Rapture in Death (6 page)

She’d lose him if she couldn’t manage to rein him in. Tranquing him wasn’t an option until she had the facts. “I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Foxx. I’m sorry we have to do this now, but it’s easier, believe me, if we can.”

“I’m all right.” He reached for the glass of water atop the droid. “I want to get it over.”

“Can you tell me his frame of mind last night? You said he was worried about a case.”

“Worried, yes, but not depressed. There was a cop he couldn’t shake on the stand, and it irritated him.” He took a gulp of water, then another.

Eve decided it was best not to mention she was the cop who had irritated him.

“And there were a couple of other cases pending that he was plotting out the defense for. His mind was often too busy for sleep, you see.”

“Did he receive any calls, make any calls?”

“Certainly, both. He often brought work home with him. Last night he spent a couple of hours in his office upstairs. He arrived home about five thirty, worked until nearly eight. We had dinner.”

“Did he mention anything that was troubling him besides the Salvatori case?”

“His weight.” Foxx smiled a little. “Fitz hated to put on an extra pound. We discussed him increasing his exercise program, perhaps having some body adjustment work done when he had the time. We watched a comedy on screen in the living room, then went to bed, as I told you.”

“Did you argue?”

“Argue?”

“You have bruises on your arm, Mr. Foxx. Did you and Mr. Fitzhugh fight last night?”

“No.” He paled even more, and his eyes glittered with the threat of another bout of weeping. “We never fought physically. Certainly we argued from time to time. People do. I — I suppose I might have gotten the bruises on the tub when I was — when I tried to — “

“Did Mr. Fitzhugh have a relationship with anyone else other than yourself?”

Now those swollen eyes went cool. “If you mean did he have outside lovers, he did not. We were committed to each other.”

“Who owns this unit?”

Foxx’s face went rigid, and his voice was cold. “It was put in our joint names ten years ago. It belonged to Fitz.”

And now it belongs to you, Eve thought. “I would assume Mr. Fitzhugh was a wealthy man. Do you know who inherits?”

“Other than charitable bequests, I would inherit. Do you think I would kill him for money?” There was disgust in his tone now, rather than horror. “What right do you have to come into my home at such a time and ask me such horrible questions?”

“I need to know the answers, Mr. Foxx. If I don’t ask them here, I’ll have to ask them at the station house. I believe this is more comfortable for you. Did Mr. Fitzhugh collect knives?”

“No.” Foxx blinked, then went pasty. “I do. I have a large collection of antique blades. Registered,” he added quickly. “They’re duly registered.”

“Do you have an ivory-handled knife, straight blade, about six inches long in your collection?”

“Yes, it’s nineteenth century, from England.” His breath began to hitch. “Is that what he used? He used one of my knives to — ? I didn’t see. I only saw him. Did he use one of my knives?”

“I’ve taken a knife into evidence, Mr. Foxx. We’ll run tests. I’ll give you a receipt for it.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want to see it.” He buried his face in his hands. “Fitz. How could he have used one of my knives?”

He fell to weeping again. Eve heard the voices and hums from the next room and knew the sweepers had arrived. “Mr. Foxx.” She rose. “I’m going to have one of the officers bring you some clothes. I’m going to ask that you stay here for a little while longer. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“No. No one. Nothing.”

“I don’t like it, Peabody,” Eve muttered as they rode down to her car. “Fitzhugh gets up in the middle of an ordinary night, gets an antique knife, runs himself a bath. He lights the candles, puts on the music, then carves up his wrists. For no particular reason. Here’s a man at the height of his career with a shit load of money, plush digs, clients beating down his door, and he just decides, ‘What the hell, I think I’ll die’?”

“I don’t understand suicide. I guess I don’t have the personality for big highs and lows.”

Eve understood it. She’d even considered it briefly during her stint in state-run homes — and before that, in the dark time before that, when death had seemed a release from hell.

That was why she couldn’t accept it for Fitzhugh. “There’s no motivation here, at least none that shows yet. But we have a lover who collected knives, who was covered with blood, and who will inherit a sizable fortune.”

“You’re thinking maybe Foxx killed him.” Peabody mulled it over when they reached garage level. “Fitzhugh’s nearly twice his size. He wouldn’t have gone without a fight, and there wasn’t any sign of struggle.”

“Signs can be erased,” Eve muttered. “He had bruises. And if Fitzhugh was drugged or chemically impaired, he wouldn’t have put up too much of a struggle. We’ll see the tox report.”

“Why do you want it to be a homicide?”

“I don’t. I just want it to make sense, and the self-termination doesn’t fit. Maybe Fitzhugh couldn’t sleep; maybe he got up. Someone was using the relaxation room. Or it was made to seem so.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Peabody mused, thinking back. “All those toys in one place. That big chair with all the controls, the wall screen, the autobar, the VR station, the mood tube. Ever use a mood tube, Lieutenant?”

“Roarke’s got one. I don’t like it. I’d rather have my moods come and go naturally than program them.” Eve spotted the figure sitting on the hood of her car and hissed, “Like now, for example. I can feel my mood shifting. I think I’m about to be pissed off.”

“Well, Dallas and Peabody, together again.” Nadine Furst, top on-air reporter for Channel 75, slid gracefully from the car. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Private,” Eve snapped.

“Hey, I thought we were pals.” Nadine winked at Peabody.

“You didn’t waste any time putting our little get-together on the air, pal.”

“Dallas.” Nadine spread her pretty hands. “You bag a killer and close a very public and intense case at your own bachelor party celebration, to which I was invited, it’s news. The public not only has the right to know, they eat it up with a spoon. Ratings rocketed. Now look at this, you’re barely back and right in the middle of something else big. What’s the deal with Fitzhugh?”

“He’s a dead man. I’ve got work to do, Nadine.”

“Come on, Eve.” Nadine plucked at Eve’s sleeve. “After all we’ve been through together? Give me a nibble.”

“Fitzhugh’s clients had better start looking for another lawyer. That’s all I’ve got to give you.”

“Come on. Accident, homicide, what?”

“We’re investigating,” Eve said shortly and coded open her locks.

“Peabody?” But Peabody just grinned and shrugged her shoulders. “You know, Dallas, it’s common knowledge that you and the dearly departed weren’t fans of each other. The top sound bite after court yesterday was him referring to you as a violent cop who used her badge as a blunt instrument.”

“It’s a shame he won’t be able to give you and your associates such catchy quotes anymore.”

As Eve slammed the car door, Nadine leaned doggedly in the window. “So you give me one.”

“S. T. Fitzhugh is dead. Police are investigating. Back off.” Eve started the engine, torpedoed out of the slot so that Nadine had to dance back to save her toes. At Peabody’s chuckle, Eve slid a stony glance in her direction. “Something funny?”

“I like her.” Peabody couldn’t resist looking back, and she noted that Nadine was grinning. “So do you.”

Eve smothered a chuckle. “There’s no accounting for taste,” she said and drove out into the rainy morning.

It had gone perfectly. Absolutely perfectly. It was an exciting, powerful feeling to know that you had the controls. The reports coming from various news agencies were all duly logged and recorded. Such matters required careful organization and were added to the small but satisfactorily growing pile of data discs.

It was such fun, and that was a surprise. Fun had certainly not been the prime motivator of the operation. But it was a delightful side effect.

Who would succumb next?

At the flick of a switch, Eve’s face flashed onto a monitor, all pertinent data split-screened beside her. A fascinating woman. Birthplace and parents unknown. The abused child discovered hiding in an alley in Dallas, Texas, body battered, mind blanked. A woman who couldn’t remember the early years of her own life. The years that formed the soul. Years when she had been beaten and raped and tormented.

What did that sort of life do to the mind? To the heart? To the person?

It had made the girl a social worker and had made Eve Dallas into a woman who had become a cop. The cop with the reputation for digging deep, and who had come into some notoriety the previous winter during the investigation of a sensitive and ugly case.

That was when she had met Roarke.

The computer hummed, sliced Roarke’s face onto the screen. Such an intriguing couple. His background was no prettier than the cop’s had been. But he’d chosen, at least initially, the other side of the law to make his mark. And his fortune.

Now they were a set. A set that could be destroyed on a whim.

But not yet. Not for some little time yet.

After all, the game had just begun.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I just don’t buy it,” Eve muttered as she called up data on Fitzhugh. She studied his bold, striking face as it flashed onto her monitor, shook her head. “I just don’t buy it,” she repeated.

She scanned his date and place of birth, saw that he’d been born in Philadelphia during the last decade of the previous century. He’d been married to a Milicent Barrows from 2033 to 2036. Divorced, no children.

He’d moved to New York the same year as his divorce, established his criminal law practice, and as far as she could see, had never looked back.

“Annual income,” she requested.

Subject Fitzhugh, annual income for last tax year. Two million, seven hundred USD.

“Bloodsucker,” she murmured. “Computer, list and detail any arrests.”

Searching. No police record on file.

“Okay, so he’s clean. How about this? List all civil suits filed against subject.”

She got a hit on that, a short list of names, and she ordered a hard copy. She requested a list of cases Fitzhugh had lost over the last ten years, noted the names that mirrored the suits filed against him. It made her sigh. It was typical litigation of the era. Your lawyer doesn’t get you off, you sue the lawyer. It gave another jab to her hopeful theory of blackmail.

“Okay, so maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. New subject, Foxx, Arthur, residence Five oh oh two Madison Avenue, New York.”

Searching.

The computer blipped and whined, causing Eve to slap the unit with the heel of her hand to jog it back. She didn’t bother to curse budget cuts.

Foxx appeared on screen, wavering a bit until Eve gave the computer another smack. More attractive, she noted, when he smiled. He was fifteen years younger than Fitzhugh, had been born in East Washington, the son of two career military personnel, had lived in various points of the globe until he had settled in New York in 2042 and joined the Nutrition for Life organization as a consultant.

His annual income just tipped into the six figures. The record showed no marriages but the same-sex license he shared with Fitzhugh.

“List and detail any arrests.”

The machine grumbled as if it were tired of answering questions, but the list popped. One disorderly conduct, two assaults, and one disturbing the peace.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Both subjects, list and detail any psychiatric consults.”

There was nothing on Fitzhugh, but she got another hit on Foxx. With a grunt, she ordered a hard copy, then glanced up as Peabody entered.

“Forensics? Toxicology?”

“Forensics isn’t in, but we’ve got tox.” Peabody handed Eve a disc. “Low level alcohol, identified as Parisian brandy, 2045. Not nearly enough to debilitate. No other drug traces.”

“Shit.” She’d been hopeful. “I might have something here. Our friend Foxx spent a lot of his childhood on the therapist’s couch. He checked himself into the Delroy Institute just two years ago for a month. And he’s done time. Piss away time, but time nonetheless. Ninety days lockup for assault. And he had to wear a probie bracelet for six months. Our boy has some violent tendencies.”

Peabody frowned at the data. “Military family. They tend to be resistant to homosexuality still. I bet they tried to head shrink him into hetero.”

“Maybe. But he’s got a history of mental heath problems and a criminal record. Let’s see what the uniforms turned up when they knocked on doors in Fitzhugh’s building. And we’ll talk to Fitzhugh’s associates in his firm.”

“You’re not buying suicide.”

“I knew him. He was arrogant, pompous, smug, vain.” Eve shook her head. “Vain, arrogant men don’t choose to be found naked in the bathtub, swimming in their own blood.”

“He was a brilliant man.” Leanore Bastwick sat in her custom-made leather chair in the glass-walled corner office of Fitzhugh, Bastwick, and Stern. Her desk was a glass pool, unsmudged and sparkling. It suited, Eve thought, her icy and stunning blond beauty. “He was a generous friend,” Leanore added and folded her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the desk. “We’re in shock here, Lieutenant.”

It was hard to see shock on the polished surface of it all. New York’s steel forest rose up glittering behind Leanore’s back, lending the lofty illusion that she was reigning over the city. Pale rose and soft gray added elegant muted color to an office that was as meticulously decorated as the woman herself.

“Do you know of any reason why Fitzhugh would have taken his own life?”

“Absolutely none.” Leanore kept her hands very still, her eyes level. “He loved life. His life, his work. He enjoyed every minute of every day as much as anyone I’ve ever met. I have no idea why he would choose to end it.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with him?”

She hesitated. Eve could almost see wheels working smoothly behind those heavily lashed eyes. “Actually, I saw him briefly last night. I dropped a file off for him, discussed a case. That discussion is, of course, privileged.” Her slicked lips curved. “But I will say he was his usual enthusiastic self, and he was very much looking forward to dueling with you in court.”

“Dueling?”

“That’s how Fitz referred to cross-examination of expert and police witnesses.” A smile flickered over her face. “It was a match, in his mind, of wits and nerve. A professional game for an innate game player. I don’t know of anything he enjoyed so much as being in court.”

“What time did you drop off the file last night?”

“I’d say about ten. Yes, I think it was around ten. I’d worked late here and slipped by on my way home.”

“Was that usual, Ms. Bastwick, you slipping by to see him on your way home?”

“Not unusual. We were, after all, professional associates, and our cases sometimes overlapped.”

“That’s all you were? Professional partners?”

“Do you assume, Lieutenant, that because a man and woman are physically attractive and on friendly terms that they can’t work together without sexual tension?”

“I don’t assume anything. How long did you stay — discussing your case?”

“Twenty minutes, a half hour. I didn’t time it. He was fine when I left, I’ll tell you that.”

“There was nothing he was particularly concerned about?”

“He had some concerns about the Salvatori matter — and others, as well. Nothing out of the ordinary. He was a confident man.”

“And outside of work. On a personal level?”

“A private man.”

“But you know Arthur Foxx.”

“Of course. In this firm we take care to know and socialize at least lightly with the spouses of partners and associates. Arthur and Fitz were devoted to each other.”

“No… spats?”

Leanore cocked a brow. “I wouldn’t know.”

Sure you would, Eve thought. “You and Mr. Fitzhugh were partners, you had a close professional and apparently a close personal relationship. He must have discussed his homelife with you from time to time.”

“He and Arthur were very happy.” Leanore’s first sign of irritation showed in the gentle tapping of a coral-toned nail against the edge of glass. “Happy couples occasionally have arguments. I imagine you argue with your husband from time to time.”

“My husband hasn’t recently found me dead in the bathtub,” Eve said evenly. “What did Foxx and Fitzhugh argue about?”

Leanore let out an annoyed huff of breath. She rose, punched in a code on her AutoChef, took out a steaming cup of coffee. None was offered to Eve. “Arthur had periodic bouts of depression. He is not the most self-confident of men. He tended to be jealous, which exasperated Fitz.” Her brows knit. “You’re probably aware that Fitz was married before. His bisexuality was somewhat of a problem for Arthur, and when he was depressed, he tended to worry about all the men and women Fitz came into contact with in the course of his work. They rarely argued, but when they did, it was generally about Arthur’s jealousy.”

“Did he have reason to be jealous?”

“As far as I know, Fitz was completely faithful. It’s not always an easy choice, Lieutenant, being in the spotlight as he was, and given his lifestyle. Even today, there are some who are — let’s say — uncomfortable with less-than-traditional sexual preferences. But Fitz gave Arthur no reason to be anything less than content.”

“Yet he was. Thank you,” Eve said as she rose. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Lieutenant,” Leanore began as Eve and the silent Peabody started for the door. “If I thought for one instant that Arthur Foxx had anything to do with — ” She stopped, sucked in a breath. “No, it’s simply impossible to believe.”

“Less possible than believing Fitzhugh slashed his own wrists and let himself bleed to death?” Eve waited a beat, then left the office.

Peabody waited until they’d stepped out onto the sky walk that ribboned the building. “I don’t know whether you were planting seeds or digging for worms.”

“Both.” Eve looked through the glass of the tube. She could see Roarke’s office building, shooting tall and polished ebony among the other spears. At least he had no connection with this case. She didn’t have to worry about uncovering something he’d done or someone he’d known too well. “She knew both the victim and the suspect. And Foxx didn’t mention her slipping by to discuss work last night.”

“So you’ve bumped Foxx from witness to suspect?”

Eve watched a man in a tailored robe squawk bad temperedly into a palm ‘link as he glided by. “Until we prove conclusively it was suicide, Foxx is the prime — hell, the only — suspect. He had the means. It was his knife. He had the opportunity. They were alone in the apartment. He had the motive. Money. Now we know he has a history of depression, a record of violence, and a jealous streak.”

“Can I ask you something?” Peabody waited for Eve’s nod. “You didn’t care for Fitzhugh on a professional or a personal level.”

“I hated his fucking guts. So what?” Eve stepped off the skywalk and onto the street level where she’d been lucky enough to find a parking spot. She spied a glida grill, smoking soy dogs and potato rings, and made a beeline through the heavy pedestrian traffic. “You think I’ve got to like the corpse? Give me a couple of dogs and a scoop of potatoes. Two tubes of Pepsi.”

“Diet for me,” Peabody interrupted and rolled her eyes over Eve’s long, lean form. “Some of us have to worry about weight.”

“Diet dog, Diet Pep.” The woman running the cart had a dingy CZ stud in the center of her top lip and a tattoo of the subway system on her chest. The A line veered off and disappeared under the loose gauze covering her breasts. “Reg Dog, Reg Pep, hot potatoes. Cash or credit?”

Eve shoved the limp cardboard holding the food at Peabody and dug for her tokens. “What’s the damage?”

The woman poked a grimy purple-tipped finger at her console, sent it beeping. “Twenty-five.”

“Shit. You blink and dogs go up.” Eve poured credits into the woman’s outstretched hand, grabbed a couple of wafer-thin napkins.

She worked her way back, plopped down on the bench circling the fountain in front of the law building. The panhandler beside her looked hopeful. Eve tapped her badge; he grinned, tapped the beggar’s license hung around his neck.

Resigned, she dug out a five credit chip, passed it over. “Find someplace else to hustle,” she ordered him, “or I’ll run that license and see if it’s up to date.”

He said something uncomplimentary about her line of work, but he pocketed the credit and moved on, giving room to Peabody.

“Leanore doesn’t like Arthur Foxx.”

Peabody swallowed gamely. Diet dogs were invariably grainy. “She doesn’t?”

“A high-class lawyer doesn’t give that many answers unless she wants to. She fed us that Foxx was jealous, that they argued.” Eve held out the scoop of greasy potatoes. After a brief internal struggle, Peabody dug in. “She wanted us to have that data.”

“Still isn’t much. There’s nothing in Fitzhugh’s records that implicates Foxx. His diary, his appointment book, his ‘link logs. None of the data I scanned points the finger. Then again, none of it indicates a suicidal bent, either.”

Contemplatively, Eve sucked on her tube of Pepsi, watched New York lumber by with all its noise and sweat. “We’ll have to talk to Foxx again. I’ve got court again this afternoon. I want you to go back to Cop Central, get the door-to-door reports, nag the ME for the final autopsy. I don’t know what the hang-up is there, but I want the results by end of shift. I should be out of court by three. We’ll do another walk-through of Fitzhugh’s apartment and see why he omitted Bastwick’s little visit.”

Peabody juggled food and duly programmed the duties into her day log. “What I asked before — about you not liking Fitzhugh. I just wondered if it was harder to push all the buttons when you had bad feelings about the subject.”

“Cops don’t have personal feelings.” Then she sighed. “Bullshit. You put those feelings aside and push the buttons. That’s the job. And if I happen to think a man like Fitzhugh deserved to end up bathing in his own blood, it doesn’t mean I won’t do what’s necessary to find out how he got there.”

Peabody nodded. “A lot of other cops would just file it. Self-termination. End of transmission.”

“I’m not other cops, and neither are you, Peabody.” She glanced over, mildly interested at the explosive crash as two taxis collided. Pedestrian and street traffic barely hitched as smoke billowed, Duraglass pinged, and two furious drivers popped like corks out of their ruined vehicles.

Eve nibbled away at her lunch as the two men pushed, shoved, and shouted imaginative obscenities. She imagined they were obscenities, anyway, since no English was exchanged. She looked up but didn’t spot one of the hovering traffic copters. With a thin smile, she balled up the cardboard, rolled up the empty tube, passed them to Peabody.

“Dump these in the recycler, will you, then come back and give me a hand breaking up those two idiots.”

“Sir, one of them just pulled out a bat. Should I call for backup?”

“Nope.” Eve rubbed her hands together in anticipation as she rose. “I can handle it.”

Eve’s shoulder was still smarting when she walked out of court a couple of hours later. She imagined the cab drivers would have been released by now, which wasn’t going to happen to the child killer Eve had just testified against, she thought with satisfaction. She’d be in high security lockup for the next fifty years minimum. There was some satisfaction in that.