by J. D. Robb
She left Peabody and followed the blood trail back downstairs.
Foxx was down to choking, whimpering sobs now. The uniform looked ridiculously relieved when Eve reappeared. “Wait for the ME and my adjutant outside, Officer. Give Officer Peabody your report. I’ll speak with Mr. Foxx now.”
“Yes, sir.” With almost unseemly delight, he fled the room.
“Mr. Foxx, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve located the button that released the drapes, pushed it to let watery light into the room. “You need to talk to me. You need to tell me what happened here.”
“He’s dead.” Foxx’s voice was faintly musical, accented. Lovely. “Fitz is dead. I don’t know how that can be. I don’t know how I can go on.”
Everyone goes on, Eve thought. There’s little choice. She sat and put her recorder on the table in plain sight. “Mr. Foxx, it would help us both if you talked to me now. I’m going to give you the standard caution. It’s just a matter of procedure.”
She recited the revised Miranda while his sobs trickled off, he lifted his head, and aimed swollen, red-rimmed golden eyes at her.
“Do you think I killed him? Do you think I could hurt him?”
“Mr. Foxx—”
“I loved him. We’ve been together for twelve years. He was my life.”
You still have your life, she thought. You just don’t know it yet. “Then you’ll want to help me do my job. Tell me what happened.”
“He—he’s been having trouble sleeping lately. Doesn’t like to take tranqs. He can usually read, listen to music, spend an hour with VR or one of his games, whatever, to relax. This case he’s working on worried him.”
“The Salvatori case.”
“Yes, I believe, yes.” Foxx wiped at his eyes with a damp and bloodied sleeve. “We didn’t discuss his cases in any depth. There was privilege, and I’m not a lawyer. I’m a nutritionist. That’s how we met. Fitz came to me twelve years ago for help with his diet. We became friends, we became lovers, then we simply became.”
She would need to know all of that, but for the moment, she wanted to see the events leading up to that last bath. “He’s been having trouble sleeping,” she prompted.
“Yes. He’s often plagued with insomnia. He gives so much to his clients. They prey on his mind. I’m accustomed to him getting up in the middle of the night and going into another room to program a game or doze in front of the view screen. Sometimes he’d take a warm bath.” Foxx’s already ravaged face blanched. “Oh God.”
The tears started again, flowing hotly down his cheeks. Eve took a quick look around and spotted a small serving droid in the corner of the room. “Bring Mr. Foxx some water,” she ordered, and the little droid scooted away to comply.
“Is that what happened?” she continued. “Did he get up in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t even remember.” Foxx lifted his hands, let them fall. “I sleep soundly, never have a bit of trouble. We’d gone to bed just before midnight, watched some of the late news, had a brandy. I woke early. I tend to.”
“What time was that?”
“Perhaps five, five fifteen. We both like early starts, and it’s my habit to program the morning meal personally. I saw that Fitz wasn’t in bed, assumed he’d had a bad night and that I’d find him downstairs or in one of the spare bedrooms. Then I went into the bath, and I saw him. Oh God. Oh God, Fitz. All the blood. It was like a nightmare.”
His hand pressed against his mouth, all glittering rings and trembles. “I ran over, I beat on his chest, tried to revive him. I suppose I went a little mad. He was dead. I could see he was dead; still, I tried to pull him out of the water, but he’s a very big man, and I was shaking. Sick.” He dropped his hand from mouth to stomach, pressed. “I called for an ambulance.”
She’d lose him if she couldn’t manage to rein him in. Tranquing him wasn’t an option until she had the facts. “I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Foxx. I’m sorry we have to do this now, but it’s easier, believe me, if we can.”
“I’m all right.” He reached for the glass of water atop the droid. “I want to get it over.”
“Can you tell me his frame of mind last night? You said he was worried about a case.”
“Worried, yes, but not depressed. There was a cop he couldn’t shake on the stand, and it irritated him.” He took a gulp of water, then another.
Eve decided it was best not to mention she was the cop who had irritated him.
“And there were a couple of other cases pending that he was plotting out the defense for. His mind was often too busy for sleep, you see.”
“Did he receive any calls, make any calls?”
“Certainly, both. He often brought work home with him. Last night he spent a couple of hours in his office upstairs. He arrived home about five thirty, worked until nearly eight. We had dinner.”
“Did he mention anything that was troubling him besides the Salvatori case?”
“His weight.” Foxx smiled a little. “Fitz hated to put on an extra pound. We discussed him increasing his exercise program, perhaps having some body adjustment work done when he had the time. We watched a comedy on screen in the living room, then went to bed, as I told you.”
“Did you argue?”
“Argue?”
“You have bruises on your arm, Mr. Foxx. Did you and Mr. Fitzhugh fight last night?”
“No.” He paled even more, and his eyes glittered with the threat of another bout of weeping. “We never fought physically. Certainly we argued from time to time. People do. I—I suppose I might have gotten the bruises on the tub when I was—when I tried to—”
“Did Mr. Fitzhugh have a relationship with anyone else other than yourself?”
Now those swollen eyes went cool. “If you mean did he have outside lovers, he did not. We were committed to each other.”
“Who owns this unit?”
Foxx’s face went rigid, and his voice was cold. “It was put in our joint names ten years ago. It belonged to Fitz.”
And now it belongs to you, Eve thought. “I would assume Mr. Fitzhugh was a wealthy man. Do you know who inherits?”
“Other than charitable bequests, I would inherit. Do you think I would kill him for money?” There was disgust in his tone now, rather than horror. “What right do you have to come into my home at such a time and ask me such horrible questions?”
“I need to know the answers, Mr. Foxx. If I don’t ask them here, I’ll have to ask them at the station house. I believe this is more comfortable for you. Did Mr. Fitzhugh collect knives?”
“No.” Foxx blinked, then went pasty. “I do. I have a large collection of antique blades. Registered,” he added quickly. “They’re duly registered.”
“Do you have an ivory-handled knife, straight blade, about six inches long in your collection?”
“Yes, it’s nineteenth century, from England.” His breath began to hitch. “Is that what he used? He used one of my knives to—? I didn’t see. I only saw him. Did he use one of my knives?”
“I’ve taken a knife into evidence, Mr. Foxx. We’ll run tests. I’ll give you a receipt for it.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t want to see it.” He buried his face in his hands. “Fitz. How could he have used one of my knives?”
He fell to weeping again. Eve heard the voices and hums from the next room and knew the sweepers had arrived. “Mr. Foxx.” She rose. “I’m going to have one of the officers bring you some clothes. I’m going to ask that you stay here for a little while longer. Is there someone I can call for you?”
“No. No one. Nothing.”
“I don’t like it, Peabody,” Eve muttered as they rode down to her car. “Fitzhugh gets up in the middle of an ordinary night, gets an antique knife, runs himself a bath. He lights the candles, puts on the music, then carves up his wrists. For no particular reason. Here’s a man at the height of his career with a shit load of money, plush digs, clients beating down his door, and he just deci
des, ‘What the hell, I think I’ll die’?”
“I don’t understand suicide. I guess I don’t have the personality for big highs and lows.”
Eve understood it. She’d even considered it briefly during her stint in state-run homes—and before that, in the dark time before that, when death had seemed a release from hell.
That was why she couldn’t accept it for Fitzhugh. “There’s no motivation here, at least none that shows yet. But we have a lover who collected knives, who was covered with blood, and who will inherit a sizable fortune.”
“You’re thinking maybe Foxx killed him.” Peabody mulled it over when they reached garage level. “Fitzhugh’s nearly twice his size. He wouldn’t have gone without a fight, and there wasn’t any sign of struggle.”
“Signs can be erased,” Eve muttered. “He had bruises. And if Fitzhugh was drugged or chemically impaired, he wouldn’t have put up too much of a struggle. We’ll see the tox report.”
“Why do you want it to be a homicide?”
“I don’t. I just want it to make sense, and the self-termination doesn’t fit. Maybe Fitzhugh couldn’t sleep; maybe he got up. Someone was using the relaxation room. Or it was made to seem so.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Peabody mused, thinking back. “All those toys in one place. That big chair with all the controls, the wall screen, the autobar, the VR station, the mood tube. Ever use a mood tube, Lieutenant?”
“Roarke’s got one. I don’t like it. I’d rather have my moods come and go naturally than program them.” Eve spotted the figure sitting on the hood of her car and hissed, “Like now, for example. I can feel my mood shifting. I think I’m about to be pissed off.”
“Well, Dallas and Peabody, together again.” Nadine Furst, top on-air reporter for Channel 75, slid gracefully from the car. “How was the honeymoon?”
“Private,” Eve snapped.
“Hey, I thought we were pals.” Nadine winked at Peabody.
“You didn’t waste any time putting our little get-together on the air, pal.”
“Dallas.” Nadine spread her pretty hands. “You bag a killer and close a very public and intense case at your own bachelor party celebration, to which I was invited, it’s news. The public not only has the right to know, they eat it up with a spoon. Ratings rocketed. Now look at this, you’re barely back and right in the middle of something else big. What’s the deal with Fitzhugh?”
“He’s a dead man. I’ve got work to do, Nadine.”
“Come on, Eve.” Nadine plucked at Eve’s sleeve. “After all we’ve been through together? Give me a nibble.”
“Fitzhugh’s clients had better start looking for another lawyer. That’s all I’ve got to give you.”
“Come on. Accident, homicide, what?”
“We’re investigating,” Eve said shortly and coded open her locks.
“Peabody?” But Peabody just grinned and shrugged her shoulders. “You know, Dallas, it’s common knowledge that you and the dearly departed weren’t fans of each other. The top sound bite after court yesterday was him referring to you as a violent cop who used her badge as a blunt instrument.”
“It’s a shame he won’t be able to give you and your associates such catchy quotes anymore.”
As Eve slammed the car door, Nadine leaned doggedly in the window. “So you give me one.”
“S. T. Fitzhugh is dead. Police are investigating. Back off.” Eve started the engine, torpedoed out of the slot so that Nadine had to dance back to save her toes. At Peabody’s chuckle, Eve slid a stony glance in her direction. “Something funny?”
“I like her.” Peabody couldn’t resist looking back, and she noted that Nadine was grinning. “So do you.”
Eve smothered a chuckle. “There’s no accounting for taste,” she said and drove out into the rainy morning.
It had gone perfectly. Absolutely perfectly. It was an exciting, powerful feeling to know that you had the controls. The reports coming from various news agencies were all duly logged and recorded. Such matters required careful organization and were added to the small but satisfactorily growing pile of data discs.
It was such fun, and that was a surprise. Fun had certainly not been the prime motivator of the operation. But it was a delightful side effect.
Who would succumb next?
At the flick of a switch, Eve’s face flashed onto a monitor, all pertinent data split-screened beside her. A fascinating woman. Birthplace and parents unknown. The abused child discovered hiding in an alley in Dallas, Texas, body battered, mind blanked. A woman who couldn’t remember the early years of her own life. The years that formed the soul. Years when she had been beaten and raped and tormented.
What did that sort of life do to the mind? To the heart? To the person?
It had made the girl a social worker and had made Eve Dallas into a woman who had become a cop. The cop with the reputation for digging deep, and who had come into some notoriety the previous winter during the investigation of a sensitive and ugly case.
That was when she had met Roarke.
The computer hummed, sliced Roarke’s face onto the screen. Such an intriguing couple. His background was no prettier than the cop’s had been. But he’d chosen, at least initially, the other side of the law to make his mark. And his fortune.
Now they were a set. A set that could be destroyed on a whim.
But not yet. Not for some little time yet.
After all, the game had just begun.
chapter five
“I just don’t buy it,” Eve muttered as she called up data on Fitzhugh. She studied his bold, striking face as it flashed onto her monitor, shook her head. “I just don’t buy it,” she repeated.
She scanned his date and place of birth, saw that he’d been born in Philadelphia during the last decade of the previous century. He’d been married to a Milicent Barrows from 2033 to 2036. Divorced, no children.
He’d moved to New York the same year as his divorce, established his criminal law practice, and as far as she could see, had never looked back.
“Annual income,” she requested.
Subject Fitzhugh, annual income for last tax year. Two million, seven hundred USD.
“Bloodsucker,” she murmured. “Computer, list and detail any arrests.”
Searching. No police record on file.
“Okay, so he’s clean. How about this? List all civil suits filed against subject.”
She got a hit on that, a short list of names, and she ordered a hard copy. She requested a list of cases Fitzhugh had lost over the last ten years, noted the names that mirrored the suits filed against him. It made her sigh. It was typical litigation of the era. Your lawyer doesn’t get you off, you sue the lawyer. It gave another jab to her hopeful theory of blackmail.
“Okay, so maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. New subject, Foxx, Arthur, residence Five oh oh two Madison Avenue, New York.”
Searching.
The computer blipped and whined, causing Eve to slap the unit with the heel of her hand to jog it back. She didn’t bother to curse budget cuts.
Foxx appeared on screen, wavering a bit until Eve gave the computer another smack. More attractive, she noted, when he smiled. He was fifteen years younger than Fitzhugh, had been born in East Washington, the son of two career military personnel, had lived in various points of the globe until he had settled in New York in 2042 and joined the Nutrition for Life organization as a consultant.
His annual income just tipped into the six figures. The record showed no marriages but the same-sex license he shared with Fitzhugh.
“List and detail any arrests.”
The machine grumbled as if it were tired of answering questions, but the list popped. One disorderly conduct, two assaults, and one disturbing the peace.
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Both subjects, list and detail any psychiatric consults.”
There was nothing on Fitzhugh, but she got another hit on Foxx. With a grunt, she orde
red a hard copy, then glanced up as Peabody entered.
“Forensics? Toxicology?”
“Forensics isn’t in, but we’ve got tox.” Peabody handed Eve a disc. “Low level alcohol, identified as Parisian brandy, 2045. Not nearly enough to debilitate. No other drug traces.”
“Shit.” She’d been hopeful. “I might have something here. Our friend Foxx spent a lot of his childhood on the therapist’s couch. He checked himself into the Delroy Institute just two years ago for a month. And he’s done time. Piss away time, but time nonetheless. Ninety days lockup for assault. And he had to wear a probie bracelet for six months. Our boy has some violent tendencies.”
Peabody frowned at the data. “Military family. They tend to be resistant to homosexuality still. I bet they tried to head shrink him into hetero.”
“Maybe. But he’s got a history of mental heath problems and a criminal record. Let’s see what the uniforms turned up when they knocked on doors in Fitzhugh’s building. And we’ll talk to Fitzhugh’s associates in his firm.”
“You’re not buying suicide.”
“I knew him. He was arrogant, pompous, smug, vain.” Eve shook her head. “Vain, arrogant men don’t choose to be found naked in the bathtub, swimming in their own blood.”
“He was a brilliant man.” Leanore Bastwick sat in her custom-made leather chair in the glass-walled corner office of Fitzhugh, Bastwick, and Stern. Her desk was a glass pool, unsmudged and sparkling. It suited, Eve thought, her icy and stunning blond beauty. “He was a generous friend,” Leanore added and folded her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the desk. “We’re in shock here, Lieutenant.”
It was hard to see shock on the polished surface of it all. New York’s steel forest rose up glittering behind Leanore’s back, lending the lofty illusion that she was reigning over the city. Pale rose and soft gray added elegant muted color to an office that was as meticulously decorated as the woman herself.