by J. D. Robb
“She drowned in the lap pool on the roof. She had help.”
“This is horrible. This is …” Leonardo passed a hand over his wide face. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’d left before the body was discovered, but we need to talk to you both.”
“Listen, why don’t I take Belle in to play?” Peabody suggested. “It’ll go faster and easier that way.”
“Yeah, would you? I don’t want her around the murder vibes anyway,” Mavis decided. “It can’t be good.”
Bella leaned over Peabody’s shoulder as they started out, waved her hand, blew kisses. “Bye-bye. Bye-bye.”
“I’ll get the coffee.” Leonardo brushed a hand over Mavis’s shoulder as he went to the kitchen.
“This is total shock time. I mean, we were there, we talked to her. Sort of. And that crap she pulled at dinner … Do you know who did it?” Mavis demanded. “Do you have a target suspect? They’re all actors and stuff. How could one of them kill her? They’ve got a major vid going.”
“Sit down, sweetheart.” Leonardo brought out steaming cups on a tray. “I made you some nice jasmine tea.”
“The coffee smells a lot better. Still nursing,” Mavis added, “so I’m mostly off coffee. I had scenes with her, you know? And once we were in the mode, she was good—she was Peabody. I liked her when we were in the mode.”
“Did she have trouble with anyone?”
“Try everyone. Out of the mode, she was the big b-word, and nothing like Peabody. She was always looking to screw with Marlo, and she gave Matthew grief every chance she got.”
Mavis brought up her legs, crossed them under her, sipped at the tea. “I heard her yelling at Julian inside his trailer one day when I was going to mine. And she treated Preston—who’s a total doll baby—like s-h-i-t. She didn’t mess much with Andi. I think she knew Andi would have decked her, plus Andi’s got a mouth and a way of using it that’s better than a punch in the face. She got on Roundtree’s back a few times, but he rolls with that, as far as I could see.”
“What about last night?”
“I wish I’d paid more attention. Honeybee?” she said to Leonardo.
“It was tense. I don’t like when things are tense, especially that way. She broke into my conversation with Andi about a dress for the premiere, insisted I design hers, too. She was drunk and rude, and Andi told her …” His color came up. “It was a suggestion that was physically impossible, if you follow. They got into it a little. K.T. said she had the bigger, more important role, she should come first. Andi made another suggestion. It was very uncomfortable. K.T. backed off, and Andi went right back to discussing the dress as if it had never happened.”
“That’s good to know. Andrea Smythe didn’t mention any of this last night.”
“Oh, I saw K.T. corner Matthew, really in his face,” Mavis added. “I didn’t hear anything, but it looked intense, and she gave him one of these”—Mavis jabbed her middle finger in the air—“before she stomped off. He looked peeved.”
“When was this?”
“Um.” She shut her eyes. “Right before dinner. Yeah, a few minutes before we went in to dinner. And she was talking to Julian right before the show. He didn’t look peeved; he looked bored and annoyed. She did, though—look peeved. They were both pretty lit by then. I’m pretty sure she went off, sat in the back by herself. I didn’t pay much attention to her because I wanted to see the show. It was fun.”
“Did you notice anybody else? Anyone who left the theater during it?”
“No.” Mavis looked at Leonardo who shook his head. “We were sort of cuddled up together, me and my moon pie. We left pretty much right after. Trina’s aces at sitting, but we didn’t want to be away from Belle too long. We said good-bye to Roundtree and Connie, and sort of eased out. Oh! We saw Julian. He was passed out in the living room.”
“All right. If either of you think of anything else—any detail, let me or Peabody know.”
“K.T.’s dead.” Mavis shook her head as if still trying to take it in. “What happens now?”
“Now we find out who made her that way.”
Eve filled Peabody in on the way to Central.
“Nobody that Mavis or Leonardo saw having a moment with Harris mentioned it in Interview,” Peabody pointed out.
“Let’s find out why.”
“Do we bring them in?”
Eve considered it. “Yeah. Let’s play this as a routine follow-up, but make them come to us. Contact each one, make the arrangements. I want to get this new info down, start the board and book. Then we’ll see them one at a time. Jog their memories.”
Keep it friendly, Eve thought.
For now.
“START A DEEPER RUN ON THE VIC,” EVE ORDERED as she and Peabody rode the elevator in Cop Central. “Let’s see if we can find any other connection between her and the other people at Roundtree’s last night, including staff and catering.”
“On that.”
When they stepped off, Eve spotted two of her detectives huddled at Vending outside the bullpen.
Carmichael, her hair twisted up and secured to the back of her head by some sort of clamp, turned. “LT.”
“Detectives.”
“Sanchez here is running down our choices of liquid refreshment.”
“I merely pointed out that the lemon fizzy sold here contains no actual lemons. If you want actual lemons in a fizzy, you go to the deli around the corner. They make theirs on site.”
“And my contention is, the body’s full of chemicals anyway. Why not add more?”
“Fascinating.”
“Well, we’re after some liquid refreshment before we haul in a bunch of lowlifes,” Carmichael told her. “We caught one last night. A couple of bangers went out in that illegals stall disguised as a basketball court on Avenue B. One guy’s dead on scene with a lot of holes in him. The other was still breathing, got holes, and also had his head bashed in with an old iron post—which had his blood, skin on it, but no prints.”
“More interesting than lemons,” Eve decided.
“Since the bashed-in guy croaked this morning, we’ve got a double, that maybe looks at first glance like the two DBs just DB’d each other.”
“But since the DB with just holes didn’t have gloves, wasn’t sealed, and was really completely DOS,” Sanchez added, “it’s hard to buy he wiped his prints off the iron post before he became dead. Plus the ME didn’t find any cloth, rag, or handy shirt inside the DB on the off chance he wiped and ate, and we didn’t find anything that could have done said wiping on scene. We conclude a third party did the bashing and wiping.”
Sanchez was fairly new to her division, but Eve liked his style. “At this point, I would be inclined to agree with that conclusion.”
“So we’re going to haul a bunch of bangers known to associate with both vics, which means a long day of bullshit.”
“Hence the desire for liquid refreshment prior to,” Sanchez finished.
“Hence. Was the iron pipe from the scene?”
“A few of them lying around,” Carmichael confirmed. “Used to be a fence.”
“Look for an initiate, younger banger wannabe or a girlfriend who’s not a full combat member. Another banger would more likely use a sticker. Pipe’s a weapon of opportunity, and any self-respecting banger wants to cut, not bash.”
“Good point.” Carmichael nodded. “And potentially less bullshit.”
“I’m still not drinking fake lemons.”
“There’s a deli on Avenue B that still does genuine egg creams,” Eve told them. “Cost you ten, but worth it.”
“I know that place.” Carmichael pointed at Sanchez. “I know where that is.”
“Good. You’re buying.”
They started toward the glide, arguing over who should pick up the tab. It was, in Eve’s mind, a good, solid partnership forming in a short amount of time.
“Now I want an egg cream,” Peabody muttered. “I missed breakfast due to ask
ing if I wanted to be asked and sex.”
“Settle for fake lemons, because you’re not going to Avenue B. Do the run, set up the follow-ups. I’ll put the board and book together.”
She walked through the bullpen, through the familiar sounds and smells—fake sugar, fake fat, fake coffee, real sweat, voices, beeping ’links, humming comps—and into her office.
The message light on her desk ’link flashed like neon on Vegas II. She scowled at it, hit the AutoChef for coffee, then ordered a list of callers without the messages.
Reporters, she thought with mild annoyance as the list ran down. And more reporters. Nadine, of course—twice. She’d have to deal with them, and before much longer. But they’d just have to wait until she set up her board, wrote up her notes.
As she began, she had a low-level urge for that egg cream, which made her think of chocolate, and the candy she’d successfully hidden—again—from the greedy hands of the nefarious Candy Thief.
She glanced toward her rickety visitor’s chair where the candy sat snugly inside—she hoped—the bottom of the seat she’d carefully removed and replaced.
The candy would have to wait, too, she decided.
She finished the board, pinning up both ID and crime scene shots of the victim, ID shots of everyone who’d been at the dinner party, more crime scene photos—the purse, the herbal/zoner butts, broken glass—the sweeper’s initial reports, ME Carter’s reports and results.
She sat at her desk, drank the rest of the coffee while she studied the board.
She’d started on her notes, writing up a time line, when she heard footsteps approaching.
Not Peabody, she thought idly. Peabody had a distinctive clump. This was a purposeful stride.
Whitney, she thought, straightening at her desk seconds before her commander stepped in.
“Dallas.”
“Sir.” She got to her feet, uneasy. Commander Whitney rarely came to her. More rarely came to her office and shut the door as he did now.
“K.T. Harris,” he said.
“Sir. The ME has determined her death a homicide. As I was on scene at the TOD, I was able to interview, with Detectives Peabody and McNab, all individuals also present.”
“Including yourself?”
“I’ll be writing that up, yes, sir. I should have a full report for you shortly.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
He lowered to her visitor’s chair, frowned. “Why in God’s name don’t you requisition a replacement for this? It’s like sitting on bricks.”
She felt weird knowing her commander’s ass was one crappy cushion away from squatting on her candy. “Because nobody sits on bricks for long. Take the desk chair, Commander.”
He waved that away, sat for a moment, studying her board. He had a wide, dark face, lined from years and the weight of command. His hair, cropped short and close to the skull, showed thickening threads of silver.
“We have some areas of complication with this matter.” He nodded toward her flashing ’link. “Media?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, you will. That’s one complication. Another is your connection to the victim.”
“I had no connection to the victim.”
“Dallas, you had dinner with the victim shortly before her murder.”
“I had dinner with several people. I met the victim, spoke to her, only once. We had no connection, sir.”
“You had words with her.”
Eve’s face registered nothing, but inside there was a quick flick of surprised annoyance. “She had words, would be more accurate, Commander. The victim had been drinking, was, by all statements taken, a difficult individual. She spoke inappropriately and offensively during dinner, but not to me directly. My response was, I believe, brief and appropriate. And that was the end of it.”
“She was also portraying your partner in a major vid.” He gestured to her board. “Suspects at this time include individuals who are portraying yourself, your husband, other members of this department, other people who are associated with you personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The media will take that hay and mix it with manure.” He laid his wide hands on his thighs. “We need to get in front of that. Having you pass the case to another investigator won’t help at this point, and”—he said before she could speak—“could bog down the investigation. But that can’t be ignored,” he added, pointing to her ’link. “We’ll need a clear statement from you, and from Peabody. We’ll hold a media conference this afternoon. And you’ll work with the media liaison on that statement, and on approach to the conference.”
“Sir,” she said, thinking she’d rather be stabbed in the eye with a needle pulled out of that manure-ripened hay.
“Both of us might prefer you and your partner give the case your complete energy and attention, but this is necessary. There are already media reports about bad blood between you and the victim, others playing up the angle of you heading the investigation of the death of the woman playing your partner. All of them grinding up the fact you were at dinner, that you were present when K.T. Harris died. We’ll deal with it, and will continue to deal with it until—as I trust you will—you close the case.”
He rose. “Conference Room One. Now. With Peabody.”
“Yes, sir.”
Goddamn it, she thought as she walked with him to the bullpen, as he peeled off and she called to Peabody. “With me.”
This crap was already slowing down the work.
“What’s up?” Peabody asked.
“Fucking media,” Eve said under her breath. “Fucking media liaison, fucking media conference, fucking statements to same.”
“Oh.” Peabody blew out a breath. “I guess we knew this was coming.”
“Yeah, but I figured I’d have time to finish my prelim report first, get the labs back. Somebody already put it out there I had ‘words’ with the vic.”
“You didn’t, not really. She was just an asshole.”
“Remember that.”
They walked into the conference room. There another board stood, immediately pissing Eve off as she saw her own ID shot beside Marlo’s, Roarke’s beside Julian’s, and right down the line.
The man who completed the board stood tall in a snappy smoke-gray suit. His glossy black hair curled to the nape of his neck. Cuff links glinted silver at his cuffs.
He turned, a stranger to her with a striking face highlighting his mixed-race heritage with mocha cream skin, long, dark eyes tipped at the corners and heavily lashed. When he smiled, his mouth bowed and showed a hint of dimple at the left corner.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” His voice was the same as his skin, rich and creamy. “Detective Peabody.”
“This is Kyung Beaverton,” Whitney told them. “He works with Chief Tibble, who has assigned him to us for the duration of this matter.”
“Kyung, please.” He held out a hand to Eve, then Peabody. “I’m pleased to help you navigate the media maze we expect, and are, in fact, already in. Will you sit?”
Eve ignored the question. “Start by telling me why you’ve got us up there with the suspects.”
“Because the media will, and again, have already done so. It’s annoying, but reality often is. You aren’t she; she is not you, but this connection will be made over and over. So we address it.”
He spread his long-fingered hands. “While you respect the actor portraying you, she is only portraying a reflection, and indeed on a case already investigated and closed. You expect Marlo Durn will continue to portray other characters, fictional and nonfictional, while you will continue to investigate homicides. Your priority, at this time, is the investigation of the unfortunate death of—”
“The ME’s determined homicide,” Whitney told him.
“Ah. The murder of K.T. Harris. You will be pursuing all possible leads in this matter, and can and will not discuss the details of an active investigation.”
“Okay.” Eve relaxed
a little. He didn’t seem to be as much of a dick as liaisons she’d dealt with before.
“It’s been reported you argued with the victim prior to her death.”
“That’s inaccurate.”
“Good.” He lifted a finger, wagged it like a teacher at an exceptional pupil. “Excellent, in fact. Please sit. I was able to … requisition the brand of coffee you prefer. We’ll have coffee, and you’ll tell me—exactly—what passed between you and the victim. Detective Peabody, please feel free to add your own thoughts, or anything you overheard said at the table during this byplay.”
“Byplay.” Eve studied Kyung as he programmed coffee for all. “That’s a good one. Quick spin.”
“Good, quick—and plausible—spins are my job. I’m good at my job, Lieutenant, as I know you and your partner are at yours.”
He smiled, winningly. “You don’t, like, even resent all of this. I don’t blame you. You’re not required to like the media maze, which is why you’ll do well to let me guide the direction.”
He smiled again as he set the pot of coffee on the table. “I do like it. We do better at our work if we enjoy it, don’t we?”
No, not a dick, but a manipulator. A smooth one. That she could respect. “Okay, Kyung, here’s how it went.”
She gave him the “byplay” essentially word for word.
“An appropriate response to an inappropriate statement,” Kyung commented. “Was anything else said?”
“Not between us. I figured she had a problem with members of the cast, and that problem was enhanced by her drinking. As I didn’t know she’d end up dead, I didn’t pay much attention to her.”
“She called you a bitch.” Peabody hunched her shoulders when eyes shifted to her. “After everybody started talking again, she muttered ‘bitch’ under her breath. McNab told me later. He was sitting next to her. It pissed him off, but he said he ignored her because he figured you didn’t want any more, um, byplay.”
“He was right. Plus, if somebody doesn’t call me a bitch once a day, I figure I’m not doing my job.”
Kyung smiled at that. “I think you’ll do very well with the media, with just that tone and attitude.”