Celebrity in Death edahr-43

by J. D. Robb

  Careful to touch nothing, she walked toward the office again. “Moving toward the desk, back to the killer. Small table to the left of the office door. Easy reach. Grab it, smash it. Asner goes down.”

  Avoiding the congealed blood pooled on the floor, she moved closer to the body. “Another blow as he’s going down. Maybe a third and fourth for good measure when he’s on the ground. Messy. The office has been ransacked, as has the reception area. Computers are missing, drawers searched. The vic is not wearing a wrist unit, possible robbery. But that’s bogus. Bogus. Coincidence, my ass. Whoever did Asner did Harris. And wanted the recording, wanted information, wanted … silence.”

  She glanced over as Peabody came back, panting slightly, with the field kit. “What are the chances of it being a coincidence that the PI Harris hired got bashed to death in the neighborhood of twenty-four hours after she drowned?”

  “Slim to none,” Peabody responded and offered Eve the Seal-It from the kit.

  “I say even extra-slim to none. Let’s verify his ID for the record, get TOD.”

  “Take off the coat.”

  “What?”

  “It’s brand-new, Dallas, and extreme. Why risk getting blood or dead yuck on it? I put three coats of protective shield on my boots, so they won’t get yucked up.”

  She had a point, Eve thought as she took off the coat. Which was why, in her view, cops shouldn’t wear anything they had to worry about getting yucked up.

  With the coat set safely aside, she crouched by the body.

  “Victim is confirmed as Abner Andrew Asner,” Peabody said when she checked prints. “Age forty-six, licensed private investigator, and owner/operator of the business at this location.”

  Working with the gauges, Eve nodded. “TOD, twenty-three-twenty. So, a late appointment or meet.” She checked pockets. “No wallet in his back pockets, none front pants pocket my side, no loose change, no nothing. Your side?”

  “Nothing,” Peabody confirmed. “No wrist unit either. No pocket ’link on him, or memo book, no weapon.”

  “There’s a jacket on the floor over there, under that peg. Check it, then the desk. Tried to make it look like a robbery,” Eve continued, “the way they tried to make Harris look like accidental drowning. Make-believe, but not convincing if you know squat about police work.”

  “Because we’re not idiots,” Peabody confirmed. “Nothing in the jacket. A couple of wrapped mints on the floor, like maybe they were in the pocket.” She moved onto the desk as Eve sat back on her heels.

  “The vic got a hundred K, but he kept the original recording. Just couldn’t resist. Maybe a little more to make here, he thinks. From who? He has to figure Harris is going to hit Marlo and Matthew. Would he try a double dip there? Or would he try for another interested party?”

  “I guess we find out what all interested parties were doing right around eleven-thirty last night.”

  “That would be good information.”

  “They’re all probably at the studio. Preston contacted me last night to tell me they’re scheduled to shoot my scene on Saturday, and if I had any time free, I could swing in, take a look at some wardrobe today.”

  “You’re still doing that?”

  “Well …” Peabody stopped sifting through the debris on and around the desk. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

  “No reason not to. If we don’t have this nailed down by then, cops playact with killers all the time.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. McNab’s going with me. They may sneak him into a scene, too. And I can handle some wussy smash-from-behind Hollywood killer. Buffing up on hand-to-hand, remember?” She flexed her right biceps.

  “When you’re picking out wardrobe, pick out something that can handle your weapon, or an ankle piece.”

  “Good idea. No memo or appointment book, no pocket ’link, no recording.”

  “Keep looking. I’ll take reception.”

  She’d barely started when the uniforms arrived. She sent them both out to canvass the building and a two-block radius. The killer had hauled out electronics, which meant he’d had transportation or a partner with same. So he’d had to park, and make at least two trips up and back. They’d see how late the restaurant on the street level operated, and the tattoo parlor. She had no doubt the sketchy-looking bar would have been open and doing business at the killing hour.

  She looked up again at the click, click, click of heels in the corridor—the giggle, and the lower male laugh.

  Eve moved to the door, stepped out to see Barbie in a red skirt barely bigger than a dinner napkin, doing the hair-toss, eyelash-bat routine for the benefit of a lanky, lantern-jawed guy in a wrinkled suit.

  Bobbie, Eve presumed. It appeared they’d done more than have a drink.

  Still giggling, Barbie turned her head, and this time batted her lashes in surprise. “Oh. You’re back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “A let you in? I didn’t expect him so early. I came early ’cause I felt a little guilty about leaving before closing yesterday.”

  “Did you speak to Mr. Asner after my partner and I left?”

  “No. He never tagged back, so I just v-mailed I was closing up.” She bit her lip. “Is he mad? I didn’t think he’d care since—”

  “No, he’s not mad. I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Asner was murdered last night.”

  “What? What?” She screeched the second what. “A doesn’t get murdered. He’s a professional.”

  “It appears he came in with, or let someone into his office last night. He was struck on the back of the head with the statue of a black bird.”

  “Birdie! No. Are you sure, are you sure? Because A can take care of himself. He shouldn’t be dead.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “But—but.” Tears erupted like spurts of lava, rolled down her face as she turned it in to her companion’s chest. “Bobbie.”

  “Robert Willoughby. I’m an attorney. My office,” he added, gestured to the neighboring door. “I know you need to ask, so I’ll save you time. Barbie and I left the building around four-thirty, went over to the Blue Squirrel for a drink, stayed for a couple of sets. I think it was about seven when we left, and caught dinner at Padua, a little Italian place on Mott. We decided to make a night of it, and went for music and drinks at Adalaide’s. I guess we stayed till about midnight, then we …”

  “We went back to my place.” She sniffled. “We can do that. We’re not married or anything—to other people, I mean. Bobbie, somebody killed A.”

  “I know. Why don’t you go in my office, honey, and sit down?”

  “Can I?” she asked Eve. “I feel really bad.”

  “Sure.”

  Bobbie unlocked the door, settled her in, then stepped out again. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Literally.”

  “I’ve no reason to believe she had anything to do with Mr. Asner’s death.”

  “You said he let somebody in, or came in with someone. So it wasn’t a break-in.”

  “There’s no evidence of a break-in, but we can’t rule it out at this stage.”

  “It wasn’t a break-in.”

  Eve eyed him. “Maybe you and I should have a talk, Bobbie.”

  “Yeah, we should. Listen, I want to call my assistant. She and Barbie pal around some. Barbie would do better if she had somebody with her right now. Just let me get somebody to stay with her, and I’ll talk to you. It won’t take long. Sunny only lives a couple blocks away.”

  “All right.”

  He glanced toward his office. “It’s the first night we …” He blew out a breath. “This is a hell of a morning after.”

  14

  Since Peabody was better with weepers had a way of easing and eking information out between sobs—Eve had her talk to Barbie while she took Bobbie.

  The layout of the law office was identical to Asner’s with a no-frills decor. She left Peabody with Sunny the assistant and the teary Barbie in the reception area, and sat with Bobbie in his o
ffice.

  “What do you know, Bobbie?”

  “It may not be anything. I know A was riding high the last couple days. Big payoff from a client. I don’t know the details, and I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got most of them already.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “He liked to gamble, and he was flush. I know he was going to hit a game yesterday because he stopped by, said I should go with him, he’d front me. I don’t do that kind of thing—gamble. I can’t afford to. And I don’t play with money I don’t have in the first place. So I said I’d pass. I had work anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “It could be he played too deep, lost what he didn’t have, or needed to get more from his office.”

  “Did he keep money there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” His eyes tracked to the door as Barbie let loose another spate of sobs.

  “My partner’s good with the grieving,” Eve told him.

  “Yeah, okay.” Bobbie pressed his fingers to his eyes, took a couple long breaths. “Okay.” Dropped his hands back to the desk. “Anyway. It could be he got into it over the bet, and whoever he owed or was there to collect killed him. But—”

  “Kill him, you don’t get paid,” Eve finished. “But we have to check these things out. Do you know where he played yesterday?”

  “They move around. I think he said he was picking it up in Chinatown. The thing is—Lieutenant, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The thing is, yeah, A liked to play, but he wasn’t stupid about it. I went with him a couple times, and I never saw him play past his limit, never used a marker, never swung toward the high-stakes, break-your-legs-if-you-welsh kind of game. He just liked to play, have some fun at it. So I don’t see it going here.”

  “You see something else.”

  “Maybe. Listen, do you want some coffee?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “I’m just going to get some coffee.” He rose, went to a shoe box–sized AutoChef on a short counter. It made ominous grinding noises, then clunking ones. “I’ve got to replace this piece of crap.”

  He pulled out a mug, and the steam sent out a scent worse than Morris’s morgue coffee.

  “I don’t know if it’s anything. But …”

  “But.”

  Bobbie sat, sipped, winced. “God, this is truly horrible. A asked me some legal questions, hypothetically. Bought me a beer the other day, made it like conversation. But I’m not stupid either.”

  “Did he hire you?”

  “No, or I wouldn’t be talking to you. It still doesn’t feel right, but he’s dead. Not just dead. Murdered. I liked him, a lot. Everybody liked A.”

  “What was the hypothetical?”

  “He wondered if somebody had something come into their possession, and they requested compensation of a monetary nature for that something from an interested party, how much legal hassle would there be? I asked straight out if he was talking about stolen property, and he said no. Just a kind of memento. Nothing exactly illegal.”

  “Exactly illegal,” Eve repeated, and Bobbie managed a faint smile as he choked down another swallow of coffee.

  “Yeah, I caught that, too. I said I couldn’t tell him specifically since I didn’t have specifics, but if he had something that had come to him, without crossing the law, requesting compensation shouldn’t be a problem. But if that something was legally the property of the interested party, or obtained by illegal means, he was in a very shadowy area.

  “He said something about finder’s fees, possession being nine-tenths of the law. I hear bullshit all day, and I know when somebody’s trying to rationalize. I also know sometimes A skirted the line in his work. I also know he wanted to retire.”

  “And adding things up,” Eve prompted.

  “Yeah, adding them up I told him maybe he should give this idea more thought, which isn’t what he wanted to hear. He had this thing about moving to the islands—and opening a little club or casino/bar deal. I got the feeling he saw this as a big score, something that would polish off his retirement plan. I actually thought that’s why he was flush yesterday, and asked him if he’d exchanged the memento for compensation. He said he was working on that. Then …”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, still taking it in. Yesterday when he dropped in about the game, I poked at him a little about it. It just bothered me. He said how current events had changed—how did he put it—changed the complexion. How he was rethinking his position, and maybe he’d just pass the memento over to the interested party, take his bird in the hand and be done. He said how we’d grab some coffee tomorrow—today—and he’d tell me how it went.”

  Bobbie stared down at his hands. “I’m afraid it didn’t go well, at all. I’m afraid I wasn’t clear or strong enough in how I answered when he asked me.”

  “Hypothetically?” Eve waited until Bobbie looked up, into her eyes. “I’d say this event was in motion, and that there was very likely nothing you could have said to stop that motion. I’m sorry you lost a friend.”

  “Will you notify me about his body, its disposition? He’s got a couple of ex-wives, no kids. I don’t think either of his exes would be interested in seeing to that. He had a lot of friends. I think we could pool together, take care of him.”

  “I’ll let you know.” She started to the door, stopped. “What are you doing in this place, Bobbie?”

  “Kind of a dump, huh?” he said as he looked around. “But it’s my dump. I did a couple years as a PD. It’s necessary work, but you don’t get a choice. This may not be much, but I get to choose my clients, when I get one.”

  “Good luck. I’ll be in touch.”

  Outside Peabody took a gulp of air. “She was really broken up. I got the impression she thought of him as sort of an honorary uncle. She didn’t have anything, Dallas. Nothing she didn’t give us yesterday.”

  “Bobbie might have.” On the drive to the studio, she gave Peabody the rundown.

  “It pretty much confirms, hypothetically, that he was trying to sell the recording. Or maybe after he heard his client got dead, just give it over.”

  “And his interested party found killing easier the second time. Stupid, and greedy. It looks like he saw another big windfall, all for one job of work. Wanted to pad his retirement fund. Now he’s retired, permanently.”

  “The killer must have the recording. If Asner took him or her to the office, the recording must have been in the office.”

  “We search his apartment. He might’ve been in negotiation mode in the office, still feeling it out. I had the uniforms go over and seal it. We need to check with the night shift at the restaurant, the bar.” Fat chance, Eve thought, but shrugged. “We could get lucky.”

  “This isn’t over a sex recording of a couple of single actors breaking no laws or moral codes.”

  “You’re right about that. It’s a power struggle turned very nasty. It’s about greed, obsession, and a need to control. About eliminating obstacles or problems.”

  “Back to it being almost any one of them. If the killer wanted the recording—whatever the reason—and it was in Asner’s possession at the time of the murder, he’d had enough time to destroy it, lock it up, make a million copies. Whatever, again, the reason.”

  “Yeah,” Eve said, and began to think about it.

  An assistant to somebody’s assistant met them at Security and escorted them through the labyrinth to a soundstage where a set had been dressed as the conference room in Eve’s home. There, in reality a year before, they had interviewed the three clones known as Avril Icove.

  In the observation area, Marlo and Andi enacted a tense, emotional scene between Eve and Mira. Roundtree cut, retook, and cut again, pushing them both. At the end of a take Marlo walked to the observation glass, stared through, face set.

  At nothing Eve could see. She supposed that would be added with vid magic. Julian walked in, and to her so they both looked through the
glass.

  “And cut! Perfect. Let’s reset for reaction shots.”

  Now Eve stepped forward. “I need you to hold on that.”

  Roundtree turned, scowled at her with the expression of a man deep in his work and unwilling to surface. “Five minutes while we reset. Preston—”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “If you need to ask questions, again, ask one of us who isn’t trying to work. We’ve lost one of our cast members, we have the media and the paparazzi and the goddamn cops crawling up our asses. I’m going to finish this scene before—”

  “You’re going to have the media, the paparazzi, the goddamn cops—especially me—crawling up your asses for a little while longer. There’s been another murder.”

  The fury on Roundtree’s face died off into sick dread, while others on the set reacted with gasps, mutters, and oaths.

  “Who?” he demanded, looking around swiftly, like a father doing a head count of his brood. “Who’s been killed?”

  “A. A. Asner, a private investigator.”

  Something like relief chased with annoyance took over, face, voice, the sweeping gesture of his hand. “What the hell does that have to do with any of us?”

  “Considerable. Now we can arrange for me and my partner to interview the individuals we feel pertain in a manner that causes the least amount of time and inconvenience to your production, or we can shut this production down until we’re satisfied.”

  She wasn’t entirely sure she could pull that threat off, but it sounded ominous. Roundtree went the color of overcooked beets.

  “Preston! Get legal on the line, that asshole Farnsworth the studio stuck us with. I’ve had enough of this shit. Enough.”

  “Mason!” Before Eve could respond, Connie rushed onto the set. “What’s going on here? You take a breath.” She pointed a finger at him. “I mean it. You take a breath.”

  He looked as though he might explode first, but he took the breath, then another when Connie wagged that extended finger at him. His color cooled a few degrees.