“Media’s whacked on this, Dallas,” McNab told her. “Scrolling through social media was wild. Photos and vids from last night already making the rounds.”

  “Can’t change that, so we’ll deal with it. No fucking respect,” she muttered. “Let’s get started. Peabody, take the kitchens, both of them on this level.”

  They spread out. She’d barely begun her sections when her ’link signaled. “Lane,” she called to Peabody, and answered.

  “Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant. Please, do you have anything more on Brant’s death?”

  The woman looked like death herself, pale, hollow-eyed, lines of strains around those hollow eyes.

  “I’m in your apartment now with four detectives. I can’t promise we’ll complete the search and be able to clear the scene today, but—”

  “Search? You’re searching our home, our things?”

  “It’s a crime scene, Ms. Lane. It’s procedure. Whoever did this to your husband may have left something behind.”

  “Of course, of course. It just gets worse and worse.”

  “Ms. Lane, it would be helpful if you gave us the combination to the safes in your bedroom.”

  “My jewelry safe? Why—”

  “We can clear those areas. The search will be fully recorded and documented. Also any other combinations would save time, allow us to complete the work and allow you back in your home more quickly.”

  “It doesn’t feel like home without Brant. I—all right. My jewelry safe’s combination is Brant’s birthday, and his bedroom safe is our anniversary.”

  She rattled off the numbers. “There’s a safe—for important papers and so on—in Lin’s office. I’m not sure I remember the combination.”

  “We’ll get that.”

  “The media—we’ve blocked reporters and anyone we don’t know personally, but … And Sylvie ordered me not to turn on the screen. I know much of it’s a tribute to Brant, and genuine grieving, but…”

  “Listen to your friend on this. Please don’t speak to reporters at this time, as it could impede the investigation. You should have your people prepare a statement, a brief one, asking for privacy. I’d like you to run that statement by me before you issue it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s best.” She looked vaguely around as if searching for something. “I’m not thinking sensibly, I know that. I’m trying. I need to see Brant. If I could—”

  “I’m going to consult with the medical examiner when I leave here. Either he or I will contact you later this morning and arrange for you to go in.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Thank you. I—I need to make arrangements. Could I have Dolby, at least Dolby?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t know where to begin. I think when I do, when I begin, I’ll know what to do next. The statement. I’ll do that right away. I’ll begin with that. Thank you. Please, please contact me as soon as you can.”

  “I will. If you think of anything else, any small detail, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Eve continued her part of the search, and formed a clearer picture of the victim and his wife. They both enjoyed fine things, polished spaces. And each had what reflected their personal spaces, but they very much lived together.

  Luxury in every inch, but a lack of fuss with it. Clean and organized so the remains of the party, the confusion murder brought with it, stood out.

  She gave it an hour before deciding to call it.

  “It’s a serious kitchen,” Peabody told her when Eve stepped in. “As up-to-date as it gets, and really well supplied and organized. I’m going to say the guy they have doing the cooking knew what he was doing. A lot of recipes on the kitchen tablet, dietary needs—Lane’s allergic to shellfish—marketing lists regularly updated, an inventory of supplies.”

  Peabody stood back, looked around the vastness of stainless steel, clean white lines, sparkling glass.

  “You can keep at it. I’m going to hit the morgue. When you finish the kitchens, leave the rest to Baxter and Trueheart. I think we keep this whole space secured for at least another day. You can go down, check on the widow before you leave. Get a sense of what she’s planning, how she’s coping. The longer we can keep her from talking to the media, the better.”

  “Got it. You don’t really expect to find anything linking the murder here.”

  “Not really. But people have secrets. Everybody does. So we see if we can uncover any the victim, the widow, the staff had tucked away.”

  She circled the room. “It was slick, the way this went down. Quick and done—immediate confusion and chaos, especially since you had a crowd, including media. Somebody’s pretty damn smart, even if we can’t be sure they hit the intended target.

  “If you can make it to Whitney’s office by noon, be there.”

  Before she left, she jogged up to the third floor to find McNab deep into tech.

  “Anything?”

  “Lin Jacoby likes to play the horses.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Really?”

  “Yeah, but kind of the way I’d play them if I made bigger bucks and wanted the fun. Not big-time, right? And wins more than he loses. Got some losses that would sting some, but not too many. No sign so far he dipped into the boss’s pockets. And he had a pretty serious relationship that ended, like, eight months ago.”

  McNab pushed back, shrugged his skinny shoulders. “He’s got all the vic’s data on here—calendar, expenses, income—but it comes off clean. Personal correspondence is separate from the work stuff, with some overlap. And that comes off clean, too, Dallas. His financials are on here, and he copped a nice salary, benefits. He’s got investments, and he lives within his really solid means. Bought his parents a house four years ago.”

  “Keep at it. There’s another safe in here.” She walked to a storage closet and found it. “Lane isn’t sure of the combo. Contact Jacoby, get it. See how he reacts. I’ve got the combos for the bedroom safes.”

  “Saves time.”

  She gave them to him, left him to his work. Then stopped briefly on the second floor.

  “Not just swank digs, but massive.” Baxter paused in his search of yet another closet.

  “What are we looking for, Dallas?”

  “A bottle with a skull on it and poison in big red letters would be dandy. Otherwise anything that doesn’t fit.” She looked around the guest room he searched. “Everything really fits. Is that normal?”

  “I like to think everything fits in my place. Big party, right? So they’d want everything just right. Especially since they had media.”

  “Yeah. That fits, too.”

  She chewed on that on the drive downtown.

  The ad blimps were out in full force, hyping summer sales. People swarmed the sidewalks—the tourists obvious in their colorful shorts, their I ♥ NEW YORK caps, their loaded shopping bags as they, most likely, hunted for some of those sales.

  Traffic bumped its way along, so she drove with her windows open to the summer air. She smelled the truly terrible glide cart coffee, grilling soy dogs, the occasional whiff of flowers from outdoor stalls or the concrete troughs planted by the city that competed with an overstuffed and out of order recycler.

  When she stopped at a light, she heard a sidewalk vendor with a Bronx accent she couldn’t have cut with an axe tell a customer to “Fock off if yous don’t like it, bud.”

  And the customer focked off in a huff down the sidewalk.

  Christ, she loved New York.

  At the morgue, she made her way down the long white tunnel. The smells here, as always, carried the scent of death under chemical lemons and bleach.

  She opened the doors of Morris’s arena to the music of Broadway. Even she recognized Broadway as a woman’s voice belted it to the back rows.

  Morris stood over Brant Fitzhugh, carefully completing the stitches on the Y-cut. The ME wore a blue linen suit under his protective cape, with a crisp white shirt and deep blue tie.

  His hair, braided and wound into a coil at the back of his neck, left his sharply boned face unframed.

  He called for the music to lower as he looked up at Eve.

  “I thought he’d enjoy hearing his wife sing, as they had a fairy-tale sort of romance, from all the reports and interviews. A strong talent cut down in his prime. And one in superior physical shape.”

  “Yeah, he kept in tune. COD?”

  “Exactly what you discerned. Potassium cyanide, ingested via a good champagne, sugar, and bitters. A painful death, but a quick one. No signs of violence on the body other than the contusions where he fell. No signs of substance abuse. And remarkably, given his physique, no signs of work on the body. A bit here and there on the face, and understandable given his line of work. Nothing obsessive.”

  Stitching complete, Morris walked over to rinse his hands of blood and sealant. As Eve walked to the body, he got two tubes of Pepsi from his cold box.

  “Thanks. Did he tell you anything?”

  “That he took his health and physique seriously. His muscle tone is admirable. He had good nutrition, and I would surmise good medical care. He’s had a broken bone or two in his time, but well healed. Prime,” Morris repeated as he broke open his tube. “I liked his work, and his activism for the homeless.”

  “Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot. We don’t know if the poison was meant for him or for Lane. It was her drink,” she added. “But he ended up drinking it while she…” Eve pointed up and the voice rang. “Performed.”

  “So a mystery within the mystery.”

  “Crowded party, he schmoozed and mingled with the glass in his hand. No way to know when the poison went in. So … His widow wants to see him.”

  “I can have him ready for her at her convenience.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her to contact you and set it up. I’ll have some officers bring her in. Media’s got her building staked out, so we’ll send an unmarked car. Pain in the ass.”

  “Price of fame.”

  “Can’t see it’d be worth it. I appreciate the quick work.”

  “All in a day’s. And I’ll wish you the same—quick work on finding his killer.”

  “If I can pinpoint the target, I’d have better luck with that.”

  Delegating gave her a solid thirty minutes to spare when she walked into Homicide. Detectives Jenkinson and Reineke huddled together at Jenkinson’s desk. She marveled that Reineke willingly stood so close to his partner’s nuclear reactor of a tie.

  This one sported madly purple and pink dots over a piss-yellow field. A glance at the bullpen board told her Detectives Carmichael and Santiago had just caught one, a floater.

  Since Jenkinson and Reineke were three days into an investigation of a stabbing in Alphabet City, she left them to it and veered into her office.

  She snagged coffee and downed it while she set up her board, dealt with the murder book, adding what she’d gotten from Morris.

  Then, finally still and with a few minutes to spare, she sat and studied the board.

  Lots of pretty people, she thought, all polished and smooth. She needed time to study what lived under all the polished and smooth.

  Not a crime of passion or a murder of the moment, but one planned, timed, and executed with some skill. Even at a crowded party, someone could notice another person slipping something into a drink.

  Willing to take the risk.

  Women went for poison more than men, she considered, though that wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule by any stretch. But it did speak to a lack of violence, or the need to use force, to spill blood.

  Her vic, a man in his prime. A well-muscled, healthy man. Strong. Poison didn’t require physical strength.

  She might even say the method, the vehicle used presented a kind of elegance. And that, too, fit with many of the images on the board.

  She rose and, pulling out her ’link, contacted the estate lawyer as she took the glides up. And found herself pleasantly surprised to learn Eliza Lane had already cleared the way there.

  Whitney’s admin glanced over as she came through. Nodded.

  “They’re waiting for you.”

  Even so, she gave one brisk knock before she opened the door.

  Whitney sat at his desk, a big man whose shoulders carried the weight of command. His dark, close-cropped hair was salted with gray, and the dignity of it suited him.

  Behind him, the city he stood for spread.

  Kyung, who she’d designate as polished and smooth, stood by the wall of glass, tall and lean in his excellent charcoal suit. It baffled her anyone would happily steer the public relations ship, but as she knew he respected the work above the media, he ranked as not an asshole.

  “Lieutenant.” Whitney merely spread his hands.

  “Sir. Morris has confirmed the COD as cyanide poisoning. The victim shows no signs of violence, was in good health and excellent physical shape. I’ve contacted the estate lawyer, and his office is sending a copy of Fitzhugh’s will. They’ll also provide a copy of Lane’s. This was requested and cleared by Eliza Lane. Morris is arranging for her to view the body early this afternoon. I’ve arranged an unmarked car to transport her and her party to and from the morgue.”

  “Yes, that’s best. The media frenzy’s barely begun.”

  “At this time,” she continued, “Detectives Baxter and Trueheart are continuing the search of the crime scene, and Detective McNab is working on the electronics. Thus far we’ve found nothing that points to motive or a suspect. However, Vera Harrow, in her own statement, admitted to grudges held against both Lane and Fitzhugh.”

  “The actress?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Whitney sent a steely glance at Kyung. “Just what we need. Another celebrity as a suspect.”

  “The bulk of the party consisted of actors or those attached to the entertainment business,” Eve said.

  “I’m aware,” Whitney responded. “All too well aware.”

  “Detective Peabody and I will interview the individual convicted of stalking Ms. Lane three years ago, and recently released on parole from the MD facility.”

  She paused a moment.

  “I realize most of this information was included in my report this morning, but the investigation is in its very early stages, with a great deal of work to do. We haven’t formally interviewed all of the guests present at the time of the murder.”

  “Understood. Make a list of those you feel, at this time, require you and your partner to interview. You can delegate the rest, and request additional manpower to cover it, if necessary.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d prefer to do at least a standard run on those individuals before making that list. The killer obtained the poison and brought it to the event. A connection to Fitzhugh and/or Lane would be key. Cross-referencing the guests, staff with the beneficiaries of the victim’s will, and Lane’s will, as she may have been the intended victim, will also give us some direction.”

  “I can authorize more eyes on the cross-referencing.” He sat back when she said nothing. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, we’ve barely begun the investigation, but are making considerable progress in the initial processes. I’ve already pulled three additional detectives into that process and assigned uniforms for Ms. Lane’s security. I don’t feel the need, at this point, for additional officers to take up routine procedures.”

  Whitney nodded, tapped his fingertips together. “What you’re not saying is within hours of this murder, the NYPSD will add considerable manpower and budget to this single investigation. Because the victim is famous.”

  He hadn’t reached the position of command without knowing how to interpret even a carefully worded statement. So she laid it out plainly.

  “I have two detectives working the stabbing death of a waiter. A mixed-raced male, age thirty, sliced up on his way home from work. This is day three of that investigation. There’s been no demand for a media conference, no additional manpower or budgetary increase. He had a six-month-old son, but he wasn’t famous.”

  “Your point, Lieutenant, carries the weight of morality and the heft of equality. But it doesn’t account for politics or the voraciousness of the media—which carries its own weight. I have no doubt your detectives will pursue this victim’s killer as dedicatedly as you will Fitzhugh’s.”

  “Yes, sir. No question.”

  “But the Fitzhugh investigation will lead every media vehicle today, tomorrow, and very likely until you identify and apprehend his killer. After that, there will be more—the follow-ups, the profiles. He was—is—a household name,” Whitney continued as he rose. “The president of the United States has already issued a statement of condolence and a call for justice. Other heads of state will do the same. You’re in the crosshairs on this, Dallas, and I intend to give you every tool available.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And to that end…” Whitney turned to Kyung.

  “The mayor will give a statement to the media in approximately thirty minutes,” Kyung began. “It will be made clear—I’ve seen the draft of the statement—that the mayor’s office has every confidence in the NYPSD, and in you and your team to conduct this investigation. To the conclusion, the apprehension of whoever took Fitzhugh’s life. The mayor will take questions for about five minutes.”

  Kyung paused, gave her a quiet look of sympathy. “You can expect that to expand to at least ten, if not more.”

  “Got it.”

  “It’s a bit more than politics, Lieutenant, though I understand your feelings on it. The mayor serves the city as well, and all in it. Whether a waiter or a vid star. But the vid star, and the ways and means of his murder, bring the drama, the scope, the fascination. You want to get on with your work, but this is part of that. You will reassure.”

  “Reassure who? And how? I don’t have anything yet.”

  “Your presence brings reassurance. And, though it annoys you, drama and scope.” He smiled at her then. “There’s no need for me to tell you what to say or how to say it. You dislike that part of your job, but you know that part of your job. And if I tried to guide you, it would just piss you off.”

  “Got that one.”

  He smiled again. “I will ask that you also take questions. There will be a deluge, and many will annoy you, but I’ll end that part of things as soon as I can. It won’t be as soon as you like.”