Celebrity in Death

3

Dinner turned out to be less formal and more freewheeling than Eve expected. She figured that was Connie’s deal—the menu of plenty, the variety of wine, the spikes and rolls of conversation.

Since she was cornered between Roundtree and Julian, Eve noted the pattern of the seating arrangement plugged what she thought of as actual people beside or across from their true and fake connections. Peabody between Matthew and McNab, Dennis between Mira and Andrea Smythe—who had an appealingly dirty laugh she used often.

Roundtree, a man who obviously enjoyed his life and took his position at the helm as a matter of course, owned an endless supply of stories. She’d heard of most of the people he talked about, but wondered if she should have taken a who’s-who-in-Hollywood primer before the evening.

“I read that you and Roarke met because he was a suspect in a murder.” Julian smiled at her in a way she imagined made a woman feel she had his entire focus and admiration.

Maybe it was even sincere.

“He was a person of interest.”

“It’s romantic.”

“Most people don’t find being a person of interest in a homicide investigation romantic.”

“A man would when the interest is coming from a beautiful investigator. He’s a lucky man.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t do the murder,” Eve said and made Julian laugh.

“I’d say you both are.”

“You’re right.” And she liked him better for saying it.

“How did you become a cop?”

“I graduated from the Police Academy.”

“But why?” He angled toward her, his mostly untouched glass of wine in his hand. “And a murder cop—that’s the term, right? Did you always want to be one?”

Well, hell, it did seem sincere. She eased off the sarcasm. “As long as I can remember.”

“That was Marlo’s take, and how she’s playing you. With that intensity and drive, that cop-to-the-core attitude. I’m trying to bring the same sort of package to Roarke—a man of power, wealth, mystery. Marlo and I agreed, early on, that the two of you are the heart of the story. The center of it.”

“I’d say the Icoves were the center.”

“I think of them more as the guts of it. What was it Marlo said, the cancer in the belly. I think.” He shrugged. “But your love story is the heart.”

“Our—” She found herself tongue-tied between horror and embarrassment.

“That shouldn’t throw you.” Julian laid a hand over hers. “Real love is beautiful. And … elusive, don’t you think?”

“Julian has a romantic’s soul.” Seated between Roundtree and Roarke across the table, Marlo sent Julian a twinkling smile. “But he’s not wrong.”

Julian twinkled right back at her, shifting that you’re-my-world focus on a dime. “Romance makes everything sweeter.”

“And you’ve got a serious sweet tooth,” Marlo countered.

“I do. The love story aspects of the script are my favorite scenes to play.”

“Oh God” was all Eve could manage.

“These two have the chemistry,” Roundtree commented. “They’re going to burn up the screens.”

“Oh God,” Eve repeated, and this time Roarke laughed.

“Steady, Lieutenant.”

“See how he says that.” Obviously delighted, Julian squeezed Eve’s hand before he leaned forward, his gaze riveted on Roarke now. “Lieutenant,” he repeated, giving the word Roarke inflection. “It’s loving and hot and intimate all at the same time.”

“It’s my rank,” Eve muttered.

“He respects your rank. You respect her rank,” he said to Roarke, wound up now, “as much as you love her.”

“Not quite,” Roarke corrected.

“No, you’re right, you’re right, but it’s up there. And you like each other. And the trust. The two of you going down into that secret lab, risking your lives—”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, give the ass-kissing a rest, Julian.” K.T. knocked back a slug of wine, then slapped her glass on the table. She actually snapped her fingers at one of the servers so he would deal with the refill. “Even your mouth ought to be tired of puckering up by now.”

“We’re having a conversation,” Julian began.

“Is that what you call it? You act like you and Marlo are the only ones in this goddamn vid, and the two people you’re trying so hard to mimic are the only ones who count. It’s insulting. So why don’t you give it a fucking rest, set up your threesome with Marlo and Dallas on your own time? Some of us are trying to eat.”

In the beat of horrified silence, Eve studied K.T. down the length of the table. “Peabody?”

“Yes, sir,” Peabody said, shoulders hunched.

“You know how I occasionally mention the possibility of kicking your ass?”

“I’d term that as regularly, but yes, sir, I do.”

“You may get the chance to watch me kick your fake ass while you sit comfortably on your own. That’s an opportunity that doesn’t come around every day.”

“You don’t worry me.” K.T. sneered at her.

“I ought to. Anybody who shows their ass that big in public’s just asking to have it kicked. But maybe it’s better to just leave it hanging out there, all pink and shiny while the grown-ups talk.”

“Well done,” Roarke said when Eve shifted back again, picked up her fork.

Julian grabbed his wineglass, drank deep as conversation circled the table in fits and starts. “I’m sorry.” The instant the server topped off his glass, he drank deep again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay, pal.” Eve tried more of the fancy lobster on her plate. “If you had been Roarke would have kicked your ass already.” She gave Roarke a grin across the table. “Real love’s beautiful, elusive, and mean as a snake.”

“I’ll deal with her,” Roundtree said, and in a cool, flat tone that told Eve he meant it.

“No big. Actually, all this feels less weird now.”

“Can I ask you something?” Marlo leaned toward Eve, kept her voice low.

“Sure.”

“If you decide to kick instead of hang, can I watch, too?”

“The more the merrier.”

After dinner came a buffet of desserts, brandy, liqueurs, coffee, all set up with style in Roundtree’s lower-level theater.

“Hell of a deal here,” Eve commented.

“It is, yes.”

She watched the way Roarke studied the massive screen, the arrangement of thick, cushioned leather chairs, cozy sofas, the lighting, the bar. “I can see the wheels turning.”

“I’ve thought of doing one, but hadn’t decided on design, layout, or location.”

“You just like the really big screen. It’s a man and his dick thing.”

“It may be, and I do enjoy indulging mine.”

“Tell me about it.” Eve glanced around idly. “So where do you think Connie pulled K.T. off to, and how scalded will her pink, shiny ass be when she’s done?”

“Somewhere private, and very. He was hitting on you, however.”

“Reflex, not targeted.”

“Agreed, which is why he lives.”

Nadine, who’d gone with the little black dress and a half dozen ropes of pearls, walked up to tap her brandy snifter to Eve’s coffee cup. “Roundtree promises us an entertaining screen show shortly, but I’m not sure it could live up to the little scene at dinner.”

“Fake Peabody is rude and a moron. I don’t mind rude, but combined with moron makes me want to punch it in the face.”

“You wouldn’t be the first, the last, or the only with that sentiment. Roundtree works with her because despite her rep for being difficult, she delivers. And I’ve seen some of the cuts. She’s nailed Peabody.”

“How long did she and Julian do the nasty?”

“Caught that, did you? Once or twice, and some time ago. Julian’s pretty, has a genuine sweetness, an innate charm. He does his job very well, and will do the nasty with anyone, anytime. He’s a man-slut, but he’s so affable about it.”

“Is this from personal experience?”

“Not so far, and not likely ever. It’s tempting, but just strikes me as too predictable. And he was surprised, but good-natured about the no, thanks.”

Nadine scanned the room with its conversational groups and pockets. “Joel’s pushing a Durn/Cross affair in the publicity machine. It’s classic and never hurts the numbers. Julian, being Julian, would be happy to oblige, plus I think he’s talked himself into being in love with her. Part of his process. It really does come off on-screen.”

“Is this a vid about sex or murder?” Eve demanded.

“Both fuel the machine,” Roarke commented. “It looks like our hostess has finished scolding her rude guest.”

“Fake Peabody doesn’t look repentant,” Eve noted as the two women came into the theater. “She just looks pissed. And adding fuel to that machine,” she added, when K.T. went straight to the bar.

Shrugging, Eve turned away, decided the woman had had enough of her attention.

For the next half hour there was more small talk and schmooze, more food and drink as people circled the room or went out, came in. Eve figured she’d just about hit her limit when Roundtree walked to the front of the room.

“Everybody grab a seat. Dallas and Roarke, right up front here. I’ve put together a short preview of The Icove Agenda for a private screening here tonight. I hope everyone, especially our special guests, enjoy the sampling.”

“Let’s see how we do,” Roarke said, taking Eve’s hand as Roundtree led them toward the front-row seats.

Eve leaned toward Roarke as people shuffled into seats and sofas behind them. “Are we supposed to pretend we don’t hate it if we do?”

“How do you see through those rose-colored glasses?”

He gave her hand a squeeze as the lights dimmed, and the music came up.

She’d give the music a nod, Eve decided. Strong, kind of pulsing and haunting at the same time. The instant she relaxed, Marlo’s face—so like her own—filled the massive screen.

“Record on,” she said. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

The camera panned down, drew back until it held on Marlo and the body in a high-backed desk chair.

“Victim is identified as Wilford B. Icove.”

When she started to crouch down, the body let out an explosive sneeze.

“Bless you,” Marlo said without missing a beat. She looked up as people off camera laughed. “The vic appears to be allergic to death.”

It was silly, Eve thought, but helped her relax again. The screen rolled with gags, flubs, intense moments broken by screwups. Andi, as Mira, blew a line and laughed out a stream of bawdy and inventive curses. Marlo and the actress playing Nadine broke off in mid-dialogue to grab each other in a steamy kiss.

That bit of business got a round of applause from the audience.

Matthew tumbling out of his chair as the comp he worked on as McNab collapsed. Julian mangling a line, switching his accent to Brooklyn.

The audience in the theater responded with laughter, applause, catcalls.

“How do they get anything done if they screw up so much?” Eve wondered.

“That’s why they call it ‘take two,’” Roarke told her.

It looked like plenty of take twos, and threes, and more to Eve. But everybody appeared to have a good time doing it—again and again.

The gag reel ended with the camera once again on Marlo, this time in the long black coat, weapon drawn, a breeze ruffling the short cap of hair. “I’m a cop,” she said, eyes fixed and fierce. And when she flipped back the coat to holster her weapon, she missed, with the stunner bouncing on the ground at her feet.

“Aw, fuck. Not again.”

Roundtree ordered the lights on and stood grinning and stroking his goatee as the applause rolled.

“It wasn’t an easy edit, with the amount of screwups I had to wade through.” He dropped down beside Eve, commanded her attention. “You have to have some fun with it.”

“I’d say you did.”

“I’ll add and edit more. This’ll go on the home disc extras. People love seeing actors screw up, blow lines, fall on their asses.”

“I have to admit, I did.”

“We’re going to have individual interviews with the main cast. I’m not going to push you—that’s Joel’s territory—but I want to add my bit here. It would enhance the home package considerably if you’d do an interview. Both of you, even better.

“I’m willing to stay in New York after we wrap if that’s what it takes, or to come back whenever you can work it in. Think about it. You lived this. I’m going to promise you we’re doing it justice, and I don’t break a promise. But you lived it. Everybody who sees this vid is going to want to hear what you have to say.”

“It’s closed for me.”

“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, and those bright blue eyes were razor-sharp. “I’ve got that much about you. The Icoves were the villains of the piece; the Avrils and the others the victims. And still, victim murdered villain, and you had to pursue that. The victims who survived are out there. There won’t be any more because of what you did, and that’s important. Immensely. But while you ended it, you couldn’t close it. So.” He gave her hand a rough pat. “Think about it.”

“He’s good,” Eve muttered when he pushed up and walked away to sit with Andi.

“And he’s right about it not being closed.”

“When I agreed to cooperate—to a degree—with Nadine on the book I knew it would widen that crack. Part of me wanted to seal it shut, but you can’t. The rest of me thinks it’s good that people know who the real victims were—are—in this. How do I talk about that? It’s not my job to decide guilt and innocence.”

“Not legally, no. But it’s your job to know. And you do.”

Eve huffed out a breath, turned her head to meet Roarke’s eyes. “You’re saying I should do it?”

“I’m saying if you decide to, and have control over what you say, how you say it, it may help you close that internal crack on this for you. It’s not just the publicity from the book that’s kept it in your mind, Eve. You think of it—of them. So do I.”

“Hell. I’ll think about it. Can we get out of here yet?”

“I’d say we could start easing that way.”

Easing was right. Saying good night meant more conversations. She watched, with envy, Mavis and Leonardo escape—the baby as the excuse—even as she and Roarke got snagged again.

Eve calculated another solid twenty minutes before they finally made it to the main floor where Julian sprawled on one of the sofas in the living area.

“I was afraid of that.” Connie sighed. “He was well on his way to a good drunk by the end of dinner.”

“He hit the wine pretty hard,” Eve confirmed.

“He was embarrassed by K.T. at dinner. Julian tends to drown embarrassment and upset. I’d apologize for her behavior again, but, well, she is what she is.”

“No problem,” Eve assured her.

“We can see that he gets home safely,” Roarke told her.

“Thanks.” Connie gave the sleeping Julian a look of motherly indulgence. “But I think we’ll just leave him there to sleep it off. No point dragging him out to his hotel. Just let me get your fabulous coat.”

“And the resemblance continues to diverge,” Eve said quietly. “You can hold your liquor better, and I’ve yet to see you curl up hugging a pillow like it’s a teddy bear.”

“And hopefully never will.”

“I absolutely love this,” Connie said as she came back carrying Eve’s coat.

Just as Eve saw the first real glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, Matthew Zank, dripping wet, came bolting out of the elevator. Marlo, pale as wax, stumbled out in his wake.

“On the roof. On the roof. It’s K.T. It’s—she’s on the roof.”

“I think she’s dead.” Marlo sat down on the floor, eyes fixed on Eve. “She’s dead. She’s dead up there. You have to come.”

“Stay down here.” She rounded on Connie. “Don’t let anyone leave until I check this out.”

“I—no—it must be a mistake,” Connie began.

“Maybe. Just keep everybody here.”

With Roarke, she stepped into the elevator. “Are you fucking kidding me?” was her first comment.

“Roof level,” Roarke ordered. “Maybe she passed out drunk like Julian.”

“Let’s hope, because it annoys the shit out of me to investigate a death at a dinner party where I’m a guest.”

“It doesn’t happen often.”

“Once is plenty.”

They stepped out into a lounge—another fire simmering, low sofas plumped with pillows, a mirrored bar with an open bottle of wine sitting on it.

The glass doors to the roof terrace whispered open at their approach. When they stepped across the terrace, through another set of auto-doors, the scent of night and flowers filled the lap pool dome.

She felt a flutter of breeze, glanced up.

“Dome’s open a little,” she noted, and wondered if it had been that way all evening.

Drenched, K.T. lay faceup beside the sparkling blue water of the lap pool. The staring eyes were Peabody-brown, and gave Eve a hard moment.

She crouched to check for a pulse. “Shit. Not only dead, but going cold. He pulled her out. Or he pushed her in, drowned her, then pulled her out. Either way, he moved the damn body. Shit!”

“She looks too much like our girl at the moment.”

“But she’s not. You’d better go get our girl, and a field kit if you’ve got one.”

“In the limo.”

“Good. Tell McNab to secure the house—nobody leaves—and to find out if there’s any security running up here. Don’t let anybody but Peabody come up.”

“All right.” He looked at the body a moment longer. “A bad end to the evening.”

“It sure was for her.”

As Roarke went down, Eve took her communicator out of her stupid little purse and called in a suspicious death. Then fixed her recorder on the narrow strap of her party dress.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on record,” she began.

Broken glass, she noted, and a puddle of red wine, likely from the bottle open on the bar inside.

“The victim is visually ID’d as K.T. Harris.”

She filled in details for the record: the location, the reason for the victim’s presence, the names—including her own and Roarke’s—of the other people in attendance.

“Broken glass and spilled wine here. I observed an open bottle of wine inside the attached lounge.” She stepped to the side, noted a topless pedestal. “Six herbal cigarette butts in this receptacle. The victim’s purse is on the table here, opened.”

She crouched, careful not to touch until she could seal up. “I see lip dye, a small black case, an undetermined amount of cash, and a key card. The victim is wearing the dress she had on all evening as well as the jewelry, the wrist unit. Her left shoe is in place, bunged up on the heel. I see the right one at the bottom of the pool.”

She turned, deliberately blocking the body when she heard Peabody come out.

“If you can’t handle this, I need to know. It’s understandable. It’s acceptable.”

“I didn’t drink that much. I was too nervous and excited. But I took a Sober-Up anyway.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Peabody moistened her lips, and the girls-on-display quivered a little. “I can handle it.”

Saying nothing, Eve stepped aside.

“Oh …” Peabody’s eyes went wide, a little glassy. “’Kay. Maybe I need a minute.”

“Take what you need. Go inside, tag the bottle of wine on the bar. Roarke’s bringing up a field kit. We need to seal up before we get started. I called it in. We’ll have some uniforms to secure the area.”

“Got it.” Peabody stepped back inside.

One scenario, Eve thought, as she studied the scene, the body: Harris comes up to smoke, drink, stew. Slips, thanks to drinking and the mile-high heels, takes a header into the pool and drowns. A simple, stupid accident.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

“Could be an accident,” she said when Peabody came out again. “Too much to drink, risky shoes, oops. The water’s only about three feet deep. She goes in hard, hits her head.”

“She was knocking them back steady during dinner.”

“So, maybe an accident. Take a look around outside the pool dome, see if you can find anything that indicates she had company up here.”

“Okay, but I’m fine now.”

“Good.” She nodded as Roarke walked out with the field kit. “Seal up, see what you can find.”

Eve opened the field kit. “What’s the temperature down below?” she asked Roarke.

“McNab’s got it under control. He has everyone, including staff, in the living area. He said unless you wanted it otherwise, he’d shift the staff to the kitchen once the uniforms arrive.”

“That works. Vic is confirmed as K.T. Harris,” she said for the record when she pressed the woman’s thumb to her print pad. “Caucasian female, age twenty-seven—got a couple years on Peabody.”

“You’re looking for differences.”

Eve shrugged. “Being dead’s a big difference. TOD twenty-three hundred.” She frowned at her wrist unit. “That would be shortly after the screen show started, I think. People were going in and out before and after. We talked to Roundtree awhile right after, but I wasn’t paying attention to the time.”

She closed her eyes a minute, took herself back. “He put us up front. I don’t remember seeing her after we sat down.”

“She was in the back. I noticed because I intended to avoid her, or see that you did.”

“Our backs were to the room. She could’ve left, come up here after it started. No blood visible.” She took her sealed hands over the head. “Feels like a knot back here, a small laceration.”

She reached in the kit for microgoggles just as McNab came out.

“Four uniforms reported, Lieutenant. I had them …”

He trailed off with every ounce of color leaking out of his face as his eyes tracked over the body. “Jesus. Jesus.”

“She’s older,” Eve said matter-of-factly. “Her bottom lip is thinner, her eyes are rounder. Her feet are longer, narrower.”

“What?”

“The victim is K.T. Harris, twenty-seven, actress.”

“There are some glasses, napkins, on a table in a garden alcove,” Peabody began as she strode back. “I tagged them for the sweepers.”

“Dee.” McNab grabbed her hand.

Peabody gave a little yelp. Eve figured he must have crushed bone against bone before he just pulled her against him, pressed his face to her hair.

“What the—oh. I know. It gave me a major jitter, too. I’m all good. See.” She gave his ass a quick squeeze—something Eve decided, given the circumstances, to ignore.

“McNab, status.” Eve pushed to her feet, and once again angled herself to block the body. “Detective McNab, give me the status.”

“Sir.” He could have passed for a corpse himself under the moody blue lights.

“Eyes on me,” Eve snapped. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Report.”

“We took the staff—household and the outside catering team—into the kitchen. The rest are in the living area. Two uniforms on each group. They’re asking a lot of questions. Except for Cross. He’s still passed out, and I thought it best to just leave him that way until you advised otherwise.”

“Good enough. Go down, send one of the uniforms on the staff up here to secure this area. You replace him, and start getting names, contacts, and statements. How many have we got?”

“Three household staff on duty tonight, ten catering staff.”

“Okay. Peabody, give him a hand with that. What about security up here?”

“I asked Roundtree. They don’t have cams up here. Security cams on the entrances, but nothing internal or here on the roof.”

“That’s too bad. We’ll want to review what they’ve got, eliminate any possibility of an intruder. Let’s use the dining area for interviewing the owners and guests. Go ahead and get Matthew Zank in there—alone. I’m right behind you.”

Eve waited until they’d gone, with Peabody slipping her hand back in his. “It’s not going to turn out simple.”

“No?”

“It could be an accident. Except the shoe she’s still wearing is scraped up on the back of the heel. And a slight bruise on her right cheekbone.”

“You think she was dragged in?”

“I think it’s possible she was dragged, then rolled in. Or she could’ve scraped it up, bruised her face in a fall.”

“You don’t think so,” Roarke observed.

“No, it looks like drag marks. It looks like her face bumped against the pool coping on a roll. But even if it was an accident, we’ve got a corpse that looks uncomfortably like one of the investigators, a houseful of Hollywood—along with a reporter—and a media machine that’s going to eat it like gooey chocolate.”

“And the primary investigator is the star of the show.”

Eve shook her head, glanced back at the body. “Right now I’d say she has top billing.”

Downstairs she asked Roarke to do a quick review of the security discs, then walked into the living area. Everyone started talking at once.

“Stop. Sit. I’m not going to be able to answer any questions at this time, so don’t waste your breath. I can confirm K.T. Harris is dead.”

“Oh God.” Connie put her hands over her face.

“Until the ME examines the body I can’t give you any more than that. I’ll be talking to each of you individually.”

Andrea held a shot glass. She tossed back the contents, eyed Eve with steady interest. “We’re suspects.”

“I’ll be talking to you,” Eve repeated. “Doctor Mira, if I could have a moment.”

“Of course.”

Mira rose from her position on a sofa, followed Eve out of the room.

“What’s your take? Just a quick thumbnail of reactions.”

“Is it homicide?”

“I can’t tell you. Really can’t. It has earmarks of an accident—or. So until that’s determined, we’ll proceed as if it’s or. What’s your take?”

“Individually and as a group, they’re upset, nervous. Connie’s managed to hold on to her role as hostess. Roundtree had her, and everyone else, half convinced Harris had just passed out like Julian. The producer and the publicist huddled together awhile. He wasn’t happy—well, several weren’t—when McNab confiscated all ’links. But no one caused any trouble. Matthew and Marlo were the most shaken, but as they found her, that’s to be expected.”

“Maybe you could sit in on the interviews, at least for now.”

“If you think I can help.”

“It’s a weird, fucked-up situation. You’re a shrink. That’s your area. Weird and fucked up, right?”

The tension on Mira’s face dissolved with her laugh. “I suppose it is.”