Celebrity in Death

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 drinking 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.”

“I bet. Where did you get the pills?”

“I swear to God, I didn’t take any pills. I just had a couple glasses of wine.”

“Where did you get the wine?”

“Joel brought it over last night. He knew I was … upset. We only had one glass each. I’ve been drinking too much since … you know. I drink too much, I guess, when I’m upset.”

“So Joel brought you the bottle of wine, but you didn’t finish it last night.”

“Just one glass each. And it was fine. Just fine. I don’t know why it made me so sick tonight. I guess, maybe, I caught a bug or something.”

“You nearly caught an OD. The wine was full of Somnipoton.”

“Sleeping pills? No, I didn’t take any pills. I told the MTs. I didn’t take any medication.” Agitated, he tried to sit up straighter. “I have some of my own sleeping pills—Delorix—but I didn’t take any. I don’t think.”

He rubbed a hand up and down his throat, closed his shadowed eyes. “I don’t think I did,” he repeated. “I don’t remember taking any. Things get mixed up when I drink too much.”

“The sleeping pills were K.T. Harris’s prescription. The empty bottle was in with the other wine bottles.”

His brow furrowed in a combination of puzzlement and pain. “That doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t take her pills … did I? Why is this happening?”

“You talked to Joel tonight before you came back here. What did you talk about?”

He looked away. “I was upset. I’ve been upset, and I can’t think straight when I’m upset. He said I should come back, have some of the wine he gave me, take a whirlpool. Relax.”

“He said, specifically? For you to drink the wine he gave you?”

“Yes. It’s a nice wine, and I promised him I’d have a couple of glasses. I’d have a glass of wine while I relaxed in the tub, but I just didn’t have the energy for the tub, so—”

“If you had, you’d have drowned just like K.T.”

“I don’t understand, not any of this. I guess I’m being punished.” He let out a shaky breath. “I told Roarke.”

“What did you tell Roarke?”

“That I killed K.T.”

“Julian, are you confessing to the murder of K.T. Harris?”

“I didn’t murder her. I didn’t, but …” He let out a breath again, but this time it was an exhalation of relief. “I killed her.”

“How?”

He stared at Eve with red-rimmed eyes dull against the gray cast of his skin. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? How do you know you killed her?”

“Because I knocked her down. I didn’t mean to, but she pushed me, and I pushed her. Not hard, but I shouldn’t have. I never put my hands on a woman in violence. Never. Never.”

He had to stop, squeeze his eyes shut a moment while he calmed his breathing. “There’s no excuse. I know that. Drinking’s not an excuse, being upset isn’t an excuse. But she was screaming at me, and she shoved me, and without thinking, I pushed her back. She slipped, and she fell back and hit her head.”

“Back up a little, okay? You went up to the roof with K.T. Harris on the night of her death?”

“Yes. I should have told you, but Joel …”

“Joel Steinburger told you not to tell the police. You told him what happened, and he advised you to lie to the police.”

“He was just trying to help me. Protect me. It was an accident. I got drunk—after dinner. It was such an ugly thing she said. And she got me aside after. I told you about those two girls, from the club. I didn’t know they were underage. She said she was going public with all of it if I didn’t …”

“What?”

“She said to meet her up on the roof, and she’d tell me what I had to do. I shouldn’t have gone up. I wish I hadn’t, but I was goddamn sick of her threatening me. Everyone. So I did.”

“Was the dome to the pool open or closed?”

“What? Ah, closed. I remember that. I can remember that because she was smoking—a lot, and it was too warm under the dome. I thought about having a toke, to tell you the truth. But all I had to do was stand there and breathe.”

“Why didn’t you open the dome, get some air?”

“I … I didn’t think of it, but I don’t know how anyway. I was so pissed off. She said I had to get Marlo in my trailer. I was supposed to give her a drink, and it would have some Rabbit in it so she’d want to have sex with me. I said I wouldn’t. I’d never do that to Marlo—to anyone. But Marlo, she trusts me. We’re friends. Jesus, Jesus.”

He passed a shaky hand over his face. “I’d never slip any woman Rabbit, but especially a friend. It just made me so mad when she said that’s what I had to do. How could she want anybody to do that?”

“You told her no.”

“I told her to go to hell. I think. It’s all mixed up, but I know we yelled at each other. I think I said some really hard things to her, and she slapped me, then she shoved me. I shoved her back, and she fell. The strap of her shoe, I think the strap of her shoe broke and she fell. There was blood, and I couldn’t wake her up. I got so scared. I was going to run down and get help, call an ambulance, or something.”

“Is that what you did?”

“I started to, then Joel said …” He rubbed at his face, hard this time, as if to scrub the memories to the surface. “It’s all mixed up. He said not to worry. It would be fine, but then he said she must’ve gotten up, or tried, and fell into the pool. And she drowned. He said it wasn’t my fault, but you’d say it was, because busting a celebrity for killing a celebrity made you a celebrity. And I’d go to prison, even though it was an accident. I’d lose everything and go to prison forever.”

“Listen to me. Look at me.”

He met her eyes, pressed his lips together. “Am I under arrest?”

“I could arrest you right now, starting with obstruction of justice. K.T. didn’t get up and fall into the pool. She was dragged in while she was unconscious.”

“I didn’t do that.” His breath began to hitch and tear. “No. I didn’t do that. I couldn’t have. I know I was mad, and I was drunk, but … I couldn’t have done that. I don’t remember. I was going to get help.”

“You got Joel.”

“I don’t know. Did I? No. That’s what’s so mixed up because I didn’t go get him. He was there, and he said he’d take care of it. Then you said she was dead. I didn’t drown her. I couldn’t have done that to her. I never hurt women. I shouldn’t have pushed her. I’d never have pushed her if I hadn’t been drinking, if she hadn’t said those things about Marlo. But I’d never have put her in the water. It was an accident.”

“No, it was murder. But you didn’t kill her, Julian. Joel did.”

“That’s crazy. Please, it had to be an accident.”

“It was murder. And if Nadine hadn’t come, he’d have killed you tonight, setting you up to take the fall for him.”

“Not Joel. You’re wrong.”

“I’m right. Tell me, was he ever alone last night, out there? Did he ask you to get him something out of another part of the suite? After you both poured that one glass of wine.”

“He wanted to see the pages for the scene we were doing today. I keep them in the bedroom. I always read the pages one more time, last thing.”

“And that gave him the time to add the pills to the wine, plant the bottle, even put the bottle away so you wouldn’t be tempted to have more until he had a solid alibi.”

“He made me promise not to drink any more last night. But … no.”

But she saw it begin to sink in.

“It all got tangled. What I thought happened, pieces I remembered, what he said happened. It didn’t fit right, but he said … He was just there, when I ran out of the dome, to the lounge. I told him what happened. He said … he’d take care of it. Not to tell anyone. Not to spoil the evening for the others. He killed her. He was going to kill me. Why? Why?”

“It’s kind of his hobby.” She looked over as Nadine opened the door.

“Can he have a break? Some food?”

“Yeah. We’re done for now.”

“Joel,” Julian said quietly, staring hard at his own hands. “Joel. He’s almost like a dad. He let me think I killed K.T. He let me think I did that. And it made me sick to think I had. Am I going to be arrested?”

“No. But don’t lie to me again.” She walked over to Nadine. “First, contact the house doctor—or if you want to call in a favor, tag Louise. He should have a doctor look him over.”

“I already tagged Louise.”

“Okay. Second. He’s going to talk to you, and you’re going to get fodder for that book you’re thinking about. Keep it under wraps while I go nail this fucker closed. But you can leak—in, say, thirty minutes—that Joel Steinburger’s been arrested.”

Eve walked out. “Peabody, with me. You, too,” she said to Roarke, “if you want to.”

“Always.”

“I bet Steinburger’s having brandy and dessert about now. Let’s go spoil his after-dinner liqueur.”

Since Roarke owned the place, with all its raw brick, deep wood paneling, and dark red leather, Eve knew she didn’t have to badge her way in.

She just wanted to. Wanted to cause the sort of scene that drew an audience and tipped tags to the media. She glanced at her wrist unit. Nadine had a five-minute head start.

She’d earned it.

“Sir.” Spotting Roarke, the maître d’ sprang to attention. “I’ll have a table ready in just a moment.”

“Joel Steinburger.” Eve held up her badge.

“Of course. Mr. Steinburger and Mr. Delacora are enjoying dessert. I’ll show you to their booth.”

Eve had already spotted him—a rear corner, facing out. See and be seen, she thought. He swirled brandy, an important and satisfied look on his face as he spoke with his wiry, wild-maned companion.

“I see him.” Ignoring the maître d’, she crossed the restaurant.

Steinburger’s expression changed when he saw her approach. The furrowed brow, she thought, a mix of annoyance and concern. Then the polite resignation as he set down the brandy, started to rise.

“Lieutenant. Nick, this is the genuine article. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Nicholas Delacora.”

“A pleasure,” Delacora began.

“It’s probably not going to be. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Has there been an arrest?” Steinburger asked.

“Funny you should ask. Joel Steinburger, you’re under arrest for the murder of K.T. Harris, for the murder of A. A. Asner,” she continued, spinning him around, yanking his hands behind his back as he blustered. “And the attempted murder of Julian Cross. He didn’t die,” she added.

Dishes clattered; the murmur of conversation turned to a buzz.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Oh, and we’ve got more.” She cuffed him. “A lot more. Hope you ate hearty, Joel, because you won’t be dining in style for the rest of your life. You have the right to remain silent,” she began, and reeled off the Revised Miranda while diners gaped. “Officers.”

The uniforms she’d called in took Steinburger by both arms. “Book him, Peabody. Additional charges to come.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“I’ll be along shortly.”

She enjoyed, a great deal, watching the cops perp-walk Steinburger out.

“Sorry about dessert,” she said to Delacora. “It looks good, too.”

“Is this a joke?” he demanded.

“No. It really does look good.” She frowned when she saw Roarke talking to the maître d’, walked to him. “Look, I’m sorry if arresting a murderer puts people off their dinner, but—”

“On the contrary, I think it stirred some appetites. Including mine. I’m hungry and I’m not risking food poisoning from Central’s vending machines.”

“I don’t have time to sit down to a fancy dinner.”

“We’re getting it delivered.”

“Oh.” She angled her head. “Good idea.”