She took a slug of wine and repeated, “That galls.”

  “That’s your take on all this?” Eve wondered. “You’ll have to say sweet things about a woman you dislike so you don’t look bad?”

  “That’s the reality of my position, and the blueprint for my public statements and behavior.” She curled up her legs. “I didn’t wish him dead. I could wish his career dead, wish him caught with his pants around his ankles and his cock in some ingenue. That won’t happen now. I didn’t want him, if that’s what you’re wondering. Good God, look at Rico. Half Brant’s talent, yes, but that body, that face. And the glory of youth. I didn’t want him,” she repeated, “but I hated she did. And the son of a bitch loved her.”

  “And she him?”

  “Eliza discards what she doesn’t want, and why not? Why keep what doesn’t work? The bitch loved him. She may have snagged him to slap at me—I’ll never know for certain—but she’d have used him up, tossed him back if she didn’t want him. I’m not an idiot, Lieutenant. And I observe. Good actors do, just as I imagine good cops do. They loved each other. It burned my ass, but they loved each other.”

  “You were standing beside him when he drank the poison. You had an incident in your history you held on to like a lifeline. That’s motive and opportunity.”

  “I didn’t want him dead,” she said flatly. “I’ll cut you, or anyone, to bloody ribbons with my tongue given the motive and opportunity. I’ll feed the gossip sheets nasty tidbits to humiliate you. They have to be true—I don’t lie because lies come back to bite you. And I once punched a director who thought I wanted a part bad enough to let him grope under my skirt. He threatened to have me fired and arrested for assault. I threatened to rip my shirt and scream rape.”

  She smiled, thinly, at the memory.

  “I kept the part; he didn’t try anything again. And a year later, when the opportunity arose, I tossed out some nasty tidbits. I hadn’t been the first, or the last, you see. It ruined him, made him a pariah. That’s how I pay back.”

  She hissed out a breath. “But for his lapse in preferring Eliza, Brant was a decent man. I didn’t want him dead. In fact, my agent just started negotiations with Brant’s production company. They sent us a script a couple weeks ago. A rom-com, with teeth, and a damn good part. My agent was smart enough to send me the script without telling me where it came from. Or I’d have said fuck no without reading it—a mistake.”

  “You were considering playing opposite Brant in a vid?”

  “No, but God, that would’ve been delicious!” Her face actually lit up at the idea of it. “No, he’d produce. They’d already cast the male lead.”

  “Did Eliza know?”

  “I’m sure she did. Or if not, he’d have told her when I contracted.”

  “How does she feel about you?”

  “Smug.” This time she guzzled wine. “Bitch. Look, as of tomorrow, I’m going to have to say nothing but lovely things about both of them. My assistant’s already sent out a statement doing just that, and I’ll have to come up with those sweet things. No more subtle little jabs—and I’m so damn good at them. And the hell of it is, I’m sorry, deeply sorry, on a personal level he’s dead. I’m angry, deeply, someone took his life. Believe it or don’t, and you can tangle with my lawyers if you keep pushing.”

  “You were standing next to him.” Eve held up a hand when Vera snarled. “And you were close to him—an embrace close—after he came from the terrace with the drink. Who else was? You observe,” Eve reminded her. “Tell me what you observed. Start with Brant coming in from the terrace with the drink.”

  “Oh.” Shifting, Vera sipped more wine and looked, for the first time, engaged. “All right. I saw him with Lin at the terrace bar. Rico and I were chatting with Tessa, Tessa’s wife, and … Kurtis Walter—he’s with Stage and Screen. I saw Brant was directing, as he does, how the bartender should make what was clearly a champagne cocktail. Eliza’s drink.”

  She ran a hand over her hair as if it would help her think.

  “As I recall, I’d seen Eliza and Sylvie back near the foyer. I suppose Eliza was taking a break from mingling, or they may have had something to discuss. Obviously, Brant would have to cross the entire room to take her the drink, so wanting a moment, I drew Rico away a bit as Brant and Lin came inside.”

  “Positioned yourself,” Eve commented.

  “Yes, exactly. So I greeted Brant with an embrace. Long enough for photos if any of the entertainment media around grabbed the shot. And close enough to remind him why he used to call me the Bod.”

  She smiled a little. “I keep in shape, Lieutenant. And these?” She gave her breasts a light tap. “One hundred percent real. He told me I looked amazing, as always—which was true. I said something about a lovely party, introduced him to Rico. Rico’s a serious fan, and actually said so. Brant told us to enjoy the party, said he’d find us again, but wanted to take Eliza her drink.”

  “He said that—‘her drink’?”

  “Yes. He moved on. I was careful not to watch. Others observe, too, and if I’d watched him move on, that would be remarked on. Rico got us both fresh drinks as one of the servers passed. We mingled a bit, there was Dirk Russell. He directed the pilot for my series, and directed Brant’s Oscar-nominated vid—the one your vid won.”

  “It’s not my vid.”

  “Now, now, credit where it’s due. They could hardly have made it without you. In any case, we talked to him and his date—who turned out to be his daughter—and with Cosmo, Cosmo Wise.”

  “I really like his vids,” Peabody commented.

  Vera smiled, genuinely. “He’s charming—and I don’t say that unless it’s true. He and Brant have been friends for years. He played my love interest in—”

  “Do Over,” Peabody supplied. “It was so much fun.”

  “And nearly as much to make.” She shifted again, obviously pleased. “He played Eliza’s in…”

  Peabody laughed. “Can’t Dance. But he can!”

  “He can. I introduced him and his almost as charming wife of twenty years or more to Rico. Then he called over another couple. Ah, yes, Malcomb and … something. Sable, Foxy…”

  “Minx.”

  “Yes! Malcomb Furrier, often of Caine and Furrier. He’s a lyricist. And the woman—Minx—is choreographer on Eliza’s revival. And it turned out she worked with Cosmo on Class Reunion on Broadway a couple of years ago, so we all chatted away. I genuinely enjoyed myself. Then Eliza drags the girl—Samantha—to the piano. Now I’m stuck, basically front row center, because if I’d tried to slip away—”

  “It would’ve been remarked upon,” Eve finished.

  “You bet your ass it would. Eliza’s introducing the girl. ‘For those of you who don’t know Samantha Keene, my stage daughter, believe me, you will. And we’re going to give everyone a taste of what they expect this fall in the twenty-five-year—where did the time go?—revival of Upstage.’

  “Applause, applause. They started a duet, and I’ll say the girl has strong pipes and presence. Brant made his way forward—and the crowd made way for him. Then—”

  “Who stood where?”

  “Ah … God. Rico, myself … I think Minx beside me with Malcomb just behind her. He’s a tall one, Malcomb, and she’s petite. Then Brant. I think, yes, another girl—young, sort of slid in—two of them. I don’t know them. But Tessa was on Brant’s other side, and Cosmo—another tall one—shifted back so the young girls could see, and—I’m not sure, honestly. I know the group of us who’d been chatting more or less spread out, like an audience in a theater.”

  She shrugged, polished off the wine. “Most came in from the terrace to stand to the back and side of the piano, more crowded in from the dining area. I couldn’t say who was behind us. Then.”

  She looked down at her empty glass. “Brant lifted the flute—Eliza’s drink—like a toast. His right hand lifted, his left on his heart. Then he drank it. I know he stepped back, which surprised me. Glass shattered, somebody screamed. I looked behind me, but I didn’t see Brant at first. There were too many people crowded in, and more screams, shouts. The one who said he was a doctor pushed through, and then I saw Brant on the floor.”

  She touched fingertips to her mouth, briefly.

  “Eliza shoved past me and dropped down with him. He seemed to be choking, then convulsing. Then he was dead. It was so fast.”

  Lifting her hand, she rubbed the center of her forehead. “I suppose you’ve seen someone die before.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hadn’t. We act death scenes. Rehearse them, stage them, do countless takes of them. But it’s nothing like reality. I know that now.”

  “What else did you observe? Did you notice anyone around him who seemed off?”

  “My powers of observation dimmed considerably. I saw Brant, and the doctor—he had blood on his hand. Shattered glass. Eliza holding Brant. It was chaotic. I think … the doctor tried to do CPR. Eliza wouldn’t let go of Brant, but he did that…”

  He pumped downward with her hands.

  “It was Lin, I think, who finally pulled her away when the medical team got there. And the police soon after. I didn’t see that, actually, but heard it. Rico pulled me out onto the terrace. Made me sit down, got me something from the bar. Brandy. Yes, brandy. He stayed with me. He’s a hound, that’s part of his appeal, but he stayed with me and held my hand.”

  She let her head fall back against the cushions, closed her eyes. “So. Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Vera opened her eyes, smiled. “You’re a hard case.”

  “It takes one, they say.”

  “They do. I don’t like Eliza. And I resent not being able to stop myself from feeling sorry for her. I hope to get over that very soon.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Eve stood. “Would you consider Eliza a colleague or a competitor?”

  “That’s a clever question, so here’s a clever answer. We’re competitive colleagues. She has her Tonys and Grammys—I don’t. We each have an Oscar. But I have two Emmys—so far—and she doesn’t. She’s nipped me by one on Golden Globes to date, but I intend to fix that.”

  “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Peabody glanced back as they walked to the elevator. “She’s a hell of an actress, but I don’t think she killed Fitzhugh.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You don’t. Okay, you go first.”

  “The motive’s not enough for her to risk getting caught, and she strikes me as a risk/reward type. Plus, she liked him. Despite the grudge, she just liked him. And with him dead she loses any chance to get him back into bed and wreck his marriage, and instead puts Eliza front and center.”

  “I do think she liked him,” Peabody agreed as they rode down, bypassing the lobby for the garage. “And I think the whole grudge/competition thing is more like a game to her.”

  “Some games are deadly. Now, ask if I think she could try to kill Eliza Lane.”

  “You do?”

  “She knows he’s getting the drink for Lane, something he did routinely according to several statements. She positions herself, by her own admission. There’s opportunity. And she’s smart,” Eve added as they walked into the garage. “Smart enough to stand back, chat away while he delivers the drink, one she expects Eliza to drink. But it doesn’t work that way. Now she sees him with it. She’s close, but not really close enough to stop him from drinking it without making a move. Still, she could have, but then he’s toasting her enemy, with a hand over his heart.”

  Eve got behind the wheel. “So she thinks: The Shitheel, just that instant of resentment, and he drinks. Too late now, play it through. She has the chops for it.”

  “I guess she does—if Lane was the target.”

  “Factor this. It’s not unusual for people to say positive things about a victim, but it is less usual to not hear a few digs here and there. People liked this guy. We could consider a demented fan, or again a competitor, but it’s more unlikely than not. And we go back. He got the drink for her, and he ended up drinking it as a tribute.”

  “Killing Lane … It puts Harrow in a better position to get him back in bed, then boot him, so there’s that.”

  “There’s that. And it’s time to start digging up anybody who has a motive for Lane.”

  “Statements have been pretty positive there, too.”

  “She’s fired assistants,” Eve reminded her. “Keene was positive, but she also mentioned Lane lets you know if you don’t meet her standards. She had no problem going after a man who was involved with another woman at the time. Maybe she invited Harrow—they’re not pals—because she likes rubbing her nose in it.”

  Eve glanced at the time. “Shit. I’m dropping you at the subway. Go play with paint or whatever, but cull through gossip stories, find us anything bitching about Lane.”

  “Those are both fun things. It’s like a reward! What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to talk to Lane again, then go work this at home. I need to lay it out, start putting people in places.” She veered to the curb. “We’ll set up interviews—let’s go to them—with the composer and choreographer. And the director and her wife. I want to put those people in those places first, so that’s for tomorrow.”

  “Paint and gossip tonight, more celeb types tomorrow. I love my life!”

  Eve pulled away to head across town. Close to home, she thought, and followed impulse to tag Roarke.

  “Lieutenant. In the car, I see.”

  “Yeah, you, too. Where are you?”

  “Actually nearly home. I had a meeting canceled so I’m taking advantage of it. And you?”

  “I’m going to talk to Eliza Lane again. You said you know her.”

  “Met her, which isn’t at all the same.”

  “Point. I sprang Peabody. I could use another set of eyes and ears if you’re up for it.”

  “I’ll have the car drop me at her building, wait for you outside unless you beat me there.” She waited while he gave his driver the new address.

  “I’m heading over from the East Side, so you’re closer. Who cancels on the emperor of the business universe?”

  “I could say some impressive head of state, but an engineer whose fiancée went into labor.”

  “Okay then. See you in a few.”

  When she did, the emperor of the business universe stood outside, chatting companionably with the doorman. Because he had, said doorman gave her no guff about leaving her car at the entrance.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, ma’am.”

  He beamed so cheerfully she swallowed the ma’am.

  “You’re already cleared up to Ms. Bowen’s apartment. We’re all real sorry about Mr. Fitzhugh. A hell of a guy.”

  “So I’m told.”

  Reporters—she counted six—raced up or down or across the street, already shouting questions.

  “Hey!” The doorman went from cheerful to tiger snarl in two seconds flat. “What’d I tell you? You back off or I call the cops again. You don’t get to harass residents or visitors.”

  Since they’d obviously gone this round before, not one of them came within ten feet of the entrance.

  It didn’t stop them from shouting questions or recording, but Eve ignored that.

  “A hell of a guy,” the doorman repeated. “Always took a minute to say hello. Never puffed himself up.”

  “How about her, Ms. Lane?”

  “Oh, maybe she doesn’t always say hello, but no snoot there.” He pushed up the tip of his nose. “Remembers your name. Got me house seats once when she heard my wife wanted to see a show.”

  “Do you know if my men are still in the building?”

  “I couldn’t say, but I can sure find out for you.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  He beat her to the door, opened it for her and Roarke.

  “Maybe you could tell Ms. Lane condolences from Henry on the door.”

  “All right. How much did you give him?” she muttered to Roarke.

  “Now, that would be telling. And speaking of your men.”

  She watched Baxter, Trueheart, and McNab pile off an elevator. Baxter in his slick, tailored suit, Trueheart in his off-the-rack navy, and McNab in his EDD circus gear of bright baggies, brighter T-shirt, and neon-orange air sneaks.

  “Dallas, fancy meeting you here. Hey, Roarke.”

  “Status, Baxter.”

  “Cleared. We decided to stick it out—only about thirty past shift. Nothing there, boss.”

  “Party clutter,” Trueheart added, and tucked a florist box under his arm. “And the sweeper dust, but under it, the whole place is really clean. Everything has a place, no secret stashes.”

  “The catering kitchen recyclers were run twice yesterday. From the timing, I’d say during food prep, and again about an hour in. Sweepers took the contents anyway. All recycler contents. Saved us, right, pal?”

  Trueheart just smiled at Baxter. “They have a lot of really nice things.”

  “Any more trouble with reporters?”

  “There’s a couple camped in a unit in the building across the street.”

  Trueheart nodded. “We saw them hanging out the windows with cams. We’ve had the privacy shades down all day, but they got some shots when we went out to process the terraces.”

  “A bunch of them outside. Anyway, your go, McNab.”

  “Nothing funny on the e’s. These people liked order. Makes my own system look like chaos, and it’s just not. But everything’s in place, just like the stuff. Personal stuff separate, and nothing weird or off about it. Assistant Ricardo’s been seeing some guy for about a month, but I ran him, and nothing popped. Assistant Kessler had a bad breakup—bad for him because heartbreak and all that—about four months back. He’s dipped his toe back in, but nothing serious. He’s got a tight circle of friends, mostly theater people, two of them roommates. They come off clean. Little bumps here and there, but nothing violent, nothing major.”