Neither should civilians, Eve thought, but more than plenty were.

  “It’s a process, it’s routine. Any information you can give me on Ms. Bernstein’s whereabouts would be helpful in that process. I can, if you’d feel more inclined to cooperate, connect you to my commanding officer.”

  “Is that a threat? You dare!”

  “No, ma’am, it’s an offer to connect you to my superior.”

  “Arlo!” The name boomed out of her. “Arlo, get in here! Deal with this person.”

  She obviously lobbed the ’link, as Eve watched the room blur by before the screen bobbled, then steadied.

  “And see that I’m not disturbed again. Get out! Get out!”

  The screen bounced a few seconds before Arlo’s face—mid-twenties, sharp bones, ruddy—filled it.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Arlo, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need the location where your employer sent funds to Debra Bernstein in New York sometime within the past two weeks. Can you connect me with her business manager, or whoever has that information?”

  “I have that information if you’ll give me one moment. Yes, here it is. Ms. Spindal wired five thousand USD to Ms. Bernstein at the West End Financial Center ten days ago.”

  “Thanks. Do you have Ms. Bernstein’s ’link number?

  “Of course, and her current residence in New York, or where she was staying ten days ago. Would you like that information?”

  “I would very much like that information.”

  “Ms. Bernstein was in residence at the West End Hotel. Shall I get that address for you?”

  “No, I’ve got it. Her ’link?”

  He read off the code.

  “Great. Can I ask how long you’ve worked for Ms. Spindal?”

  “Three and a half years.”

  Something passed over his stoic face that Eve interpreted as: It seems longer.

  “In that time, has she wired other funds to Ms. Bernstein?”

  “Once before, to my knowledge.”

  “Have you met Ms. Bernstein?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Thanks for your help, Arlo.”

  “Not at all, Lieutenant.”

  The minute she clicked off, she pushed up and strode into the bullpen.

  “Peabody, with me.”

  “I just got off the link with Gary Proctor, and— Where are we going?”

  “To talk to Debra Bernstein.”

  “You found her? She’s in New York?” Peabody jogged to keep up. “How the hell did you find her?”

  “She squeezed some dough now and then from Maeve Spindal, who’s an asshole. She’s at the West End Hotel, or was ten days ago. My take is she’s one of the few people on this or any planet Spindal likes, which tells me assholes attract assholes.”

  “She drunk tagged Gary Proctor three days ago.”

  “She what?” Eve thought the hell with the elevators and aimed for the glides.

  “He says she managed to get his number, tagged him the other day. He was on his way home from a performance, and said she was drunk and abusive. He cut her off, blocked her number. But he had hers, and I was just going to come in and tell you. But you found her.”

  “What did she say to him?”

  “The usual, he said. Every few years she gets through. He’ll block her. And he’s changed his number, but she manages. It’s all how it’s his fault her daughter’s dead, how his cheating and conniving drove her to suicide. Or sometimes, he told me, she just points the finger at him. ‘You killed her, you bastard, you and that no-talent whore.’”

  “Lane.”

  “Yeah. He swears, and I believe him, he and Lane were never involved that way. He and Rose were sleeping together, and he was about half in love with her. But mostly, he wanted to save her.”

  “From what?”

  “From what eventually happened. He thought he’d convinced her to go to Addicts Anonymous and try for a healthier lifestyle, then he found her already stoned and drinking that night, and they had a round about it. She told him to fuck off, he said he was done. It all jibes with the file.”

  A lot was starting to jibe, Eve thought.

  “She’s in New York, begging her daughter’s onetime stage mother for money, drunk tagging her daughter’s old boyfriend. Sounds like somebody who hasn’t moved on.”

  “I got another interesting tidbit,” Peabody added. “He said after Rose moved into her own place, Debra got into the building once, and into the theater once, with a kind of disguise. A wig, glasses. She had a hand with makeup and voices, so she got through a couple times he knows of.”

  Eve felt that hum through her brain. “That is an interesting tidbit.”

  “I’m thinking—want to know what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m breathless with anticipation.”

  “Okay, so we’re coming up on twenty-five years.” They shifted from the glides to the garage steps. “That’s one of those numbers. People don’t pay so much attention to twenty-four years, but twenty-five gets the confetti. This grates on her. More, Lane’s taking advantage of the big number, putting on a revival, getting all the buzz. Maybe Debra actually believes Lane and Proctor are to blame for what happened back then. Or she’s convinced herself of it. She comes back to New York, stewing on it.”

  They crossed the garage to Eve’s car.

  “Now we know she got some money, enough to get the poison. Maybe she can’t get her hands on Lane’s number, but she drunk tags the old boyfriend. She’s drinking, stewing, plotting, planning. Time to avenge her daughter.”

  “How does she get into the party?”

  “I think you got it with the plus-one. That’s more likely than the catering staff. Maybe she uses some old acquaintance or vamps up a new one.”

  “Vamps.”

  “She’s an attractive woman, so vamps. A wig, makeup, she slides in. Fitzhugh, as far as we know, never met her. And Lane, as far as we know, hasn’t seen her in twenty-five years. She’s after Lane, but she can’t do anything about Fitzhugh downing the poison. We’ve got statements, but maybe she’d already left by the time the first responders got there. We still have a handful to interview.”

  As Eve pulled out, she said: “Or.”

  “Or?”

  “She gets through lobby security,” Eve said. “Yeah, it was pretty tight, but it happens. She can’t get to the penthouse by elevator, but she can access other floors. The woman’s grifted her entire life. Access the penthouse level by the stairs—the second or third level. She just came into five large, so she gets a master.”

  “McNab checked for that, all levels.”

  “Yeah, won’t hurt to check again. If she looked like catering staff, or a guest—either way—she makes her way down, dumps the poison. Now, if she’s smart—and she has to have some level of street smarts to talk people out of money, into favors—she walks out right after she does that. Takes the stairs down again, at least a few levels, rides down to the lobby, walks out.”

  “We’ll check the feeds again.”

  “Yeah, we will. Baxter reported a quick response with the flower-delivery reporter, but that’s after the murder. So we look again. She probably knows costuming, too. If it’s me, I walk in, street clothes, something I can turn into party wear with whatever’s in my big-ass purse. I can walk out in the party wear, nobody’s going to check on somebody leaving, especially before the nine-one-one.”

  “That would make her pretty smart and prepared.”

  “It would.” And Eve figured the killer had been both. “Let’s see how smart and prepared she is when the cops come knocking.”

  “From grifting to murder’s a pretty big jump.”

  “Murder’s always a big jump. Here’s what’s not. She’s in New York, she has some funds—maybe more than the five, because she could’ve hit up some others for more. The woman who replaced her dead daughter and became a big fucking deal because of it is about to fill the part of the mother in the same play, in the same fricking theater where her kid OD’d.”

  She made a sharp turn and pushed it. “I’m going to talk to Mira, but I’m betting she’ll say that’s a damn good hammer to bring on a psychic break. It’s sure as hell a bright, shiny motive.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “We’ve got a hell of a lot of overlaps here, Peabody. A fricking time warp with a cast of too damn many.” She tapped the wheel.

  Since the West End Hotel, which narrowly avoided flop status, didn’t run to parking, she hunted for a space before hitting a second-level street spot a block and a half away.

  As they clanged their way down to the sidewalk, her ’link signaled. She saw Kyung on the display.

  “Oh, fuck me sideways! Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant, apologies for the interruption to your busy day.”

  “I’m in the field, Kyung.”

  “Yes, I can clearly hear that. We feel it’s necessary to once again impose on your time and hold a media briefing for an update on the Brant Fitzhugh investigation.”

  “In the field, Kyung, working on bringing in a suspect for questioning.”

  “Which would provide an update. Would the end of the day work better for you?”

  “The end of time works better for me.”

  He smiled at her. “Understood. However.”

  “Let me deal with what I’m dealing with and get back to you.”

  “That works. Good luck.”

  Eve shoved the ’link back in her pocket. “Hell.”

  “If the luck is good, you can go up there and tell them we made an arrest.”

  “Then they’re going to want to know what, when, where, how, and what the suspect was wearing, what she said, what we said, what some guy who sold her a slice at a twenty-four/seven thought about it.”

  “Only the desperate buy a slice at a twenty-four/seven.”

  “You could be feeling desperate after killing the wrong person. All that time and trouble, and oops. The cardboard slices at a twenty-four/seven might have to do.”

  She stopped in front of the stubby concrete tower. No, not a flop, Eve thought, but it barely lifted its grimy self over a dump. Obviously, Debra wasn’t spending her found money on housing.

  Eve pulled open the door and stepped into a sad-looking lobby with a couple of dumpy shit-brown chairs. The single overhead light had three dead bulbs and one on death row as it flicked on and off.

  She crossed the threadbare carpet to the counter manned by a bored woman lazily filing her nails.

  “Need a room?”

  Eve pulled out her badge.

  “What’s the beef? Look, I’m just filling in for a couple hours because my sister’s kid fell off his airboard and busted up his face. Kid’s a moron at the best of times, and she had to run to the ER. You want Craig, the manager? He’s around somewhere.”

  “We’re looking for this woman.”

  She stopped filing her nails long enough to give the ID shot a glance. “How’m I supposed to know? I’m just filling in.”

  “Her name’s right here. You could check the register.”

  “Yeah, yeah, lemme see. My day off, right, and here I am stuck in this shithole with a couple cops. Don’t see a Bernstein on this thing.”

  “Try Starr, two r’s.”

  “Yeah, yeah, what she do? Kill somebody? Okay, yeah, got a Starr here, 301—that’s long-term rate, like you’re here for two weeks or better.”

  “Is she up there now?”

  “How’m I supposed to know? I’m—”

  “Just filling in. When did she register?”

  “Um … About two weeks ago.”

  The door behind Eve opened. When she turned, her eyes met Debra’s. She wore a short black wig with thick fringe, a flowy summer dress that showed off a curvy body. She carried two shopping bags.

  And, Eve noted, made her and Peabody as cops in a single heartbeat.

  She spun, hit the door, and ran like a gazelle.

  Eve said, “Damn it,” and sprinted after her.

  Debra had some speed, and would’ve had more if she hadn’t been hampered by the skinny-heeled sandals.

  “Police,” Eve shouted. “Stop!”

  In response, Debra heaved one of the bags. She had a damn good arm, but Eve dodged the bag and gained ground.

  She considered a tackle, reconsidered, pumped up a little more speed. When she grabbed Debra’s arm, Debra swung the other bag. It thudded against Eve’s shoulder.

  “Help!” She shrieked it. “Help, help! Police!”

  Peabody pounded up, yanked out her badge. “We are the police.”

  People who’d been curious enough to stop continued on their way.

  And Debra elbowed Eve in the gut before trying to wiggle around to rake pink-tinted nails down her face.

  “Well, Debra, that’s assault on a police officer. You get a free trip downtown.”

  She slumped against Eve as if in a faint when Eve snapped on restraints.

  “Peabody, let’s get a couple of uniforms to escort Debra down to Central, book her on the assault to start.”

  Debra suddenly revived, began to weep, began to struggle. “How could I know you’re police?”

  “Maybe because I identified myself as such. Debra Bernstein, you’re under arrest for attempting to evade a police officer, for assault on a police officer. I could add littering, but—”

  She glanced back, noted not only were the contents of the first shopping bag that had spilled over the sidewalk gone, so was the bag.

  “My things! Someone’s stolen my things! This is your fault! I’m going to sue. This is a terrible miscarriage of justice.”

  “Yeah? We’ll talk about that. Right now? You have the right to remain silent.”

  By the time she’d finished reading Debra her rights, two uniforms pulled up. She ordered them to log the remaining shopping bag and Debra’s handbag into evidence.

  “Pretty good luck,” Eve decided.

  “She ran fast in those heels. You have to admire that.”

  “If she’d have worn sane shoes, it would’ve taken me another block to catch her. Let’s go check out her room.”

  Craig, the manager, came out from wherever and took them straight up. The swiftness of his cooperation led Eve to believe it wasn’t the first time, by far, he’d opened a guest’s door for the cops.

  The single room was decent size, separated into distinct areas. Bedroom, tiny sitting room, minuscule kitchenette with a pay-as-you-use AC and a mini-cooler.

  Debra had a carton of raspberry yogurt and a bottle of vodka in the cooler.

  The single window faced the street and offered a thin privacy screen.

  Debra had a few candles set around and some flowers in an empty wine bottle.

  Eve opened the creaky bifold doors of the closet.

  “Jesus, this is packed. We’ve got a cocktail dress in here. And check this, a gray maid’s uniform. Find out if Lane’s cleaning service runs to uniforms like this. A lot of cases in here.”

  She reached onto the shelf, hauled one down to take it to the counter separating the kitchenette.

  When she opened it, it expanded up into tiers. Tiers filled with makeup, brushes, boxes of spidery lashes, vials of iris-coloring drops.

  “Oh my God, I have makeup envy!” Peabody gripped her hands together. “Deep, dark makeup envy.”

  “Uniforms, Peabody, before I bust you down so you’re wearing one again.”

  Eve hauled down another case, found several wigs and the products to care for and style them.

  The third case held face putty of varying shades, a folding triple mirror, lighted, a collection of sunshades and jewelry.

  And under it all, a hidden compartment with several fake IDs and licenses. And a master swipe that looked well used and very professional.

  “Oh, Debra, you’re in so much trouble.”

  “Gray uniforms, pants and tunics,” Peabody reported. “And they brought in two temps the day of the party to do a deep clean. One matches Debra’s height, weight. They claim she was bonded, had references that checked out during the screening. She had ID under Debra Rose.”

  “Got that here.” Eve held it up. “Let’s see what else we can find before we chat with her.”

  Eve hunkered down to look under the bed. “Suitcases—two,” she said as she pulled them out. And glancing over, hissed at Peabody. “Stop playing with the damn makeup.”

  “I’m not. I mean I might have, a little, but see, she’s got all her brushes arranged in the slots, so I wondered what was in this roll down here.

  She showed Eve.

  “Burglar’s tools. Excellent find.”

  “I don’t see a uniform in my future.”

  “Not so far. Burglar’s tools, fake IDs, a master swipe, the uniform.” She paced a moment.

  “New picture. She talks herself into the cleaning service. That’s how she gets in. She’s got the tools to break in, but why would you? Could she find a way to smuggle that cocktail dress in there, and whatever else she needed?”

  “Maid cart maybe.”

  “Maybe, maybe. Maybe she finds a way to stay behind, finds a bolt-hole. It’s a big place, and most of the activity’s on the main floor and in the master bedroom. Tuck yourself into one of the guest rooms, wait it out. Get your party on, slip downstairs once it’s going pretty strong.”

  “She wouldn’t be on a guest list, not even as a plus-one. No record of her.”

  “Act like you belong there,” Eve went on. “She probably recognized people, just act like they should know her. Poison the drink, then get the hell out so you’re already gone when it hits.”

  “Why didn’t she poof? She should’ve poofed.”

  “Yeah,” Eve agreed. “But she didn’t hit the target. Could be she wanted another shot, or wanted to hang around to see some reactions.”

  She opened one of the suitcases. “More clothes. Okay, got a PPC—passcoded. We’ll get EDD to open it. Something heavy wrapped up here.”

  She pulled out a bundle, unrolled a length of black velvet.

  “Do I hear a fucking aha?”

  “That looks like a Tony award.”

  “And it has Eliza Lane’s name on it, for Best Supporting Actress in a Musical. Upstage.”