Celebrity in Death

13

Eve yanked herself out of the dream and into the hazy light of dawn. Breathing, just breathing, to give herself a moment to be sure she was awake, and not making that jerky transition from one segment of a dream to another.

Her throat begged for water, but she lay still another moment, eyes closed, waiting for her pulse to slow.

Roarke’s arm came around her, drew her close against him. Anchored her. “I’m here.”

“It’s nothing. I have to get up, get started.”

“Ssh.”

She closed her eyes again. She hated this waking fragility, this thin, shaky sensation as if she’d crack if she moved too quickly. She knew it would pass, it would smooth away again, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated, too, knowing he’d broken his habit of being up, dressed, and having accomplished God knew what in the business world before she stirred.

“Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” she repeated, but he brushed his lips over her hair. Undid her.

“Stella, in the bedroom of the place she had in Dallas. The one we searched. But it’s like the bedroom from before, too, when I was a kid. I don’t know where we were then. It doesn’t matter. She’s sitting at this little table, with all her lip dyes and creams and paints—all that stuff. I can smell her, that perfume—too sweet. It makes my stomach hurt. Her back’s to me, but she’s looking at me in the mirror with all that hate, that contempt. I can smell that, too. It’s hot and bitter.

“I need some water.”

“I’ll get it.”

She didn’t argue, no point. In any case, she felt a little better, a little stronger. Just a dream, she reminded herself. And she’d known it for what it was while she’d been in it.

That had to matter.

She took the water Roarke brought her, ordered herself to drink it slowly.

“Thanks.”

He said nothing, only set the empty glass aside, took her hand.

“Her throat,” Eve continued, bringing her fingers to her own. “Blood pouring out of her throat, down the front of the pink dress she was wearing when I busted her, when I wrecked the van. She’s so angry. It’s my fault, she says. Look at her dress. I ruined it. I ruined everything. Then I see him in the mirror, I see him behind me. McQueen. Or my father. It’s so hard to tell. I reach for my weapon, but it’s not there. I don’t have my weapon. And she smiles. In the mirror, she smiles, and it’s horrible.

“I have to get out, I have to wake up. So I wake up.”

“Is it always the same?”

“No, not exactly. I’m not afraid of her. I want to ask why she hated me so much, but I know there’s no answer. I’m not afraid until, at whatever angle the dream takes, I go for my weapon and it’s not there. Then I’m afraid. So I have to wake up.”

“None of them can touch you, not ever again.”

“I know. And when I wake up I’m here. It’s okay; I’m okay, because I’m here. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll just feel guilty.”

“I’ll try to worry only a little so you’ll only feel a little guilty.”

“I guess that’ll have to do.” She shifted so they were nose-to-nose and heart-to-heart. “Don’t change your routine because of this. That’ll get me wired and worried. Besides, if you don’t keep up with your predawn quest for world financial domination, how are you going to keep me in coffee? If you slack off, I’ll have to find another Irish gazillion-aire with coffee bean connections.”

“That would never do. I’ll continue my quest if you promise to tell me when they come.” Gently, he trailed his hand over her hair. “Don’t keep them from me anymore, Eve.”

“Okay.”

“And since it appears the very core of my happiness rests on your addiction to coffee, I’ll get you some.”

“I won’t say no, but I’ve got to get moving. I’m meeting Peabody at Asner’s place. I want to hit his apartment early before he gets out.”

“Asner?” Roarke said as he rose and walked to the AutoChef.

“The PI.”

“Ah, yes. A light breakfast then.” The cat bumped against his legs, wound through them. “For some of us.”

She got up, knowing he’d try to pamper her into taking her coffee—and possibly the light breakfast—in bed. She took the mug from him, knocked some back.

“I’m going to grab a shower,” she told him. “You’d better catch up on the world domination.”

“I’ll get right on that, after I feed the cat.”

He did so while she went for the shower. Then, drinking his own coffee, stood by the window.

Careful with each other, she’d said. Yes, they were just now. And it looked as if they’d need to be for a little longer yet.

She felt like herself—maybe even just a little better due to the magic coat—when she drove downtown. She left the windows down so the brisk air could slap her cheeks, pleased that the ad blimps had yet to start their hyping lumber in the sky, and the snarl and piss of New York traffic could rage on without the blast from above.

Too early for blimps, too early for most tourists. It felt like New York nearly belonged to New Yorkers. Glide-carts did their morning business, heavy on the soy coffee and egg pockets. Maxibuses burped and farted their commuters to the early shift or breakfast meetings while those on foot clipped along or swarmed the crosswalks like purposeful ants.

She had a plan, and it started with cornering A. A. Asner. Charges of breaking-and-entering, criminal trespass, electronic trespass, accessory to blackmail—to start—and the threat of losing his license and livelihood should make him talk like a toddler on a sugar high.

She’d bargain some of that against him turning over the original recording—and all copies, as well as spilling any and all data he had on K.T. Harris, her movements, her intentions, her meets.

If he hadn’t done some research on Harris, some shadowing, she’d eat her new magic coat.

And to cover bases, she’d requested a warrant for both his home and offices, citing his business with the victim.

She expected to get it.

She settled for a second-level spot a block and a half from Asner’s apartment building. Decent neighborhood, she noted. Better than what he’d chosen for his office. Packs of kids shuffled down the sidewalk, heading for school, she imagined, some of them herded by parents or nannies. Their chatter piped through the air as most headed along the sidewalks in what she assumed was the latest kid fashion of mid-calf boots with soles thick as a slab of wood.

Those who didn’t shuffle, clumped.

A woman in overalls hefted up the safety grill on a small market. She shot Eve a smile.

Fresher weather, Eve thought, fresher people.

She enjoyed the walk, promised herself she’d get in the solid workout the preshift visit to Asner had postponed until the evening.

She spotted Peabody coming from the opposite direction in kind of a quick march. The cowboy boots Roarke decided Peabody had to have from Dallas flashed sizzling pink with every stride.

The stride hitched, and Peabody’s mouth formed a stunned O. Instinctively, Eve laid a hand on her weapon, checked behind her, but Peabody was already dancing—the only word that fit—down the sidewalk.

She said, “Ohhhh,” and reached out.

“Hey. Hands off.”

“Please. Please, please, soooo pretty. Lemme just have one little touch.”

“Peabody, isn’t it embarrassing enough you’re wearing pink cowboy boots, again, without standing here drooling on my coat?”

“I love them. Love, love my pink cowboy boots. I think they’re going to be my signature footwear.” She snuck in a stroke along the sleeve of Eve’s coat. She said, again, “Ohhhh, ultra-squared. It’s like butter.”

“If it was like butter it’d be melting all over me.”

“It sort of does. It’s all gushy and soft and so completely uptown. When you were walking it just swished. It’s just as mag as your long one.”

“Now that we’ve discussed our wardrobe choices for the day, maybe we can go roust Asner. Since we’re here anyway.”

Peabody’s hand came up again, and Eve pointed a warning finger. “You already touched.” When she turned to the building’s entrance, Peabody let out her third ohhhh of the morning.

“The belt detail in the back. It highlights your butt.”

“What?” Stunned, Eve tried to crane her neck and look. “Christ.”

“No, no, in a good way, not in a skanky way.” She snuck in another stroke. “Was it a just-because? I love just-because presents the best. Last month McNab gave me the cutest pair of earrings—like chains of hearts—just because. You know a guy’s stuck on you if he springs for just-because jewelry of any kind.”

“Okay.” Which, by Peabody’s measure, would mean Roarke was stuck on her like a man in quicksand. She stopped at the door, pulled out her master. “It’s lined with body armor.”

“Say what?”

Eve opened the jacket. “The lining, it’s a new material his R and D people developed. Blast-, stunner-, and blade-proof.”

“Seriously?” This time Eve made no objection when Peabody fingered the lining material. It was, in Eve’s opinion, a cop thing and allowed.

“It’s so thin, and light—and it moves. It shields a blast?”

“So he says, and he’d know. I figured you could stun me later to test it out.”

“Hot damn. You know what, the jacket’s like the car.”

“Is this a riddle?”

“No,” Peabody said as Eve swiped the master. “It’s an ordinary thing—well, special, but a jacket, right? And the car, it’s ordinary, it even looks it. But both of them have the special inside. Cop special especially, you know? He so gets you. That’s even better than a just-because present.”

“You’re right. He does. And it is.” Inside, Eve paused another moment. “He’s worried about me.”

“Going to—being in—Dallas had to be hard on both of you,” Peabody said carefully.

“You don’t push.”

“I read your reports, and I figure there’s a lot of stuff, personal stuff, not in them. I get you, too. Partners better get each other, right?”

“Yeah.”

“One day maybe we’ll have a drink, and you’ll tell me what wasn’t in the reports.”

“We will.” And could, Eve realized, because Peabody got her. Because she didn’t push. “I will. Asner’s place is on the second floor.”

As they started up Eve heard the usual morning sounds from an older, unsoundproofed, working-class building. The mutter and pulse of morning shows on-screen, music, doors closing, the whine of the elevator, and of kids not yet shuffling or clomping toward school.

No palm plates on the doors, she noted, but plenty of sturdy locks, security peeps. She studied the Secure-One plate on Asner’s door, and figured it for show, a deterrent rather than the real deal.

She used the side of her fist, gave the door a good trio of bangs. Almost immediately the door across the hall opened. The man who came out wore sweats, a warm-up jacket, running shoes. He carried a gym bag over his shoulder. He gave them an easy smile as he fit a ball cap over scraggly brown hair.

“I don’t think A’s home.”

“Oh?” Eve responded.

“I gave him a tag a few minutes ago. We’re gym buddies, and usually head out together most mornings. He didn’t answer, so …” He shrugged.

“Did you see him yesterday?”

The smile faded into suspicion. “Yeah. Why?”

Eve took out her badge. “We need to talk to Mr. Asner. When did you see him yesterday?”

“About this time. We hit the gym. What’s this about?”

“We need to talk to him about an ongoing investigation.”

“Then you should probably try his office.” He gave them the address they already had. “It’s a little early, but if he’s working on something that kept him out all night, he might’ve just bunked there.”

“Out all night?”

The man shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m assuming. We made plans—loose ones—to watch the game together, with a couple other guys last night. My place. He didn’t show, and he’s not one to miss game night, especially when we had a bet on it. So I figured he got caught up on work. Look, you should just go to his office. I don’t like talking about a buddy to the cops. It feels off.”

“Understood. We appreciate the time.” Eve took out a card. “Listen, if you do happen to see him at the gym, just tell him to contact me.”

“Sure. I can do that.” He slipped the card into his bag. Relaxed again, he smiled. “If you see A first, tell him he owes me twenty.”

“Will do.”

Eve waited until the neighbor jogged down the steps. “We might as well try the office. It’s not far, and he might’ve bunked there, especially if he spent the day gambling and got stung.”

Once they were in the car, Eve ran through her suppositions, conclusions, and theories reached the night before.

“I agree about Matthew and Marlo,” Peabody said. “They’re happy lovebirds. Not that lovebirds don’t kill—the inconvenient spouse or ‘rich, just won’t give up and die’ Great-aunt Edna. But not only doesn’t Harris apply, but neither has a spouse, and they’re both more than sound financially. Was there anything on the recording I should know about?”

“They had sex, some post-coital mushy pillow talk. They did some yoga together, then ordered Chinese food, ate it while they—what do you call it—ran lines on upcoming scenes. He helped her with the choreography of a fight scene. Talk that wasn’t work-oriented stuck mostly to choices of a getaway. It’s between Fiji and Corfu—or was. They watched some screen in bed, had another—shorter—round of sex, went to sleep.”

“Sounds kind of normal,” Peabody observed, “settled. Happy lovebirds.”

“The morning routine was no surprises. A workout, shower sex—which I assume, as they left the bathroom door open and the audio picked up some sex sounds—fruit and yogurt for breakfast, more work and getaway talk. They laugh a lot. Dressed and out the door.”

“No sign of Harris, or the PI picking up the cameras?”

“He’d have edited himself out, if he had a brain. Since the recording ends with them leaving, he has a brain. No sign of Harris, and very little said about her from either spied-on party. Which probably burned her ass.”

Eve parked, checking Asner’s office window as she got out. The overcast sky made the day a little gloomy, but no lights shone in his office.

“He’s either not in yet, or still asleep.”

As they went in, started up, she asked herself why, if he had a brain, he dodged the cops. He had to know they’d pin him down, and the longer it took, the less friendly the pinning. Maybe working out a story, a cover, maybe consulting his lawyer.

Or maybe he’d taken his big paycheck and smoked.

She didn’t much like that idea, and liked the other possibility that circled her mind even less.

She approached Asner’s office door, started to rap on the glass. “It’s not secured.”

The other possibility stopped circling to hover. She drew her weapon, as did Peabody.

“He could have forgotten to lock it,” Peabody said quietly.

“A waste of good locks.” She nodded, counted off, and they went in the door together.

The quick initial sweep showed her the disorder of the reception area. All that was left of the computer on the desk was the screen. The drawers had been pulled out, upended.

Again at Eve’s signal Peabody moved toward the inner office. She pulled open the door, swept right while Eve swept left.

Disorder reigned here, too, as well as death. A. A. Asner lay facedown on the floor. The back of his skull had been smashed in, presumably with the statue of a bird that lay nearby covered in blood and matter.

He wouldn’t be paying his gym buddy the twenty, Eve thought, and was beyond being pressured to talk about his equally dead client.

Eve holstered her weapon. “Go get the field kit, and I’ll call it in.”

“Hit him from behind,” Peabody said. “Hard, and more than once. No calling this one an accident.”

She hurried out while Eve contacted Dispatch, reported the DB, requested uniforms for securing the scene and canvassing, a sweeper unit, and a morgue team.

She took out her recorder, fixed it on, engaged it. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entered the offices of Asner, A. A., Private Investigations. The door was not secured. Detective Peabody has returned to our vehicle for a field kit. Dispatch has been contacted, and support teams have been requested.

“The victim, identity yet to be confirmed, has suffered multiple blows to the back of the head. The weapon appears to be a statue of a black bird, wings folded in, beak—Maltese falcon,” she murmured. “He got bashed with a replica—souvenir—whatever from the vid. Book, too,” she remembered.

Both were among Roarke’s favorites.

“Hero in the story’s a hard-bitten PI, early twentieth century. More irony, I guess.”

She walked out, studied the entrance door. “No visible sign of forced entry. He let the killer in, or came in with him. He either knew him or wasn’t worried about him as the killing blow came from behind.”

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.”