by J. D. Robb
‘Who’s to know? Roarke has excellent security. And if there’s even the smallest chance that things could go wrong, I want to spend whatever time I can with Leonardo.’ Mavis set her mouth in a stubborn pout. ‘So that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘I’ll have Summerset arrange for a work space.’
‘Thanks. We appreciate it.’
‘While you people orchestrate your mad tea party, I’ve got a murder to solve.’
Roarke winked at Mavis and called after Eve as she stormed away, ‘What about your crepe?’
‘Stuff it.’
‘She’s crazy about you,’ Mavis commented.
‘It’s almost embarrassing, the way she fawns. Want another crepe?’
Mavis patted her stomach. ‘Why the hell not?’
A downed circuit at Ninth and Fifty-sixth played hell with street traffic. Both pedestrians and drivers ignored the noise pollution laws and honked, shouted, and buzzed out their frustrations. Eve would have rolled up her windows to cut the din, but her temperature controls were on the fritz again.
To add to the fun, Mother Nature had decided to body slam New York with a humature of a hundred and ten. To pass the time, Eve watched the heat waves dance up from the concrete. At this rate, more than a few computer chips were going to fry by noon.
She considered taking to the air, though her control panel seemed to have developed a mind of its own. But several other harried drivers had already done so. The traffic overhead was in a nasty snarl. A couple of one-man traffic copters were trying to deal with it and instead added to the mess with the bee swarm buzz of their blades and the irritating drone of voices.
She caught herself snarling at the i love new york hologram sticker on the bumper jammed in front of hers.
The sanest idea, she decided, was to get some work done in her car.
‘Peabody,’ she ordered the ’link, and after a few frustrating hisses of static, it engaged.
‘Peabody. Homicide.’
‘Dallas here. I’m going to pick you up in front of the Cop Shop, west side. ETA, fifteen minutes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bring all files pertinent to the Johannsen case and the Pandora case, and be . . .’ She trailed off and squinted at the screen. ‘Why is it so quiet in there, Peabody? Aren’t you in the bull pen?’
‘Only a couple of us made it in this morning. There’s a bad traffic snag on Ninth.’
Eve scanned the sea of traffic. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘It pays to listen to the traffic network in the morning,’ she added. ‘I took an alternate route.’
‘Shut up, Peabody,’ Eve muttered and broke transmission. She spent the next couple of minutes retrieving messages from her desk ’link, then set up a morning appointment at Paul Redford’s office in midtown for an interview. She called the lab to harass them for the toxicology report on Pandora, got the runaround, and left them with a creative threat.
She was debating whether to call Feeney and nag him when she saw a narrow break in the wall of cars. She jogged forward, cut left, squeezed through, ignoring the rude blast of horns and spearing middle fingers. Praying her vehicle would cooperate, she punched vertical. Rather than spring up, she wavered, but she did rise the minimum ten feet.
She swerved right, nipped by a jammed people glide where she caught the blur of miserable, sweaty faces, and rattled over to Seventh while her control panel warned of overload. After five blocks, the car was wheezing, but she’d cleared the worst of the jam. She set down with a teeth-rattling thud and swung toward the west entrance of Cop Central.
The dependable Peabody was waiting. How the woman managed to look cool and unperturbed in her sweltering blues, Eve didn’t want to know.
‘Your vehicle sounds a little rough, Lieutenant,’ Peabody commented when she climbed in.
‘Really? I didn’t notice.’
‘You sound a little rough yourself. Sir.’ When Eve merely bared her teeth and started to cut across town to Fifth, Peabody dug into her kit, took out a small porta-fan, and clipped it to the dash. The blast of cool air nearly made Eve whimper.
‘Thanks.’
‘The temperature control on this model isn’t dependable.’ Peabody’s face remained smooth and bland. ‘But you probably haven’t noticed.’
‘You’ve got a clever mouth, Peabody. I like that about you. Give me a rundown on Johannsen.’
‘The lab’s still having trouble with all the elements in the powder we found. They’re stalling. If they’ve completely analyzed the formula, they’re not saying. The buzz I get from a contact I have is, Illegals is demanding priority, so there’s some politicking going on. Second search found no trace of chemicals, illegal or otherwise, in the victim’s body.’
‘So he wasn’t using,’ Eve mused. ‘Boomer tended to sample, but he had himself a big, fat bag of shit and didn’t take a taste. What does that tell you, Peabody?’
‘From the state of his flop and the statement of the lobby droid, we know he had the time and opportunity to use it. He had a history of chronic if mild abuse. Therefore, my deduction would be he knew or suspected something about the substance that put him off.’
‘That would be my guess. What do you get from Casto?’
‘He claims to be in the dark on this one. He’s been cooperative, if not overly forthcoming, with information and theories.’
Something in the tone had Eve glancing over. ‘He coming on to you, Peabody?’
Peabody kept her eyes straight forward, narrowed slightly under the bowl-cut fringe of bangs. ‘He hasn’t exhibited any inappropriate behavior.’
‘Cut the drill, pal, that’s not what I asked.’
Color snuck up under the collar of the standard-issue blues into her cheeks. ‘He’s indicated a certain personal interest.’
‘Jesus, you sound like a cop. Is this certain personal interest reciprocated?’
‘It might be considered, if I didn’t suspect the subject had a much more personal interest in my immediate superior.’ Peabody slid her gaze to Eve’s. ‘He’s got a thing for you.’
‘Well, he’ll have to keep his thing to himself.’ But she couldn’t make herself completely displeased to hear it. ‘My certain personal interests lie elsewhere. He’s a powerful looking sonofabitch, isn’t he?’
‘My tongue gets all swelled up in my mouth when he looks at me.’
‘Hmm.’ Eve ran her own around her teeth experimentally. ‘So go for it.’
‘I’m not prepared to become involved in a romantic relationship at this point.’
‘Hell, who said anything about relationship? Screw each other blind a couple times.’
‘I prefer affection and companionship in sexual encounters, ’ Peabody said stiffly. ‘Sir.’
‘Yeah. It does make a difference.’ Eve sighed. It was almost a painful effort to keep her mind from leapfrogging back to Mavis, but she tried to focus. ‘I was just ragging on you, Peabody. I know what it’s like when you’re standing there, trying to do your job, and some guy hits you between the eyes. I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable working with him, but I need you.’
‘It’s not a problem.’ Loosening up, Peabody smiled. ‘And it’s not exactly a sacrifice to look at him.’ She glanced up as Eve swung toward the underground parking beneath a spearing white tower on Fifth. ‘Isn’t this one of Roarke’s buildings?’
‘Most of them are.’ The electronic attendant scanned her vehicle and passed it through. ‘This is his main office. It’s also the New York base of Redford Productions. I’ve got an interview with him re the Pandora homicide.’ Eve slipped into the VIP spot Roarke had arranged for her, shut down her car. ‘You’re not officially attached to this case, but you’re officially attached to me. Feeney’s up to his ass in data, and I want another set of eyes and ears. Objections?’
‘None come to mind, Lieutenant.’
‘Dallas,’ Eve reminded her as they stepped from the car. The safety barrier blinked on, surrounding the car to protect it from dings,
scratches, and theft. As if, Eve thought sourly, it didn’t already have so many dings and scratches a thief would insult himself by looking twice. She strode up to the private executive elevator, entered her code, and tried not to be embarrassed. ‘Saves time,’ she muttered.
Peabody’s eyes widened as they stepped onto thick carpeting. The car was large enough for a party of six, and boasted a lush arrangement of fragrant hibiscus. ‘I’m all for saving time.’
‘Thirty-fifth floor,’ Eve requested. ‘Redford Productions, executive offices.’
‘Floor three-five,’ the computer acknowledged. ‘East quadrant, executive level.’
‘Pandora had a small party on the night she died,’ Eve began. ‘Redford might be the last person to have seen her alive. Jerry Fitzgerald and Justin Young also attended, but left early after Mavis Freestone and Pandora fought. They alibi each other for the rest of the night. Redford remained with Pandora for a time. If Fitzgerald and Young are telling the truth, they’re in the clear. I know Mavis is telling the truth.’ She waited a beat, but Peabody made no comment. ‘So we see what we can shake out of the producer.’
The elevator smoothly shifted to horizontal, gliding east. The doors opened and noise poured in.
Obviously Redford’s employees liked music with their daily grind. It rocked out of recessed speakers, filled the air with energy. Two men and a woman worked at a wide circular console, chatting cheerfully into ’links, beaming at computer screens.
There appeared to be a small party in progress in the waiting area to the right. Several people milled around drinking from small cups or nibbling on tiny pastries. The sound of tinkling laughter and cocktail hour conversation underscored the lively music.
‘It’s like a scene from one of his movies,’ Peabody said.
‘Hooray for Hollywood.’ Eve approached the console and took out her badge. She chose the least obsessively pert of the three receptionists. ‘Lieutenant Dallas. I have an appointment with Mr. Redford.’
‘Yes, Lieutenant.’ The man - or he might have been a god with his perfectly chiseled golden looks - smiled brilliantly. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Please help yourself to some refreshments. ’
‘Want to chow down, Peabody?’
‘Those pastries look pretty good. We could cop some on the way out.’
‘Our minds are in tune.’
‘Mr. Redford would love to see you now, Lieutenant.’ The modern-day Apollo lifted a section of the console, slipped through. ‘Just let me take you to him.’
He led them through smoked glass doors where the noise switched to clashing voices. On either side of the corridor, doors were open, and men and women sat at desks, paced, or reclined on sofas, wheeling and dealing.
‘How many times have I heard that plot line, JT? It’s so first millennium.’
‘We need a fresh face. Garboesque with Little Bo Peep innocence.’
‘People don’t want depth, honeypot. Give ’em a choice between the ocean and a puddle, they’re going to splash in the puddle. We’re all children.’
They approached a pair of double doors in sparkling silver. The guide opened them both with a dramatic sweep. ‘Your guests, Mr. Redford.’
‘Thank you, Caesar.’
‘Caesar,’ Eve muttered. ‘I was so close.’
‘Lieutenant Dallas.’ Paul Redford rose from behind a U-shaped workstation in the same glittery silver as his doors. The floor he crossed was smooth as glass and decorated with swirls of color. Behind him was the expected spectacular view of the city. His hand clasped Eve’s with easy, practiced warmth. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to come here. I’m juggling meetings all day and it’s so much more convenient for me than coming to you.’
‘It’s not a problem. My aide, Officer Peabody.’
The smile, as smooth and practiced as the handshake, encompassed them both. ‘Please sit down. What can I offer you?’
‘Just information.’ Eve glanced at the seating arrangement, blinked. They were all animals: chairs, stools, sofas, all fashioned to resemble tigers, hounds, or giraffes.
‘My first wife was a decorator,’ he explained. ‘After the divorce, I decided to keep them. They’re the best memory of that time in my life.’ He chose a basset hound for himself propped his feet up on a cushion shaped like a curled cat. ‘You want to talk about Pandora.’
‘Yes.’ If they’d been lovers, as reported, Eve decided he’d gotten over his grief quickly. A police interview apparently didn’t affect him, either. He was composed, the genial host in a five-thousand-dollar linen suit and melted-butter Italian loafers.
He was, Eve mused, undoubtedly as screen friendly as any of the actors he worked with. A strong, bony face the color of fresh honey was accented with a well-trimmed, glossy moustache. His dark hair was slicked back and twisted into a complicated queue that dangled to his shoulder blades.
He looked, Eve decided, like what he was: a successful producer who enjoyed his power and wealth.
‘I’d like to record this, Mr. Redford.’
‘I’d prefer that, Lieutenant.’ He leaned back into the embrace of the sad-eyed hound and folded his hands on his stomach. ‘I heard you’ve made an arrest in this matter.’
‘We have. But the investigation is ongoing. You were acquainted with the deceased, known as Pandora.’
‘Well acquainted. I was considering a project with her, certainly had socialized with her on a number of occasions over the years, and when it was convenient, had sex with her.’
‘Were you and the victim lovers at the time of her death?’
‘We were never lovers, Lieutenant. We had sex. We did not make love. In fact, I doubt there was a man alive who ever made love to her, or attempted to. If he did, he was a fool. I’m not a fool.’
‘You didn’t like her.’
‘Like her?’ Redford laughed. ‘God, no. She was the singularly most dislikable human being I’ve ever known. But she did have talent. Not as much as she believed, and none at all in certain areas, and yet . . .’
He lifted his elegant hands; rings sparkled: dark stones in heavy gold. ‘Beauty is easy, Lieutenant. Some are born with it, others buy it. An attractive physical shell is moronically simple to come by today. It’s still desired. Pleasing looks never fade from fashion, but in order to make a living from those looks, a person has to have talent.’
‘And Pandora’s was?’
‘An aura, a power, an elemental, even animalistic ability to exude sex. Sex has always, will always sell.’
Eve inclined her head. ‘Only now we license it.’
Amused, Redford flashed her a smile. ‘The government needs its revenue. But I wasn’t referring to the selling of sex, but of using it to sell. And we do: everything from soft drinks to kitchen appliances. And fashion,’ he added. ‘Always fashion.’
‘And that was Pandora’s particular specialty.’
‘You could drape her in kitchen curtains, point her toward a runway, and reasonably intelligent people would open their credit accounts wide to have that look. She was a saleswoman. There was nothing she couldn’t peddle. She wanted to act, which was unfortunate. She could never be anyone but herself, but Pandora.’
‘But you were working on a project with her.’
‘I was considering one where she would essentially play herself. Nothing more, nothing less. It may have worked. And the merchandizing from it . . . well, that’s where the profits would have poured in. It was still in the planning stages.’
‘You were at her home the night she died.’
‘Yes, she wanted company. And, I suspect, wanted to rub Jerry’s nose in the idea of starring in one of my films.’
‘And how did Ms. Fitzgerald take it?’
‘She was surprised, irritated, I imagine. I was irritated myself as we were far from ready to go public. We might have had an interesting scene over it, but we were interrupted. The young woman, the fascinating young woman who arrived on the doorstep. The one you’ve arrested,’ he said
with a gleam in his eye. ‘The media claim you’re very close friends.’
‘Why don’t you just tell me what happened when Ms. Freestone arrived?’
‘Melodrama, action, violence. Picture this,’ he said and moved his hands to form the age-old sign for a screen. ‘The young, brave beauty comes to plead her case. She’s been weeping, her face is pale, her eyes desperate. She will step aside, give up the man both of them want, to protect him, to do what’s best for his career.
‘Close up on Pandora. Her face is filled with rage, disdain, a manic energy. Christ, the beauty. It’s almost evil. She won’t be satisfied with sacrifice. She wants her opponent to feel pain. Emotional pain first, by the cruel names she hurls, then physical pain by striking the first blow. Now you have the classic struggle. Two women locked in combat over a man. The younger woman has love on her side, but even that isn’t a match for the strength of Pandora’s vengeance. Or her sharpened nails. Fur, shall we say, flies, until the two male members of our fascinated audience step in. One of them is bitten for his pains.’
Redford winced and rubbed his right shoulder. ‘Pandora sank her fangs into me as I was dragging her off. I have to say I was tempted to punch her myself. Your friend left. She tossed off some typical cliche about Pandora being sorry, but she looked more miserable than vindictive.’
‘And Pandora?’
‘Energized.’ And so was he with the telling of the tale. ‘She’d been in a dangerous mood all evening, and it was only more treacherous after the bout. Jerry and Justin bowed out, with more dispatch than grace, and I stayed behind awhile to try to bring Pandora down.’
‘Did you succeed?’
‘I didn’t come close. She was wild then. She threatened all manner of absurdities. She was going to go after the little bitch and rip her face off. She was going to castrate Leonardo. By the time she was finished, he wouldn’t be able to peddle buttons on the street corner. Not even beggars were going to wear his rags, and so on. After about twenty minutes, I gave it up. She was furious with me then for cutting the evening short, and shouted a lot of abuse after me. She didn’t need me, she had bigger deals, better deals.’