Celebrity in Death

7

“Start a deeper run on the vic,” Eve ordered as she and Peabody rode the elevator in Cop Central. “Let’s see if we can find any other connection between her and the other people at Roundtree’s last night, including staff and catering.”

“On that.”

When they stepped off, Eve spotted two of her detectives huddled at Vending outside the bullpen.

Carmichael, her hair twisted up and secured to the back of her head by some sort of clamp, turned. “LT.”

“Detectives.”

“Sanchez here is running down our choices of liquid refreshment.”

“I merely pointed out that the lemon fizzy sold here contains no actual lemons. If you want actual lemons in a fizzy, you go to the deli around the corner. They make theirs on site.”

“And my contention is, the body’s full of chemicals anyway. Why not add more?”

“Fascinating.”

“Well, we’re after some liquid refreshment before we haul in a bunch of lowlifes,” Carmichael told her. “We caught one last night. A couple of bangers went out in that illegals stall disguised as a basketball court on Avenue B. One guy’s dead on scene with a lot of holes in him. The other was still breathing, got holes, and also had his head bashed in with an old iron post—which had his blood, skin on it, but no prints.”

“More interesting than lemons,” Eve decided.

“Since the bashed-in guy croaked this morning, we’ve got a double, that maybe looks at first glance like the two DBs just DB’d each other.”

“But since the DB with just holes didn’t have gloves, wasn’t sealed, and was really completely DOS,” Sanchez added, “it’s hard to buy he wiped his prints off the iron post before he became dead. Plus the ME didn’t find any cloth, rag, or handy shirt inside the DB on the off chance he wiped and ate, and we didn’t find anything that could have done said wiping on scene. We conclude a third party did the bashing and wiping.”

Sanchez was fairly new to her division, but Eve liked his style. “At this point, I would be inclined to agree with that conclusion.”

“So we’re going to haul a bunch of bangers known to associate with both vics, which means a long day of bullshit.”

“Hence the desire for liquid refreshment prior to,” Sanchez finished.

“Hence. Was the iron pipe from the scene?”

“A few of them lying around,” Carmichael confirmed. “Used to be a fence.”

“Look for an initiate, younger banger wannabe or a girlfriend who’s not a full combat member. Another banger would more likely use a sticker. Pipe’s a weapon of opportunity, and any self-respecting banger wants to cut, not bash.”

“Good point.” Carmichael nodded. “And potentially less bullshit.”

“I’m still not drinking fake lemons.”

“There’s a deli on Avenue B that still does genuine egg creams,” Eve told them. “Cost you ten, but worth it.”

“I know that place.” Carmichael pointed at Sanchez. “I know where that is.”

“Good. You’re buying.”

They started toward the glide, arguing over who should pick up the tab. It was, in Eve’s mind, a good, solid partnership forming in a short amount of time.

“Now I want an egg cream,” Peabody muttered. “I missed breakfast due to asking if I wanted to be asked and sex.”

“Settle for fake lemons, because you’re not going to Avenue B. Do the run, set up the follow-ups. I’ll put the board and book together.”

She walked through the bullpen, through the familiar sounds and smells—fake sugar, fake fat, fake coffee, real sweat, voices, beeping ’links, humming comps—and into her office.

The message light on her desk ’link flashed like neon on Vegas II. She scowled at it, hit the AutoChef for coffee, then ordered a list of callers without the messages.

Reporters, she thought with mild annoyance as the list ran down. And more reporters. Nadine, of course—twice. She’d have to deal with them, and before much longer. But they’d just have to wait until she set up her board, wrote up her notes.

As she began, she had a low-level urge for that egg cream, which made her think of chocolate, and the candy she’d successfully hidden—again—from the greedy hands of the nefarious Candy Thief.

She glanced toward her rickety visitor’s chair where the candy sat snugly inside—she hoped—the bottom of the seat she’d carefully removed and replaced.

The candy would have to wait, too, she decided.

She finished the board, pinning up both ID and crime scene shots of the victim, ID shots of everyone who’d been at the dinner party, more crime scene photos—the purse, the herbal/zoner butts, broken glass—the sweeper’s initial reports, ME Carter’s reports and results.

She sat at her desk, drank the rest of the coffee while she studied the board.

She’d started on her notes, writing up a time line, when she heard footsteps approaching.

Not Peabody, she thought idly. Peabody had a distinctive clump. This was a purposeful stride.

Whitney, she thought, straightening at her desk seconds before her commander stepped in.

“Dallas.”

“Sir.” She got to her feet, uneasy. Commander Whitney rarely came to her. More rarely came to her office and shut the door as he did now.

“K.T. Harris,” he said.

“Sir. The ME has determined her death a homicide. As I was on scene at the TOD, I was able to interview, with Detectives Peabody and McNab, all individuals also present.”

“Including yourself?”

“I’ll be writing that up, yes, sir. I should have a full report for you shortly.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

He lowered to her visitor’s chair, frowned. “Why in God’s name don’t you requisition a replacement for this? It’s like sitting on bricks.”

She felt weird knowing her commander’s ass was one crappy cushion away from squatting on her candy. “Because nobody sits on bricks for long. Take the desk chair, Commander.”

He waved that away, sat for a moment, studying her board. He had a wide, dark face, lined from years and the weight of command. His hair, cropped short and close to the skull, showed thickening threads of silver.

“We have some areas of complication with this matter.” He nodded toward her flashing ’link. “Media?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yes, you will. That’s one complication. Another is your connection to the victim.”

“I had no connection to the victim.”

“Dallas, you had dinner with the victim shortly before her murder.”

“I had dinner with several people. I met the victim, spoke to her, only once. We had no connection, sir.”

“You had words with her.”

Eve’s face registered nothing, but inside there was a quick flick of surprised annoyance. “She had words, would be more accurate, Commander. The victim had been drinking, was, by all statements taken, a difficult individual. She spoke inappropriately and offensively during dinner, but not to me directly. My response was, I believe, brief and appropriate. And that was the end of it.”

“She was also portraying your partner in a major vid.” He gestured to her board. “Suspects at this time include individuals who are portraying yourself, your husband, other members of this department, other people who are associated with you personally.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The media will take that hay and mix it with manure.” He laid his wide hands on his thighs. “We need to get in front of that. Having you pass the case to another investigator won’t help at this point, and”—he said before she could speak—“could bog down the investigation. But that can’t be ignored,” he added, pointing to her ’link. “We’ll need a clear statement from you, and from Peabody. We’ll hold a media conference this afternoon. And you’ll work with the media liaison on that statement, and on approach to the conference.”

“Sir,” she said, thinking she’d rather be stabbed in the eye with a needle pulled out of that manure-ripened hay.

“Both of us might prefer you and your partner give the case your complete energy and attention, but this is necessary. There are already media reports about bad blood between you and the victim, others playing up the angle of you heading the investigation of the death of the woman playing your partner. All of them grinding up the fact you were at dinner, that you were present when K.T. Harris died. We’ll deal with it, and will continue to deal with it until—as I trust you will—you close the case.”

He rose. “Conference Room One. Now. With Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.”

Goddamn it, she thought as she walked with him to the bullpen, as he peeled off and she called to Peabody. “With me.”

This crap was already slowing down the work.

“What’s up?” Peabody asked.

“Fucking media,” Eve said under her breath. “Fucking media liaison, fucking media conference, fucking statements to same.”

“Oh.” Peabody blew out a breath. “I guess we knew this was coming.”

“Yeah, but I figured I’d have time to finish my prelim report first, get the labs back. Somebody already put it out there I had ‘words’ with the vic.”

“You didn’t, not really. She was just an asshole.”

“Remember that.”

They walked into the conference room. There another board stood, immediately pissing Eve off as she saw her own ID shot beside Marlo’s, Roarke’s beside Julian’s, and right down the line.

The man who completed the board stood tall in a snappy smoke-gray suit. His glossy black hair curled to the nape of his neck. Cuff links glinted silver at his cuffs.

He turned, a stranger to her with a striking face highlighting his mixed-race heritage with mocha cream skin, long, dark eyes tipped at the corners and heavily lashed. When he smiled, his mouth bowed and showed a hint of dimple at the left corner.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” His voice was the same as his skin, rich and creamy. “Detective Peabody.”

“This is Kyung Beaverton,” Whitney told them. “He works with Chief Tibble, who has assigned him to us for the duration of this matter.”

“Kyung, please.” He held out a hand to Eve, then Peabody. “I’m pleased to help you navigate the media maze we expect, and are, in fact, already in. Will you sit?”

Eve ignored the question. “Start by telling me why you’ve got us up there with the suspects.”

“Because the media will, and again, have already done so. It’s annoying, but reality often is. You aren’t she; she is not you, but this connection will be made over and over. So we address it.”

He spread his long-fingered hands. “While you respect the actor portraying you, she is only portraying a reflection, and indeed on a case already investigated and closed. You expect Marlo Durn will continue to portray other characters, fictional and nonfictional, while you will continue to investigate homicides. Your priority, at this time, is the investigation of the unfortunate death of—”

“The ME’s determined homicide,” Whitney told him.

“Ah. The murder of K.T. Harris. You will be pursuing all possible leads in this matter, and can and will not discuss the details of an active investigation.”

“Okay.” Eve relaxed a little. He didn’t seem to be as much of a dick as liaisons she’d dealt with before.

“It’s been reported you argued with the victim prior to her death.”

“That’s inaccurate.”

“Good.” He lifted a finger, wagged it like a teacher at an exceptional pupil. “Excellent, in fact. Please sit. I was able to … requisition the brand of coffee you prefer. We’ll have coffee, and you’ll tell me—exactly—what passed between you and the victim. Detective Peabody, please feel free to add your own thoughts, or anything you overheard said at the table during this byplay.”

“Byplay.” Eve studied Kyung as he programmed coffee for all. “That’s a good one. Quick spin.”

“Good, quick—and plausible—spins are my job. I’m good at my job, Lieutenant, as I know you and your partner are at yours.”

He smiled, winningly. “You don’t, like, even resent all of this. I don’t blame you. You’re not required to like the media maze, which is why you’ll do well to let me guide the direction.”

He smiled again as he set the pot of coffee on the table. “I do like it. We do better at our work if we enjoy it, don’t we?”

No, not a dick, but a manipulator. A smooth one. That she could respect. “Okay, Kyung, here’s how it went.”

She gave him the “byplay” essentially word for word.

“An appropriate response to an inappropriate statement,” Kyung commented. “Was anything else said?”

“Not between us. I figured she had a problem with members of the cast, and that problem was enhanced by her drinking. As I didn’t know she’d end up dead, I didn’t pay much attention to her.”

“She called you a bitch.” Peabody hunched her shoulders when eyes shifted to her. “After everybody started talking again, she muttered ‘bitch’ under her breath. McNab told me later. He was sitting next to her. It pissed him off, but he said he ignored her because he figured you didn’t want any more, um, byplay.”

“He was right. Plus, if somebody doesn’t call me a bitch once a day, I figure I’m not doing my job.”

Kyung smiled at that. “I think you’ll do very well with the media, with just that tone and attitude.”

Eve eyed him. “The liaison usually pushes me to play nice, be diplomatic. And wear lip dye.”

“Different circumstances, different styles.” He merely shrugged. “I believe you should be just as you are, just have responses ready for questions we expect will be asked. And when you’re asked about this incident at dinner—and you will be—you should respond as you did to me. Argument is inaccurate. Ms. Harris made an inappropriate comment to which you casually responded. This byplay was the only time you and Ms. Harris spoke during the evening. If you would say this in a matter-of-fact, unhurried way, then take another question, it should do well enough.”

He lifted his hands, palms up, cuff links glinting. “If the point is pressed, repeat, expand only that you and Ms. Harris had only met twice, briefly, and simply didn’t know each other. At this point you are focused on finding the person responsible for her death. I’ve heard you say in other statements involving murder that the victim belongs to you now. If this feels right and suitable, say that.”

“She does belong to me now.”

“Yes, keep the dialogue on that point, on the investigation insofar as you can discuss it publicly. They will ask, and often, how it feels to investigate the murder of the woman who portrays your partner, who resembles your partner.”

“K.T. Harris was not my partner. She was an actor doing her job. My job is to find out who took her life.”

He smiled again. “I feel a bit superfluous. Is Marlo Durn a suspect?”

“Ms. Durn, as everyone who was present at the time of the murder, was interviewed. She’s been cooperative. It’s too early in the investigation to term anyone specifically as a suspect.”

“How do you feel about questioning, investigating the woman who plays you in The Icove Agenda?”

“Again, she’s not me, but okay, yeah, there’s a thread of strange. Most homicide investigations have a few threads of strange woven in.”

“Don’t you feel this unusual connection may bias you or affect your work?”

“Why would it?”

“Here, I can help.” He pressed his palms together, gestured them forward like in prayer. “If you follow up that natural question with the statement that if you believed the investigation would in any way be affected by the fact the actors in The Icove Agenda are portraying you, your associates, you would not head the investigation.”

“Because I’m standing for K.T. Harris now,” Eve finished. “And identifying the individual who caused her death, bringing that individual to justice is what I’m sworn to do as an officer of the NYPSD. Period. Now fuck off so I can do my job.”

“Perfect. If you’d just think that last part rather than verbalizing it, perfect.” He gave her his big, white-toothed smile. “I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re considered such a difficult assignment by my colleagues.”

“Because most of them are assholes. So far, you’re not.”

“Hopefully that will continue. Now, Detective Peabody, let’s go over potential questions and responses.”

“I have to talk to the media?”

She didn’t squeak it, but came dangerously close.

“Harris played you, you were present at the dinner party, there when Harris was killed. You are second lead on the investigation. It’s best to handle this through this media conference rather than piecemeal.”

Eve watched him coach Peabody. He seemed satisfied with her responses as well, tweaking them here and there, helping her stay brief and on point.

“You’ll be fine,” he decreed. “Let me say the media will continue to squeeze every ounce of juice out of this story, then find a way to make more. Lieutenant, I understand your husband will have his own media team, and that someone in his position knows how to handle the media. But, in this case, I’d like to coordinate with his people.”

“That’s up to him.”

“Yes, but if I tell you my intentions up front, I won’t be an asshole.”

She let out a half laugh. “I’ll get word to him that you’re not one.”

“Appreciated. I’ll be with you both prior to the conference, and through it. If you need anything from me beforehand, I’ll make myself available.” Kyung got to his feet. “Commander Whitney, I’ll get to work.”

“Thank you for your time.” He sat another moment after Kyung went out. “Who are you bringing in for follow-ups?”

“Andrea Smythe, Julian Cross, Matthew Zank. To start, sir,” Eve told him.

He nodded. “Let’s keep it as quiet as possible. Arrange for them to come in through the secured garage. I’ll clear it. Have someone who won’t be starstruck escort them to Interview.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you leaning toward one of them?”

“Not at this time.” Knowing he expected at least a general oral report, she itched to stand. But it seemed awkward. “We’re going to look for any connection between the vic and any of the household staff, the catering crew. But none of the cast members or crew who attended had any liking for the vic, and in general the opposite. That’s often enough motive for murder, particularly when the death appears, as this one, to have been the result of an argument or confrontation. A shove, a fall, a drag and roll into the pool. Alcohol may have been a factor. There was a lot of it. The vic made herself disagreeable, difficult. She caused delays and friction on set, made demands.”

Eve nodded toward the board. “She was, at various times, intimate with both Zank and Cross. Both men volunteered this information. Zank also stated that the victim continued to pursue him after he’d ended the relationship, was violent and obsessively jealous.”

“And Zank’s the one who claims to have found her, pulled her out.”

“Yes, sir, along with Marlo Durn. I believe Zank and Durn are currently engaged in a personal, sexual relationship. If the vic was aware of this, it would have added yet more friction. At TOD, the guests were gathered in Roundtree’s home theater watching what they call a gag reel. We know Harris left the theater during the show as TOD confirms she died during its run. We can’t, as yet, pinpoint who else left the area, joined her on the roof. We do know there was time to leave, get to the roof, kill Harris, and return before the end of the reel.”

She paused a moment. “We’ll dig into backgrounds, prior conflicts, any violent behavior. The initial shove, or fall, that feels impulsive, a moment of temper. But dumping an unconscious woman in the water, that’s a deliberate act, as is walking away while that woman drowns. It may or may not have been calculated, Commander, but it’s cold.”

“And the probability one of the staff had a relationship with her that turned murderous?”

“Very low. It’s going to be one of the cast or crew, one of the people who worked with her, one of the people she pushed, insulted, threatened.”

“Who pushed back.” He got to his feet. “Celebrity murders,” he muttered. “They’ll probably make another goddamn vid.” At Eve’s stunned, slightly horrified expression, he smiled. “You could make book on it,” he said. “Keep me updated. And don’t be late for the media conference.”

“Shit,” Eve said when he’d gone out. “Shit. He could be right.”

“Who’d play me in this one? I mean, it’s really wild, isn’t it? Somebody playing me investigating the murder of somebody who was playing me. And then there’s—”

“Don’t. You’re giving me a headache. Get those runs done.” Eve rubbed the back of her neck as they headed back to the bullpen. Inside, she stopped, scanned the room, considered. “Uniform Carmichael.”

When his head popped around his cube, she gestured. “My office.”

She strode off, texting Roarke to expect a contact by Kyung, and that Kyung wasn’t an asshole.

“Sir?” Uniform Carmichael said, standing in her doorway.

“Are you a vid fan, Carmichael? Do you like watching, keeping up with the Hollywood gossip, reading up on the celebrities?”

“When I have time to watch any screen, I like sports. That’s real action.”

“Right. You’ll do.” She assigned him as escort, ordered him to keep a lid on it, dismissed him.

Happily she transferred all messages from reporters to Kyung, and got back to work.

She’d completed her initial report, including her own statement, had just started a deeper run on Harris when her ’link signaled an incoming text from Roarke.

Not an asshole. From you, glowing praise. Will deal with it.

Satisfied, she leaned back, studied the data on Harris.

Parents divorced, Eve noted, when she’d been thirteen. One sibling, a brother two years her senior. She’d grown up in Nebraska until the divorce. The mother, who’d sued for and had been granted sole custody due to domestic violence, relocated with her children in Iowa.

Eve couldn’t see much difference between Nebraska and Iowa. As far as she was concerned they were both big states with lots of fields, barns, and cows.

She dug a little deeper, scanned some of the police reports, court documents on the domestic violence, frowned over the photographs in evidence of Piper Van Horn—the mother—after her husband Wendall Harris had tuned her up. Also documented was a broken wrist, black eye, minor concussion on then fifteen-year-old Brice Harris—now Van Horn as he’d taken his mother’s name as she had after the divorce. Wendall had done a stint in an Omaha pen, completed anger management and substance abuse courses. Then, Eve saw as she poked a bit more, had died of injuries incurred in a bar fight when Brice had been twenty.

Interesting, Eve thought, that K.T.’d kept her father’s last name. Interesting she appeared to have inherited or chosen—who the hell knew—his bent for pissed-off violence enhanced by too much alcohol.

She scrolled through school records. Average student with some disciplinary issues. No extracurricular activities until the age of fourteen when she’d hooked up with the theater program at her school.

“And look here,” Eve murmured. Harris had racked up a string of DUIs by the time she’d been twenty-two, and had her license revoked. Like father, daughter had completed a substance abuse program.

By eighteen, Harris had left Iowa for New LA. Had a couple brushes in addition to the DUIs for assault—charges dropped in both cases. Another for D&D—fine paid, rehab program completed.

Didn’t take, Eve thought, and remembered the face, the voice, the grief of Piper Van Horn when she’d contacted the woman to tell her K.T. was dead.

The mother grieved, she thought. Most of them did. Not all, but most. Her own hadn’t given the child she’d birthed, abused, and abandoned to a monster a second thought. Hadn’t even recognized her when they’d stood face-to-face.

Doesn’t apply, she reminded herself. Think of the victim. The more she understood the victim, the better chance she had of understanding the killer.

What she saw here was a woman who’d grown up with violence and anger, one who looked to have found escape or pleasure in acting, but who’d continued that anger/violence cycle to her own death.

Why? Eve wondered. And did why matter, really?

She swiveled around to her board. Had the victim known something about one or more of the cast and crew? Something she’d threatened the killer with, some sort of exposure—a career-damaging embarrassment?

Or had she just pushed somebody too hard for too long?

She swiveled back to read an incoming from the lab.

“Dallas?” Peabody stood in the doorway.

“Zoner mixed with the herbals—almost fifty-fifty.”

“Jeez, between that and the wine, she didn’t need the knock on the head to pass out.”

“Pretty sure bet once she went down, she didn’t get back up. Blood trace on the recovered pieces of burned rag. Vic’s blood. Only vic’s DNA on the butts recovered on scene. Drag marks on the heels consistent with skirting material and pattern.”

“That’s pretty quick work.”

“For a change. Let’s keep the zoner on the QT for now, see if anybody mentions that area of her habit.”

“Yes, sir. Carmichael’s bringing Andrea up.”

“Good.” Eve kept her eyes on the data. “Let’s give her a few minutes to settle in.”

One at a time, she told herself. They’d scrape away at some of that Hollywood polish and find out what was under it.

The more she learned about Harris, the less she liked her. But that didn’t make the dead less hers.