightly, but his eyes stayed sober and steady. “Am I to assume there was no further contact or communication between Mars and Roarke, or you and Mars?”
“You can be assured there was not, sir. However, if we assume, and I do, she kept files on her marks, and on potential marks, Roarke’s name and my own might be in them.”
“As may mine, or our chief of police, our mayor.”
At his response, the tension in her shoulders eased. “I’ve contacted Nadine Furst, and will speak with her—as well as others at Channel Seventy-Five. Someone Mars worked with or around may have some information on where she might have kept her data. Detective McNab is working with the electronics taken from her handbag on scene, and I’ve arranged for those at her apartment to be brought in. I’ll do the same with those at Seventy-Five, though I suspect they’ll cite freedom of the press and demand a warrant.”
He only nodded. “I’ll arrange for the warrant. As I’m sure you expect, the media is pushing hard for information. This is not only one of their own, and a kind of minor celebrity, but you were on scene when she was attacked, when she died. It’s a setup made for clicks and bytes and ratings, and you’ll need to address it. Kyung should be here any moment now.”
“I understand it requires addressing, Commander, though so far I haven’t received demands or requests for interviews or information, except from Nadine when I contacted her.”
“Because Kyung immediately had any such demands or requests relayed to his office.”
Not only not an asshole, Eve thought, but an advantage.
“I’d like to pursue the leads and direction I have, as quickly as possible, and avoid, until I have more data, speaking to the media. If—”
She stopped when Kyung walked in.
“Lieutenant. Commander.”
“Kyung. The lieutenant prefers to stand, but you’re welcome to have a seat.”
“Hopefully, this won’t take much of the lieutenant’s time, or yours.”
He looked like a media liaison, Eve mused, polished and attractive, tall and just distinguished enough in his slate-gray suit. But—at least so far—he’d proven he understood actual cop work had priority over feeding the ever-hungry media.
“Larinda Mars,” he continued, smooth as always, “was a recognizable name and face in her field of social information.” He paused, noting Eve’s curled lip. “You can call it gossip, her peers and associates can do so, even her viewership, but it falls to me to be more politic there. As she generated excellent ratings, her employer will devote considerable on-air and blog time to her life, her death, this investigation. Other media outlets will do the same. As you’re also a recognizable name and face in your field, this adds not only to the initial frenzy, but will give that frenzy legs. We’ll need your name and your face, your presence to funnel the data we want funneled, and in the way we want it funneled.”
It just annoyed the crap out of her. Knowing he spoke the truth didn’t cut through the annoyance or the crap. “The more time I spend funneling, the less time I spend actually finding who killed her and stopping the frenzy.”
“Trust me, when you find who killed her, the frenzy will simply take another avenue.” Always reasonable, Kyung spread his hands. “This will play for a while. I can and will write a statement—for your approval—and distribute that. But you’ll need to hold a media conference, and as soon as possible. This afternoon, latest.”
“I need to get to Seventy-Five, asap. I need to talk to her associates, her bosses, her staff. She’ll have her blackmail files somewhere, and they may be at the station.”
“It would be best, for now, if her alleged blackmail wasn’t made public.” Kyung glanced at Whitney, got a nod of agreement.
“I’m not going to discuss pertinent investigation details, for crap’s sake.”
Kyung merely inclined his head. “Precisely.”
“I contacted Nadine Furst, and I’m meeting her there. She’s crime beat and good at it—and she’ll hold whatever I tell her to hold.”
Kyung winged up an eyebrow. “You agreed to an interview?”
“I get her to dig into Mars from her angles, and I give her a one-on-one.”
“This morning?” He held up a finger before she could answer. “This could work very well, all around. You give Nadine—as she represents Seventy-Five—a first exclusive. Seventy-Five, after all, represents Larinda Mars’s family. Nadine also acts as the pool reporter, and agrees to that, agrees to share content of the interview with the other media.”
“I don’t know if she’ll go with that.”
“You’ll convince her,” Kyung said equably. “She knows how it works. She gets first exclusive, and she’ll have control—with my input—of what’s shared. You will have fed the beast for this morning. And the afternoon media conference will keep it fed for the time being.”
He smiled. “Win-win.”
It was sort of devious, Eve thought. She had to admire it.
Plus, it bought her a little more field time.
“I’ll make it happen.”
“I’m sure you will. Lieutenant, when it does come out—as it will—that she used blackmail to gather information, the information that generated her ratings and her own celebrity? Her peers and associates will turn on her. And that will generate yet another kind of frenzy.”
“Why she got dead doesn’t make her any less murdered. It doesn’t make the person who killed her any less deserving of a cage. I don’t care what her peers think of her. Hell, I don’t care what I think of her. Nobody had the right to kill her.”
Obviously satisfied, Kyung smiled at her. “Knowing you’d say exactly that, in exactly that tone, to a room full of cameras and mics, is why you make my job so interesting.”
“Glad to help.”
He laughed. “I’ll write the statement, text you the draft. Please ask Nadine to contact me once you’ve agreed to terms.”
“Okay.” She turned back to Whitney. “Sir?”
“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant. I’ll get your warrant, and Kyung and I will coordinate on the media. Keep me updated.”
All in all, Eve thought on her way out, it could’ve been a lot worse. She started to pull out her comm, to te
ll Peabody to meet her in the garage, then decided to make one more stop first.
The Electronic Detectives Division spewed out color and movement like a Broadway musical produced by caffeine-hyped teenagers.
Everybody bounced, jiggled, hip bumped, and swiveled—often at the same time—and they all wore outfits that made Jenkinson’s tie fetish come off as a conservative choice.
She saw neon stripes, glowing polka dots, animated shirts, and a plethora of wildly patterned airboots.
To escape the assault on the senses, she moved fast toward Feeney’s office.
The captain of this madhouse, and her former partner, sat on the edge of his desk, frowning at his wall screen.
Maybe his toe tapped, but it tapped inside an old brown shoe.
Which lined up well with his rumpled brown suit, his plain, and reassuringly ugly, brown tie. Maybe his explosion of wiry, silver-dashed ginger hair added color, but it topped a lived-in face.
A cop’s face.
His saggy basset hound eyes shifted toward her. “Heard one landed right at your feet, kid.”
“She did.”
“The wife’ll be sad about it. She loves the gossip shows. Can’t blame her,” he said with a shrug. “Investigations run on evidence, evidence comes from leads, and a lot of leads come straight from gossip.”
She hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but couldn’t argue. And that, she mused, was why a bounce off Feeney never failed to be worthwhile.
“She used gossip to hammer people to give her more gossip and cash or have their secrets exposed.”
“Yeah, McNab’s working on digging some of that out of her electronics.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I’ll give the kid a hand when I finish up in here. I’ve got her apartment electronics coming in. You going out for her studio shit?”
“Yeah, from here. But I wanted to talk to you about McNab.”
Feeney reached into a wobbly bowl—one of Mrs. Feeney’s creations—took a handful of candied almonds. Gestured to the bowl in an invitation to share, but Eve shook her head.
“You can have him on the team,” Feeney said. “He’s clear.”
“Peabody—” Thinking of how cops loved gossip, just like Feeney’s wife, she shut the door. “Peabody says he’s burnt—and I could see she was genuinely worried.”
Frowning, Feeney rubbed his jaw. “She ain’t wrong. He’s been working a big one, complicated, and just closed it. Gave some time to a couple of the other boys.” They were all boys to Feeney, no matter the chromosomes. “I’m putting him in for a commendation for the one he closed.”
Fully aware Feeney didn’t hand out commendations like candied almonds, she smiled a little. “Good for him.”
Feeney jabbed a finger at her. “I told him after he nailed it down yesterday to go home and sleep, and take the next forty-eight off.”
“It’s on me he didn’t. I pulled Peabody in when they were leaving.”
“He came in with her instead of getting the shut-eye. Lovebirds,” he said with a sorry shake of his head. “I can put the boot down, take him off, order him to take the forty-eight.”
“Would he go home and sleep?”
“He’d argue and he’d bitch until I put the boot down harder. Then he’d sulk.”
Because she saw it the same way, she nodded. “I offered Peabody a thing after she laid this out, and I should’ve cleared it with you first.”
He popped another almond. “What thing?”
“I said after we close this one—because she wouldn’t budge until this is cleared, even with the boot, any more than McNab—to take five days by rotating a Saturday, taking the regular off Sunday, and the next three as vacation days. They could take one of Roarke’s shuttles to the villa in Mexico. He’s yours, not mine, and he may not be up for a five-day leave.”
Feeney scratched just above his collarbone. “I’d rather give him the five than see him really burnt and end up pushing him out for twice that. Or having him screw up because his head’s not right. It’s a good thing. I’ve got no problem clearing him for it.”
“Good, that’s good. Peabody’s juiced. She got shiny-eyed at the idea of getting him away for a while.”
“Lovebirds,” he said again, eating more nuts. “Keep me up with the progress on what you’ve got, and I’ll fix his schedule. He’s a good kid. Lovebird shit aside, I’ve gotta say he’s a better cop, got more solid footing, since he’s been cooing with Peabody.”
“Really?”
“Settled him down. Gave him a center.”
She thought of McNab’s wardrobe, his earlobe full of rings, the way he bounced. Settled down wouldn’t have been the term she’d have applied.
But she did agree that, under it all, he was a solid cop.
“Okay. I’ve got to get going.”
“I’ll give him a hand anyway.” Feeney’s gaze shifted morosely back to his screen. “When I finish this bitch.”
* * *
As she drove to Seventy-Five, Eve ticked off what needed to be done. “Peabody, run this Mitch L. Day character. I didn’t get to that.”
“On it.”
As Peabody all but sang the two words, Eve gave her a wary glance. “What’s up with you?”
“Just feeling pretty mag. Due to loose pants—not really any looser, but still loose—and your absofab offer of Mexico, I’m hitting this shop on my way home tonight, and buying this outfit I’ve had my eye on. It’s all flowy and swirly. It’s Mexico perfecto.”
“Wow. That’s just the best news ever!”
Even Eve’s exaggerated sarcasm didn’t dent Peabody’s mood. “It has these adorbs little ribbons for straps, so when McNab tugs them, whoosh, I’m naked.”
Eve’s eyes went to slits. “And this, this is how you repay me?”
“I didn’t hug you. Mitch L. Day—officially Mitchell Edwin Dayton—age thirty-eight, Murray Hill address. One divorce—no offspring. Currently married to Sashay DuPris, age thirty-two.”
“So he’s married and was bouncing on Mars.”
“Updated data says DuPris, a model—oh, I’ve seen her—resides at an Upper East Side address. It doesn’t list them as officially separated. She’s major high fashion, Dallas, big-time. Back to him, no offspring in current marriage. Employed at Seventy-Five, on-air personality, since 2055. No criminal. A lot of traffic violations. He’s originally from Minnesota. Huh, farm boy. His parents—forty-five years married—own and operate a farm. Two siblings.
“Do you want more? I can always find dish on on-air personalities.”
“That’s enough for now,” Eve said as she wound her way through the parking complex for Seventy-Five.
She dealt with security—in the lot, at the door—noted all the humans wore black armbands. And the screens in the visitor’s lobby all showed Mars at various splashy events wearing various splashy gowns and outfits.
Eve stopped at the next security station, badged the operator.
“Nadine Furst. She’s expecting us.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, you’re already cleared. Do you need an escort or do you remember the way?”
“I remember.”
She also remembered her way to the newsroom, and where she’d first met Mars.
She aimed there first. There the screens showed various world events, reporters doing remotes, and one screen dedicated to Mars.
But if she remembered the desk correctly—and she was damn sure she did—someone else occupied it.
The man sat in shirtsleeves, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Sharp cheekbones all but sliced through his taut, dark skin, while his hair formed a perfect skullcap of ebony.
“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Larinda Mars’s desk.”
“It’d be in her office.” He rose, offered a hand. “Barry Hewitt, political beat. It’s nice to meet you, even under the circumstances, Lieutenant. Ms. Mars has her own office. I’d be happy to s
how you, but I know Bebe’s going to want to speak to you.”
“Who’s Bebe?”
His reaction, a slow blink, showed a bit of stupefied surprise she wouldn’t just know. “Bebe Hewitt? Majority owner and head of broadcasting? And my aunt,” he added with a half smile. “I know she’s juggling a lot of fires right now, but she’d want to talk to you. I can take you to her offices.”
“Lead the way.” Eve ignored the hot glances, the murmurs as she and Peabody went with Hewitt.
“Every reporter in here would kill for an exclusive with you.”
“If they did that, I’d arrest them.”
“Ha!”
“When did Mars get her own office?”
“A couple years ago. I’d just moved up from the pool—utility player. My aunt wanted me seasoned before I got a shot at political. I’m still mostly covering city council and minor protests, but I’m getting there.”
“Did you know Mars?”
“Not really. I mean not to socialize or jaw with, right? Low rung here, and a different beat. Same channel, get me, but those are different rungs on different ladders in different worlds.”
He escorted them into an elevator, took out a swipe card. “I do get this perk. I can go direct to Bebe’s floor. I don’t suppose you could get me a meet with Chief Tibble.”
“Not my function, sorry.”
“You gotta try.” He stepped out into a glossy, plush reception area with low gel sofas, privacy chairs, more screens, and a curved counter manned by three perfectly beautiful people.
“Hey, Vi, can you let Ms. Hewitt know Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody are here? Loved the vid,” he told Peabody.
“Me, too.”
“I hope you catch whoever killed Larinda. She was a real fixture around here.”
The perfectly beautiful Vi stood up. “I’ll take you to Ms. Hewitt.”
“Good luck,” Hewitt said, strolling back to the elevator.
Instead of a big, important office beyond several small, important offices, Vi led them to a very big, very important-looking conference room.