Celebrity in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “But not illegal.”

  “No, not illegal.”

  “But this might be.”

  “What have you got?” She pounced, nearly bowled him over as he turned.

  “Easy, darling. False bottom in this cabinet, and beneath that a small safe drawer. Which I’ve handily opened. And in that—”

  “Codes. Pass codes, swipe cards, keys—all nicely labeled. Here’s the code for the marina gate, for the boat security. Oh, baby. Codes for Roundtree’s home, studio office, his vehicle.”

  “You may have found your patsy.”

  “Can’t use Roundtree but his wife’s a strong possible. Still, there’s a lot of other people in here. That’s the pal he called tonight.” She gestured. “That’s his home’s pass code, swipe card for the guy’s country club locker. Codes for all the trailers, as far as I can tell, being used on this production.”

  “Nosy bastard, isn’t he?”

  “He has to control it all. Won’t be shut out. Has to have access and the power it gives him. Plus, useful for setting someone up to take a fall.”

  “It appears Steinburger has some explaining to do.”

  “Big-time. This proves he had access to the boat. And see this here?”

  “Not labeled.”

  “3APIS2C. Triple A—A. A. Asner, Private Investigation, Suite 2-C. I’m betting that’s the code for Asner’s vehicle. Maybe he tossed it in here just in case, or wanted it to remind himself of what he pulled off. But that’s more explaining to do.”

  She went back to the bedroom for an evidence bag. “I dump these on him, add in the zoner, the list of murders, the boat. I’ll break him down.”

  She sealed the evidence, labeled it. “I’m going to let the team handle the vehicle. We’ll go swing by the studio office. Then we’ll pay a visit to Ce Soir.”

  He thought she looked like a warrior, coolly prepared for battle. “I can get us a good table. I happen to know the owner.”

  “You happen to be the owner, but we’re not eating. We’re going to interrupt Steinburger’s meal and ruin his fucking night.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “We can get something from Vending while he sweats in Interview.”

  “Sounds disgusting.”

  “It’s not that bad. Hold on.” She pulled out her ’link. “Dallas.”

  “Listen, Dallas—”

  “Nadine, even though we established you’re not my type, I may do you after all. You killed that interview.”

  “I’m aquiver. You’ve seen it already?”

  “No, but Feeney summed it up. I could get him to do you, too.”

  “Aw, you’re too good to me. What about Roarke?”

  “No.”

  “But not good enough. Listen, Dallas, I was nearly to the station, but I hopped out of the van, grabbed a cab. I’m heading back downtown, to the hotel—Julian’s hotel. I’ve got this nagging feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “Did Feeney tell you how Steinburger hinted around—off the record—about being afraid something happened between one of them and K.T., how he was worried?”

  “Yeah, yeah. You think he meant Julian?”

  “Julian was waiting outside the office. He looked terrible, which isn’t easy when you’re that gorgeous. Tired, upset, strung out. Scared—once I started thinking, I think scared. And Joel took him into his office—but as he did, Joel sent me this look. And, it’s nagging me. I think he was setting it up, Dallas. Giving me a look that said this is who I’m worried about, trying to protect. And if I’m right—”

  “Then he’s planning for Julian to have an accident or off himself due to guilt. We’ll check it out.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Steinburger’s place, and we found a few interesting items.”

  “It’ll take you longer to get there than me. But will you come? Even if I’m wrong, I think Julian knows something, and I think he’s vulnerable enough to spill it.”

  “Leaving now. Do me a favor, get hotel security to go up with you. Make something up, but don’t go up there alone.”

  “Julian wouldn’t hurt me—or anyone. But all right.”

  “I trust her instincts,” Roarke said when Eve frowned at the blank screen.

  “So do I. We’ll skip the office for now, go straight to Julian’s hotel room. I’ll let Peabody know the status.”

  As she contacted her partner, Eve wondered just how the hell Stein-burger could kill—or induce a man to suicide—while he himself enjoyed a fancy dinner with a friend on the other side of town.

  22

  IN THE BACK OF THE CAB, NADINE TRIED Julian’s ’link again. Stupid, she told herself, as she knew it would go straight to message—as it had the other three times she’d tried it. And he’d set the room ’links on DO NOT DISTURB.

  Why hadn’t she followed up sooner? she asked herself. Why hadn’t she listened to that niggling concern and gone straight back to Stein-burger’s office, or at least grabbed a cab blocks earlier and headed to the hotel?

  Because she’d wanted to get into the studio, review and edit the interview. To lick her chops. Do her victory boogie.

  “Goddamn it, goddamn it,” she muttered as guilt drove the niggling toward full-blown fear.

  The way they were snagged in traffic, Steinburger could kill Julian, have a drink, plan the memorial, and write the fricking eulogy before she got there.

  Stupid, she thought again. It was probably nothing. Just nerves, which had shifted from the good, on-your-mark type for the interview to sweaty-palms stress during this excuse for a cab ride.

  “Can’t you get through this?” she demanded.

  The cab driver continued to dance his fingers over the wheel in time with the hideous music blasting through the speakers.

  “Sure, lady. Just let me activate the transport beam and we’ll shoot through the wormhole and pop out clear.”

  “Goddamn it,” she repeated, swiped her card for payment. “I’ll walk from here.”

  She bolted out of the cab, squeezed through bumpers and scrambled to the sidewalk where the pedestrian traffic surged like a sea.

  She dodged, weaved, cursed the gorgeous heels that made running a death wish, and which she was no doubt trashing. She cursed New York traffic, cursed tourists who didn’t know how to get out of the damn way!, cursed what she tried to convince herself was her overblown imagination.

  But she kept running.

  Inside his hotel room Julian ignored the ’link he’d tossed on the table. He didn’t have the energy to get up, power it down. He didn’t think he had the energy for that whirlpool either, not when it felt so good to just sit there, sprawled in the chair, drinking some wine, letting everything go. Just go.

  Joel had been right, of course. You could count on Joel.

  He counted on Joel, now more than ever. Somebody smart, steady, good in a crisis. Somebody who could tell him what to do.

  It didn’t seem so horrible—not after two glasses of wine, and with another going down so smooth.

  Still, maybe he should talk to Eve. Just explain everything—well, not everything because everything was so mixed up he couldn’t actually explain it to himself.

  But just talk to her, tell her what happened, what he remembered, anyway.

  She’d understand. He knew she would. He knew her.

  She was fair, and brave, and just—and sexy.

  Joel was wrong about her, Julian thought as he sipped, as his not-quite-Roarke blue eyes drooped. She wouldn’t do whatever it took to put him in prison. It wasn’t just about the arrest, about the—what was it? The collar. No, not for his Eve, he thought as his mind and vision blurred.

  It was about justice.

  But Joel was smart. If he was right …

  He couldn’t think about it now. His brain was so tired. And he needed to start the whirlpool. Hadn’t he promised? Had he?

  Funny, he couldn’t remember exactly.

  Too much to drink. He needed to stop drinkin
g so much. But he was so upset, so unhappy, and a little bit scared.

  No more wine, he ordered himself. A nice, hot, relaxing tub, and some music. Then maybe he’d tag Andi, or Marlo, or Connie. He didn’t like being alone. He wanted a woman to talk to.

  Women always listened.

  He tried to get up, intending to put the wine aside, go start the tub. Drunk, he thought, disgusted with himself.

  Determined, he shoved to his feet, managed one staggering step.

  The glass flew out of his hand, shattering against the table as he went down.

  Winded, reasonably sure her feet were bleeding, Nadine made a beeline for the front desk.

  “Nadine Furst. I need your head of security.”

  The woman on the desk smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Ms. Furst, and welcome back. May I ask what you require security for?”

  “Listen, you know I’m on the cleared list for … Mr. Birmingham’s suite.” She used the alias Julian used to protect his privacy.

  “Yes, Ms. Furst, you’re on Mr. Birmingham’s approved visitors list.”

  “I need security to go up to his suite with me.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There will be if you don’t get security, now.”

  “Just one moment, Ms. Furst. I’ll get the manager.”

  “I don’t want the manager. Hell with it. You send security up, or you, Marree,” she said, reading the name tag, “and this hotel are going to be the subject of a scathing exposé on Now.”

  She turned, loped toward the elevators.

  He was probably there, cozied up with his femme du jour, she thought as she jumped on the elevator. And she was about to make a fool of herself. He’d be amused, she decided, and very likely invite her to join the party—and he wouldn’t really be kidding.

  They’d have a quick laugh over it. Please. She closed her eyes, struggling to find her usual cool. Please, let him be with a woman, let them have a quick laugh, let his horrible sense of dread and panic be the product of working too long on the crime beat, seeing potential murders everywhere.

  She bolted out of the elevator, raced on feet now thankfully numb to the end of the corridor. Ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB light, she punched the buzzer, added several hard knocks.

  “Julian! Open the door. It’s important. It’s Nadine.”

  He couldn’t hear her, of course, unless he engaged the intercom, but she continued to call out as she buzzed and banged.

  And with every second the panic and dread swelled.

  “Ms. Furst!” The manager strode down the hall with a big, dark-suited man at her side. “Please. You’re disturbing our guests.”

  “They’ll be a lot more disturbed if you don’t open this door.”

  “Ms. Furst, Mr. Birmingham has requested not to be disturbed. If you’d like to leave him a message, I’ll—”

  “Open the damn door.”

  “I’m going to have to have you removed. If you and Mr. Birmingham have had a tiff, this is no way to—”

  Nadine braced on her numb feet, slitted her eyes in dire warning. “Try to have me removed and you won’t be able to get a job managing a dog kennel. Julian’s in trouble, and it may already be too late. The police are on their way. Open the goddamn door. If there’s nothing wrong you can have me arrested. If I’m right, and something happens to Julian because you won’t open the door, I’ll do everything I can to persuade Lieutenant Dallas to arrest you for accessory to murder.”

  Either murder or Eve’s name had the manager stiffening.

  “I don’t appreciate the threats. And you can be assured we will press charges.” She nodded to Security. “Open it. I’m sure Mr. Birmingham will wish to press charges as well.”

  “Just hurry. Hurry.”

  “I’m going to ask you to step back, ma’am.” The security chief swiped his master, eased the door open slightly. “Security,” he called out.

  Nadine ducked under his arm, shoved through.

  “Julian.” She rushed across the room, dropped to the floor beside him. “Call an ambulance!” She turned him from his side to his back as the security man crouched beside her. But even as he felt for a pulse, Julian stirred.

  “Julian! Wake up. Talk to me. Julian.”

  “Tired.” He slurred it out. “Too tired.”

  “Julian, what did you take?” She saw the wine bottle, the broken glass. “What did you put in the wine?”

  “Wine. Sleep.”

  “No. Stay awake.”

  “Let’s prop him up.”

  Nadine shook her head, reared back, and cracked her palm across Julian’s face. “Stay awake!” She slapped him again.

  “Go ’way. Tired. Sick. Didn’t mean t’do it.”

  “Don’t touch that,” Nadine snapped at the manager as she crossed toward the broken glass. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

  “That’s my line.” Eve strode in, laid a hand on Nadine’s shoulder as she checked Julian’s pulse, then peeled up an eyelid to check his pupils.

  “OD’ing. Keep him talking, get him on his feet, try to make him walk. Roarke, start looking for the drugs. They’ll be somewhere we can find them without too much trouble. He’s got a better chance if we can tell them what he took. You were right to get the field kit. Saves a trip back down. You—” She pointed at the white-faced manager. “Go down, get the medics up here quick and fast—and don’t come back.”

  She shoved the woman out the door.

  “Sleeping pills—in with the wine bottles. Empty. K.T. Harris’s prescription.” Roarke glanced back as Eve bagged the wine bottle. “He didn’t miss a trick.”

  She brought over an evidence bag. “Seal up if you’re going to touch stuff.”

  “How bad is it?” Roarke murmured as Nadine and Security dragged a nearly unconscious Julian around the room.

  “His pulse is weak, barely there, and his pupils are the size of Pluto. It’s pretty damn bad, but it would be over if Nadine hadn’t tuned in. Where the hell are the MTs?”

  Determined, she marched back to Julian, shoved her face into his. “Walk, goddamn it. Don’t you fucking die on me. Where did you get the pills? Where did you get the wine?”

  His head fell forward; Eve shoved it back. “Stay awake,” she ordered as Roarke stepped over to take Julian’s weight from Nadine.

  “Sleeping pills.” She glanced at Roarke. “Somnipoton.” She considered options, went with instinct. And plowed her fist into Julian’s belly.

  “Dallas!”

  “I’m not sticking my fingers down his throat unless I have to.”

  He coughed, gagged, slumped. She hit him again. And nipped back to save her new boots when he doubled over. He vomited heroically.

  “Lovely,” Roarke muttered.

  “It’s one way to pump a stomach. Keep him walking.”

  He moaned now, staggered a bit, as she took a sample of puke into evidence.

  “The MTs are coming,” Nadine called out.

  “About damn time. Walk him into the bedroom—and Roarke, stay with him. They can work on him in there, keep clear of my crime scene.”

  She pulled out her communicator. Time to call in the team. As the medics rushed in, she pointed to the bedroom door, shook her head at Nadine.

  “You don’t want to be in there. It’s not going to be pretty and I don’t want him talking to you yet, if he starts to talk. Roarke? Stay with him.”

  “Do you think he’s going to make it? I thought he was dead when I finally got that tight-assed bitch to open the door.”

  “I think he’s going to make it. I know if you’d gotten here a half hour later he’d have been dead. You saved his life.”

  Nadine swiped at her damp eyes. “I didn’t make him puke.”

  “I have that effect on people.”

  Sniffling, Nadine found a seat, peeled off her ruined shoes. “Do you think I can get a drink—a real drink? From room service.”

  “Fine with me. Just don’t drink anything
from in here.”

  Nadine limped over to the ’link. “Yes. I want a vodka martini, dry as the Sahara, three olives. And I want it pronto.”

  She sat again. “How did Steinburger get him to take the pills?”

  “Let’s hope Julian’s able to tell us. Got some blisters working there,” Eve noted.

  Nadine winced, continued to rub her feet. “Shut up.”

  “Since you earned them in the line, let’s see if the MTs have something for them.” Even as Eve spoke, one of the medics stepped out of the bedroom.

  “Status.”

  “Cleaned him out good. He’s conscious, feeling like serious crap, and stabilizing. We got him hooked up to an IV, get some fluids back in him. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”

  Eve glanced over as Peabody and two uniforms came in. She gestured toward Nadine, turned back to the MT. “Does he need to?”

  “Guy downs a buncha downers with his Cabernet or whatever, he needs some help. That’s auto into Psych for eval and observation. Twenty-four hours.”

  “It wasn’t attempted suicide.” She tapped her badge. “It was attempted homicide.”

  The MT looked dubious, but shrugged. “You say so.”

  “I say so. Is he recovered enough, physically, to stay here?”

  “Guy hadn’t barfed most of it up before we got here, you wouldn’t be asking. He needs to have somebody with him to monitor, but he’s stable enough. Pretty fried, but stable.”

  “Somebody will stay with him, and I’ll have a doctor examine him.”

  The MT looked around, glanced over to where Peabody took Nadine’s official statement. “Guess that’s it then.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Eve stepped into the bedroom. Roarke sat on the edge of the bed with Julian propped up on a mountain of pillows. His face remained nearly as white as the linens as they carried on a halting, murmured conversation.

  “You can tell her,” Roarke said. “She’ll help you.” Roarke rose. “The MT said clear liquids would be fine, for now. I’m going to go order him something up.”

  “All right.” She moved over to the bed, looked down at Julian.

  “Record’s on. Do you need me to read you your rights again, Julian?”

  “No.” His voice rasped out, and he winced as he swallowed. “Throat’s sore.”