Celebrity in Death

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 office.

“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.

“She wants to shut us down because some private dick got killed. I’m not taking any more of this harassment.”

“A private investigator? Murdered?” Something in Connie’s tone had Eve focused on her.

“A. A. Asner. I don’t think that name’s unfamiliar to you. I’m not looking to shut anything down, if I get reasonable cooperation. I’ve got a job to do,” she said to Roundtree who’d gone back to tugging on his red goatee. “We can both do our jobs, but mine comes first. That’s not negotiable.”

“An hour,” he told her.

“We’ll start with that. I need to speak, individually, to everyone who attended the dinner party.”

“Steinburger and Valerie aren’t here. They’re off dealing with this fucking mess. Nadine’s probably off somewhere writing another book about this fucking mess. Matthew’s not on the call list today.”

“Let’s get them here. The sooner we can get this done, the sooner we can get out of your ass.”

His lips twitched in what might have been a reluctant smile quickly controlled. “Preston.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Take an hour!” Roundtree boomed it out. “I want everybody back here and ready to work in one hour.”

“Nobody leaves the premises,” Eve added. “We’ll speak to the cast members in their respective trailers. Go there,” she ordered. “Wait. I need a place to talk to non–cast members,” she told Roundtree.

“I’ve got an office here. You can use it.”

“That’ll work. I’ll take you first.” She turned to Connie.

“All right. I’ll take you to the office.”

“I’ll follow up with you,” she said to Roundtree. “Then Preston. I want to know when the others arrive on the premises.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Preston said again, then scurried off.

“Peabody, why don’t you go after Preston, make sure everybody goes where they’re supposed to go. And to save some time, contact Nadine yourself. Get her whereabouts and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This way.” Connie, in sensible flats and casual trousers, led the way.

“Why are you here today?” Eve asked her as they exited the soundstage.

“Everyone’s on edge, upset, as is to be expected. I’m useful. The cast and crew can talk to me. I make a good wailing wall.”

“And you can keep your husband from imploding.”

Connie sighed, negotiated a turn. “Yesterday was grueling. In our business we’re used to the microscope of the media. But yesterday, even with buffers in place, was grueling. I don’t know how many contacts I fielded, or avoided, or passed on to Valerie. Not just reporters, bloggers, entertainment site hosts, but from vid people—actors, directors, producers, crew—who either knew K.T. or just wanted to know what was going on.”

She unlocked a door, stepped into a roomy office with a huge, deep sofa, a trio of generous club chairs, a shiny galley kitchen, a private bath.

“I want coffee. Would you like coffee? I’ve had too much already, but, well, it’s too early to start drinking, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t mind coffee. Black.”

“Mason feels responsible,” Connie began as she programmed coffee. “He won’t admit it, but I know him. We hosted the party, she died there. We’ve been annoyed and impatient with her, and he regretted casting her in this project. We both knew she was difficult, but she handled herself so well initially.”

Connie shook her head, passed a hand over the hair she’d pulled back in a casual tail. “She was so enthusiastic, so cooperative—at first. But in the last two or three months, it’s been a series of arguments, demands, frustrations, delays.”

“Makes it tough to work. Tough for Roundtree to keep it all going.”

“It does—did. He’s not one to suppress his feelings or thoughts—as I’m sure you’ve observed. So he made it very clear how he viewed her behavior. He swore he’d never work with her again. And now, of course, he won’t. And he feels responsible.”

“He’s not, unless he’s the one who drowned her.”

“He couldn’t.” Graceful, contained, Connie moved to the sofa, set both cups on the table that fronted it. She sat, folded her hands. “I want you to listen to me. He rants, yells, stomps, and snarls. He’d have blackballed her if he could—and that’s not out of the realm of possibility. But he’d never do physical harm.”

Eve took a seat. “How about you?”

“Yes, I’m capable. I’ve thought about this. I think most of us are capable of killing under the right—or wrong—circumstances. I would be. I think I would be. I know I could happily have slugged her, then done a victory dance. I was that angry with her on the night of the party. I can only tell you I didn’t. I want you to find out who did, but I don’t want it to be anyone I care about. It’s hard to reconcile that.”

“Tell me about Asner. The PI.”

“You know about Marlo and Matthew.”

“And apparently so do you.”

“She confided in me yesterday. She told me everything—that they’d fallen in love, were sharing a place in SoHo, that K.T. found out, hired a detective. She told me about the recording. As I said, I’m a good wailing wall. It has to be the same detective who’s been killed. You wouldn’t be here asking questions otherwise. But I don’t understand it.”

“He had the original recording, and from what we’ve gathered, intended to sell it to an interested party.”

“The media.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who else? Marlo or Matthew?” Obviously exasperated, Connie threw up her hands. “I hope to God they have more sense than that, or that I talked some of that sense into them yesterday. Who cares?” She flicked the wrist of one lifted hand. “Yes, yes, the media would salivate, the blogs will bloat. The video would garner millions of hits. Is it unfair—certainly. Is it a terrible invasion of their private lives—absolutely. If you want fair and privacy, find another line of work.”

“That’s pragmatic?”

“It’s survival,” Connie said flatly. “I was furious for them, disgusted with K.T.—even though she’s dead. It was a horrible, unstable, selfish thing to do. But they’re two young, gorgeous, happy, talented people. And this is nothing to get so worked up over. If the recording leaks, it leaks, then you deal with it. Someone like Valerie will take that ball and spin it.”

“Even if it leaks before the project’s finished, while Julian and Marlo are supposed to be the hot ticket?”

“That’s just nonsense anyway, isn’t it? Maybe it does boost the numbers, at least initially, but it’s nonsense. The numbers people latched onto this angle, partially because Marlo and Julian do have wonderful chemistry, and partially because the characters they’re playing are real people—a couple, a hot ticket, that the media and public are fascinated with.”

She smiled at Eve’s expression. “If you wanted to stay out of the public eye and consciousness, you should have found a different husband, and shouldn’t be so good at your work.”

A little hard to argue, Eve decided, with pithy common sense.

“Does your husband share your opinion over the nonsense?”

“He liked the idea of Marlo and Julian perpetuating a relationship offscreen. He felt it kept them in character for longer stretches. But he didn’t know about Matthew. I don’t think anyone did.”

“Where were you between ten and midnight?”

“Home. Yesterday was exhausting, and it wasn’t the time to go out and socialize.”

“Was Roundtree with you?”

“Of course. They shut down production for the day yesterday, for obvious reasons. And also to add to security. Added to it all was the problem of logistically shooting a handful of scenes that involved K.T. Mason, Nadine, and the scriptwriter holo-conferenced off and on during the day, working that out. After dinner, Mason went down to view and edit, to make some of the changes work more smoothly. I don’t think he came to bed until after two, then he wanted to be at the studio by six, for a breakfast meeting with Joel and two of the studio execs who’d come in from California.”

“What were you doing while he worked?”

“I put a droid on the ’links, programmed to get me only in case of emergency. I’d had enough. I read scripts in bed, or intended to. I think I must’ve gone under by nine.”

“So you and your husband weren’t actually together in the same area of the house during the time in question?”

Connie sat silent for a moment. “No. If you’re asking if either of us has an alibi, I’d have to say I don’t. I didn’t take any communications, didn’t speak to or see anyone from about eight-thirty until Mason took the script I’d been reading out of my hands and climbed into bed at about two this morning.”

“Okay. Thanks for the time.”

“That’s it?”

“For now. If you could send Roundtree in, we’ll keep this moving so he can get back to work.”

While she waited, Eve made notes, took a moment to poke around the office. The walls held numerous framed photos. Roundtree with various actors—some she recognized, some she didn’t. Of Roundtree on some outdoor location, high in a crane, baseball cap backward on his head as he scowled at a monitor. One of his Best Director Oscars sat on a shelf along with some other awards, and she noted a football trophy for MVP, from his Sacramento high school, in what she calculated would have been his final year.

Family photos sat on the desk, facing the chair.

He walked in, kind of lumbering, like a bad-tempered bear. “I’m supposed to apologize, but fuck that. I don’t like anybody coming on my set and telling me what to do.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“And if you try shutting us down, you’re going to have a fight on your hands.”

“Then why don’t you take the stick out of your ass, sit down, get this done so we don’t have to face that issue?”

He bared his teeth at her, then grinned. “Fuck it. I like you. You piss me off, but I’ve been living with you for better than six months now. You’re a hard-nosed, hard-ass, hardworking bitch. I like that.”

“Yay. Where were you between ten and midnight?”

“Working. I’m a hard-nosed, hard-ass, hardworking son of a bitch.”

“At home. Alone.”

“I don’t like somebody breathing over my shoulder. We’ve got a goddamn problem. I have to fix it. I’ve got a cast and crew tied up in knots. Connie …” He dropped into a chair, and for the first time let the fatigue show. “She loved that fucking lap pool.”

He sat, tugging his goatee, brooding. “I surprised her with it a couple years back. Had it done when we were back on the Coast. She loved to swim, and she uses it every day we’re in New York. Every morning, even if she’s working and has a six A.M. call, she uses the pool first.”

He trained those sharp blue eyes on Eve, and the anger and bitterness came clearly. “Do you think she’s going to be able to do that now? Go up there, enjoy her morning swim? She feels responsible for what happened to K.T.”

Eve angled her head, thinking how Connie had said the same of him. “Because?”

“She laid into K.T. after dinner. She planned the party, right down to the goddamn mints. It was her idea to have the whole stinking thing, and now she’s sick about it, and trying to hold up for everybody else. That’s who she is.”

He rolled his shoulders back. “Now what the fuck is this about some PI, and what’s it to do with any of us?”

“Harris hired Asner to plant cameras in the loft Marlo and Matthew are living in, in SoHo.”

His brow beetled. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Eve laid it out for him, or as much as she wanted to lay out. And watched him absorb, chew on, spit out until he shoved to his feet and prowled the office.

“Idiots. Bunch of idiots. What the hell do I care if Marlo and Matthew want to screw like college kids on spring break? Christ’s sake. And I swear to fucking God on a mountaintop, if that stupid, selfish, crazy-ass bitch wasn’t dead I’d strangle her.”

He kicked his desk, a sentiment and gesture she understood as she was prone to the same.

“Why the hell didn’t you arrest this Asner asshole?”

“I would have, but it’s hard to book a dead guy.”

“Shit.” He dropped into the chair again. “What a fucking mess.”

“How much damage would the recording do, if it leaked?”

“How the hell do I know? You can’t figure the public. You just do good work, try to pick good people, good scripts, then throw the dice. It’ll be embarrassing, for Marlo and Matthew, and for Julian, but that won’t last. It’ll make the studio look stupid, at least to those who know how they fabricate some of the hype. Other than that, it’s still rolling the dice.”

Peabody poked her head in when Eve sent Roundtree out.

“Want an update?”

Eve crooked her finger.

“Nadine’s still a little pissed she didn’t latch onto the Marlo/Matthew connection before you did. She wants exclusives right, left, and sideways. She contacted everybody we’re talking to via ’link yesterday, and actually managed to get into Julian’s hotel room—with his permission—for a one-on-one in the afternoon. She didn’t have much to add, which I figured was what you wanted me to find out, but she’s digging like a terrier.”

“Good.”

“Preston’s alibied. I verified. He and Carmandy were in her room until after midnight. We can check hotel security on that, but it feels solid.”

“All right.”

“Matthew’s in the studio, was actually in his trailer. He and Marlo came in together this morning. Steinburger and Valerie are also here. They’ve been in his office working on spin and media angles.”

“Why don’t you take the lovebirds—separately. Then Andrea. I’ll take Valerie first, then Steinburger, round it out with Julian.”

“Works for me. I’ll get Valerie on her way.”

Eve busied herself with more notes, linking names with lines until Valerie clipped in on her important shoes. She wore an earlink, had a pocket ’link, and a PPC clipped to what Eve supposed was a fashionable belt. She carried two go-cups.

“Mango smoothies,” she said, setting one on the table. “I thought you might like one. Now.” She sat, crossed her legs. “How can I help you?”

“You can start by giving me your whereabouts last night, between ten P.M. and midnight.”

Valerie held up one finger in a one-moment gesture, and unclipped her PPC. “Let me check my calendar. It’s cross-checked, of course, in my memo book. I have that in my briefcase in Joel’s office. I holoed with reporters on the West Coast until ten. I believe my memo book will have that conference ending at approximately ten after the hour, as it ran over a bit. I had a meeting scheduled with Joel at ten-thirty. I believe we brainstormed and handled a variety of issues until about one this morning.”

“And where did you conference and meet and brainstorm?”

“At Joel’s pied-à-terre. I stayed in the guest quarters last night to simplify the situation.”

“Situation?”

Valerie maintained her pleasant, slightly smug expression. “K.T. Harris’s murder is a situation.”

“At least. Are you and Joel Steinburger sexually involved?”

“No. That’s insulting.”

“Insulting because you’re no longer sexually involved? Because I have two different statements verifying you had been previously.”

“It’s no one’s business, and not at all pertinent. Mr. Steinburger and I are not involved in the way you imply.”

“But you were?”

“Briefly. Several months ago. We ended that phase of our relationship amicably, and work together. Nothing more.”

“Uh-huh. And last night, you and Mr. Steinburger worked together in his pied-à-terre, from ten-thirty until one.”

“That’s correct. I conferred with my assistant, as I recall. All of us are putting in considerable overtime.”

“On the situation.”

“Yes.”

“How are you handling the Matthew-and-Marlo-as-lovers portion of the situation?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Tell me this. How much overtime did you put in on K.T. Harris while she was alive?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, how did you spin, cover up, keep quiet, her addiction problems, her threats, the blanket dislike for her on this project?”

“K.T. was a talented actor whose work was celebrated and respected. As is often the case with artists, her temperament was often misunderstood by those outside.”

“Does anybody actually buy that bullshit? Amazing.”

In response, Valerie just folded her hands in her lap.

“Send me the list of your holo-conference attendees, and a copy of your brainstorming notes. I’ll take Steinburger now.”

“It would help considerably if you could speak with Joel in his office. We’re enormously busy this morning.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

The offices were in the same section, hardly more than a thirty-second walk.

Power play, Eve decided when she went in—after Valerie’s knock and Steinburger’s answer. He sat behind his desk, a busy man. His office boasted a wall of screens, several of them tuned to media channels with the sound muted. His comp, ’link bank, disc files, memo cubes, crowded his expansive desk.

He, too, had a sofa, chairs, awards, photos—and a small conference table now holding the debris of meetings.

“Yes, yes, sit. I’ll be right with you. Valerie, I don’t know where the hell Shelby went off to. Get Lieutenant Dallas some coffee.”

“I’m good. You can leave,” she said to Valerie.

“I need Valerie to—”

“It’ll have to wait,” Eve interrupted. “This isn’t a business meeting, but a police investigation. You’re entitled to have your lawyer present, or you can designate Valerie as your legal representative. However, she would be under no legal constriction to hold what’s said in this room confidential.”

“This won’t take long, Valerie. We’ll deal with the next round in …” He checked his wrist unit. “Twenty. Take a break.”

“I’ll be close by.” Valerie stepped out, shut the door.

“I’m sorry to be abrupt,” Steinburger began. “We’re dealing with a great deal of difficulties, on every level. I’m told you’re here about some private investigator’s death, and you think it’s connected to K.T.’s murder.”

“That’s right. I need your whereabouts for last night, from ten until midnight.”

“Well, let’s see.” He scrolled through his book, searching with shadowed eyes. “I watched Valerie’s media conference, she did one via holo with the West Coast last night. It was booked from nine to ten. We reviewed that, then spent considerable time working on how to handle the situation.”

“There’s that word again.”

“Sorry?”

“Go on.”

“We discussed a memorial, here at the studio, and holding another on the Coast.” He sat back, swiveling in the chair. “We covered a lot of ground, how to respond, which specific interviews to accept or assign. It was a very full day as I’d worked with Roundtree and some associates earlier on what editing and amendments needed to be done on the script and the vid already shot. I think Valerie and I stayed at it until about one in the morning. Right now, I’m living on coffee and boosters.”

“Valerie stayed in the guest quarters in your New York residence.”

“We worked late, and wanted to get back at it early this morning.”

“While you were working late did you decide how to handle the media regarding Marlo and Matthew’s relationship?”

“You mean Marlo and Julian.”

“No, I don’t.” She stood up. “Thanks for your time.” She paused on her way to the door. “I meant to ask. Do you keep a car, a vehicle of some kind in the city?”

“I have a car, yes, but most often use our car service and driver so I can work more easily coming and going. Why?”

“Just curious.”

She stepped out.

Roundtree and Connie both had a vehicle, as did Steinburger. Easy enough to check rentals on the others.

She reconnected with Peabody. “We’ll take Asner’s apartment next. What did you get?”

“No alibi for Andi or Julian. Both of them claimed they stayed in, keeping a low profile due to the media hunt. Andi spoke with her husband, but that was about nine in the evening. He’s heading in to New York today so she won’t be alone. Julian admitted—or claimed—he had a bottle of wine, took a tranq with it. He remembered he contacted several friends back home during the evening, but doesn’t remember who or when, due to wine and tranq. And that he dropped his ’link, broke it, and threw it in the recycler.”

“Convenient.”

“Yeah. And you?”

“A lot of calm and compassion from Connie, which seems genuine, but again. A lot of pissed off from Roundtree, and surprise that again seemed genuine re the two Ms. Connie knew. Marlo confessed all to her yesterday. The Roundtrees have two vehicles in New York, and were in separate areas of the house during the time in question.”

“No alibi.”

“No.Valerie and Steinburger state they worked together until one. Their stories match. And real neatly, too.”

“Oh-oh.”

“She bunked in his guest quarters, for efficiency.”

“And another oh-oh.”

“He also keeps a vehicle in New York. But most interesting to me was learning they both should stick with their jobs and not try acting. They suck at it. Valerie’s plugged in like a valve in a heart, and yet she pretended she didn’t know anything about the two lovebirds and kissy-face. I might’ve bought that if she hadn’t been so crappy at lying to me. And if she knew, Steinburger knew—and vice versa. But he also opted to lie, then didn’t even bother to demand what the fuck. He just let it slide away.”

“The third oh-oh might be the charm.”

“Just might. Let’s see if Asner’s apartment has anything to tell us.”