Chapter Five

"Alibi checks." As Eve drove, Peabody viewed the security feed sent by the Baltimore station. "She's half-asleep in a chair in the terminal at twenty-three hundred, and I've got her boarding the shuttle a few minutes later. Considering the time she landed, and the distance from the station here to the studio, to her apartment, she couldn't have made it before midnight."

"Thoroughly crossed off. Cross-check the moonlighting gigs with the partygoers."

"I remember one had a catering business. Let me check my notes."

"Do that, and see if you can find her connection to the other two venues. Shauna would know, but I don't want to follow up with her yet."

"We should've asked Fleschner."

"Didn't want to do that until the thoroughly crossed-off. You can start on that angle while we check in with Morris."

"How many mornings do you figure we visit the morgue?"

"Too many."

After pushing through a tangled knot of traffic, Eve parked.

And with Peabody, started down the long white tunnel of the city's dead.

"I've got Tricia Pilly—the caterer. Maura Lang, bartender, the grill. And a Chassie Gordon, daughter of Blondina Gordon—owner of the maid service."

"Good. Find a seat, have conversations."

Eve continued on, then pushed open the doors of Morris's work home. Music played, something soft and bluesy, as he stood beside the body, his hands in the chest cavity.

Under his protective cape, he wore an oatmeal-colored suit with a pale blue shirt and a tie of a deeper shade of blue. He had his black hair in a long braid, starting high on his head and threaded with cord in the deep blue.

He lifted his long, dark eyes to Eve, and sighed.

"And so she'll be the center of a memorial instead of a bride."

"She trusted the wrong person. Don't know who yet, but it killed her. Piano wire?"

"I'd say yes. A pity something designed for beauty and enjoyment would be used to end a life."

"People are fucked up. They'll find a way to kill with pretty much anything."

"I once had a victim on my table killed with a binky."

"A what?"

"A baby's pacifier."

Even then, it took her a minute to identify what she thought of as a plug.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember that. It wasn't my case, but I remember hearing about it. Father went nuts, forced it down the mother's throat so she choked on it. Why do they call it a binky?"

"I have no idea. Where's our Peabody?"

"Running down a few things. Never going to be able to trace piano wire."

"Wire used with considerable force, and as your on-scene speculated, from behind, drawing upward, then crossed in the back."

"Some sort of handles or grips on the ends."

"For this kind of force, yes. The skin under her nails is hers. The lab has the broken nails from the sweepers, but the trace under those will likely be hers. She dug at her own throat to try to drag the wire away. As deeply as it cut in, she wouldn't have fought for long."

No, Eve thought, studying the body. Not for long.

"No other defensive wounds?"

"None. The contusions here, here? From a blow to a solid surface—the door, as you've already concluded. And these? From the fall when she went down."

"He took the murder weapon with him. Stick it in a bag along with her 'link, the jewelry he took off her, any cash she had, stuff it in your pocket, walk out. Easy to dispose of in a recycler as you go. Smarter to do that a bit at a time, using multiples.

"Did he keep a trophy?" she wondered. "We'll find out."

"There are no indications of sexual abuse ante- or postmortem."

"No, the killer didn't care about that. This was personal, but not sexual. A straight kill, with a half-assed attempt to make it look like a robbery."

"Half-assed indeed," Morris agreed. "She'd consumed a considerable amount of alcohol—it was a party, after all. Her reflexes would have been slowed. She'd had some bar snacks. Pretzels, some nachos, and some pasta primavera earlier, about seven, given the TOD."

He walked over to wash his sealed hands.

"Otherwise, I find no signs of alcohol abuse, illegals use. The tox screen will confirm that. A healthy young woman, no body or face work, good muscle tone, and a small heart tattoo on her left buttocks."

He lifted his hands. "She can't tell me more."

"Then it'll have to be enough. Thanks. I'll tell Shauna and the victim's family to contact you about coming in."

"Good hunting," he called as she went out.

Spotting her, Peabody rose, but continued to talk on her 'link. "No, I appreciate the time, and I'd maybe contact Angie to see how Shauna's doing."

As Peabody finished up, Eve pushed open the outside door.

"Okay," Peabody began. "Statements are Albright was always open to off-the-books work if she didn't have something else going. So whenever one of the three venues we have needed more hands, they'd tag her. Usually she said yes. Which she did to a cleaning job yesterday morning. She worked with an Andrew Minor, from eight to about eleven-thirty. That's confirmed."

"Finished there, went by the D&D to pick up the swipe," Eve concluded.

"Yeah, she told Minor she had some errands. As it was rarely more than a hundred bucks, they paid her in cash. And she'd make that or more in tips with the bar and the catering deal. I hear personable, friendly, efficient, good worker from all of them. Oh, and Chassie isn't employed by her mother's company. She works at the Met—the museum—but will occasionally pitch in."

In the car, Peabody strapped in. "She and the victim went to high school together, and Albright worked part-time and a chunk of the summer with the cleaning service."

"Okay. We're going to head in. You can do the runs. Start with the other artists. Unlikely the killer would've stayed—had to get rid of the murder weapon, what he took off the body. But we'll run McNab's group, just to cover it."

"I'll get it rolling. You know, both Albright and Hunnicut have what feels like a tight circle of friends, and in both cases some of that going back to high school."

"Okay, and?"

"Well, a lot of people—probably most—scatter after high school. Different colleges, jobs, interests, locations. But these two found their tribe—or a member of their tribe—early and stuck. Stuck and expanded, then like blended tribes.

"It's like you and Mavis."

Though she saw where Peabody was going, Eve decided to make her work for it. "Mavis and I never planned to marry each other."

"Now that I think about it…" Peabody angled her head. "You'd make a cute couple. But what it is? The two of you recognized each other, on some level. So even though you busted her for street grifting way back, the two of you stuck. I met Mavis through you, and we have that hook, but we also have our own level of friendship. Same with the rest of the tribe."

Eve pulled into the garage at Central. "Now we have a tribe?"

"Sure. You, Mavis, me, Nadine, Reo, Mira, Trina—"

"Wait!" After she got out of the car, Eve slammed the door. "Don't I get a vote on tribe membership? I never voted for Trina."

"It's not a democracy, it's a tribe. Louise, Callendar, and Harvo are in there. We're connected, and we're connected inside the connection. We're all separate women with different backgrounds, personalities, and all that, but together? Tribe."

They crossed the garage to the elevators.

"It feels to me like Albright and Hunnicut worked the same way, so it's hard to see a member of their tribe having any part in the murder."

"So, you've never heard of intertribal warfare or treachery?"

Frowning, Peabody got on the elevator with Eve. "Okay, point, but wouldn't it be hard to keep that hidden? Hidden so well, nobody else in the tribe got a hint?"

"Peabody, if people weren't at least half-decent at wearing masks, we'd never have to investigate a homicide. We'd just scan the tribe, say, and point, ‘You, you there with the murder face. You're under arrest.' Then the judge and/or jury would take one look when he went to trial and it's: ‘Murder Face is guilty on all counts.'"

"Murder Face," Peabody speculated as the elevator bumped to a stop. When the doors opened, two uniforms and a guy with clown-orange hair, blue baggies with rainbow suspenders, and a shirt that read WHEE!! stepped on.

"What's a murder face look like? Bared teeth? Slitty eyes?"

Clown Hair turned around, blew a small blue bubble with his gum. Obviously one of Feeney's, Eve thought.

"Is it a crime of passion or planned?"

"Planned."

"Ditch the teeth and slitty eyes. You'd go for something like…" He had bright green eyes, animated eyes that suddenly went blank.

Not flat like a cop's, Eve noted. But just dead. Like a shark's.

And she had to admit he pulled it off.

"Nah." One of the uniforms shook her head as the elevator stopped again and more cops filed on. "Me? I'd go for the friendly face." She burst out with a wide smile and eyes just over the edge of crazy. "Then it's ‘Hey, pal,' right before you shove the knife in their throat."

The other uniform disagreed. "Not me. I'd go for the helpless, with mild distress. ‘Oh, could you give me a hand? I can't quite—' Then you bash them over the head."

By the time the elevator stopped again, every cop in the car had an opinion on Murder Face.

Eve squeezed out and headed for the glides.

Peabody trotted after her.

"I never thought about how diverse and varied murder faces are."

"I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, it's a good point. And it's not like I just look at the surface—I know better. But the friendships in this tribe just strike me as the real deal."

"Remember poisoned champagne, the devoted wife, the loving husband? That bond came off real."

"Well, yeah, but she was a professional. Actress, I mean. She knew how to put on the show."

"Any killer worth his salt knows how to put on the show. And what the fucking fuck does that mean? The salt? Why did I say that? That's what happens," she said darkly, "you get sucked into spouting those sayings that make no sense. Sucked in."

She jumped off the glide and arrowed toward Homicide.

One foot in the door, and Jenkinson's tie assaulted her with its multicolored smiley-faced cartoon stars over a wild blue sky.

"Detective Sergeant."

"Yo, Loo!"

"Status."

"Rocking and a-rolling. Carmichael and Santiago caught one about an hour ago. Baxter and Trueheart"—he chin-pointed to where Baxter in his sharp suit worked his 'link, and the earnest-faced Trueheart his comp—"they're following up some leads."

In acknowledgment, Baxter tapped a finger to his temple in salute.

"Me and Reineke got a breather, so we dug out a cold one."

"No case, however cold, can outwit the badge," Reineke said.

"Let me know if you thaw it out. Runs, Peabody, and get an update from McNab."

She strode straight to her office, and straight to the AutoChef for coffee. Then with said coffee, took two quiet minutes at her skinny window with New York rocking and a-rolling below.

Peabody wasn't wrong about how the friendships and bonds of the group connection to the victim and Hunnicut felt genuine.

But feelings weren't facts. Resentments and worse could and did simmer well under the surface until something—anything—set them to boil.

At this point, evidence indicated—strongly—the victim knew her killer. A member of the tribe, as Peabody termed it? Maybe, maybe not. But someone known, someone trusted enough to do a favor and keep a secret.

And that, she thought, equaled: Advantage badge.

She sat at her desk and opened the murder book.

Another hit of coffee, and she began on her board.

Plenty of names and faces, she thought, and the bulk of them already eliminated due to their whereabouts at TOD.

But that didn't mean they had no connection to the murder. Advertent, or inadvertent.

Friendships were often complicated, she thought as she worked. And man, could she attest there. Then those connections within the larger group brought in different levels, different dynamics.

Friend A's great, Friend B says to Friend C. And Friend C agrees, but adds how it bugs the crap out of her when Friend A does X. And snickering in solidarity, Friend B agrees there. Right before she tags up Friend A and tells her how Friend C trashed her about X.

She'd heard that kind of bullshit plenty in school, in the Academy, and even on the job.

She sat, put her feet up, studied the board.

And in that big a group, wouldn't you have some overlap in relationships? Somebody slept with somebody else, who slept with another somebody.

She got up to pace, to consider the next step.

Peabody's pink boots clomped toward her office.

"The two other artists—both clear. Anton Carver was uptown at a swank dinner party. Lilibeth Warsaw, art patron, arranged it, and it checks out he was there until right about midnight. She had him taken home, her car, her driver. It all checks."

"All right."

"Roy Lutz was at a bar, Lower East. Its friends and family sort of opening. He'd painted the wall murals. About thirty people there, and I checked with several already, will swear he was there until nearly one this morning. And he had a date—the serious girlfriend—who swears they went to his place after. He was still sleeping when she left for work this morning about eight-thirty."

Eve just nodded, then stopped to study the board from a new angle.

"McNab's got nothing. Nothing deleted or hidden on any of the e's—except what he already found re the vic ordering the tickets, booking the hotel in Maui."

"Okay, as expected. Let's go talk to Hunnicut's exes. And we'll check, see when's the best time for a follow-up with her. Give me ten. I'm going to talk to the victim's family, make sure everything jibes there and nothing jumps out."

Eve spoke with the grieving parents. They hadn't known about the trip, the surprise. Knew no one who would harm their daughter—no enemies, no resentful exes. They added little to the investigation but the weight of their grief.

Eve carried it with her to the bullpen.

"With me, Peabody. In the field, Jenkinson. Albright's parents didn't know about the trip," Eve continued as she strode to the elevators. "Said they would have contributed to the cost of the tickets if they had. But she told them how she was going to reveal a big surprise, and would send them pictures."

"She wanted Shauna to know first," Peabody concluded. "It was Shauna's big dream, so Shauna first."

"That's my read."

Eve took one look at the packed elevator when the doors opened, turned on her heel, and headed for the glides.

"The father insists it had to be a mugging, a robbery, because no one who knew his daughter would kill her."

"It has to be easier believing that. If it can be easier."

"I'd say, right now, nothing makes it easier. Marcus Stillwater first," Eve said as they continued down. "Fordam Publishing's closest. His apartment's only a block or two from there."

"Stillwater—bootie buddy, right?"

"I guess that's one way of putting it."

"I never really had one of those. Did you?"

As they angled down the steps to the garage level, Eve glanced back. "Why would I want one of those?"

"Well, you know, for the easy, no-strings, no-worries sex with someone you know and like."

"And how often do you figure that really works out?"

Frowning, Peabody got in the car. "I don't know, since I never had a bootie buddy."

"I'd guess one in, oh, a hundred—at best. Sex gets complicated if it's more than a one-off." Eve swung out of the garage. "What do you do when your BB shows up at the door and you're naked with someone else? Or your BB decides they want more after all, or they want no more from you? Or you're the one who wants more than the buddy system and they don't? Maybe you get involved with somebody else, and your BB thinks, that's messing up my easy sex, and finds ways to screw with you?"

Peabody considered. "You know, I used to think it was too bad I never had a bootie buddy. Now I'm thinking I was lucky I didn't."

"Bounce naked on somebody, be ready for complications."

"I guess that's a good rule of thumb."

"Whose thumb?"

"I don't know," Peabody decided. "I really don't know."

"Then give me the rundown on Stillwater."

"Marcus Stillwater, age twenty-eight. Originally from Virginia, went to NYU. Employed at Fordam for six years. No marriages, no cohabs. Got a bump—indecent exposure, underage drinking, public lewdness. All one incident. At age nineteen he and a couple pals got loaded at a party, and took a dare to run naked around the track. Got busted."

"Is that it?"

"On the criminal, yeah. Got degrees in communication and in public relations. One sib, female, age twenty-four, still lives in Virginia."

When she couldn't even find a loading zone on the street, Eve pulled into a shabby little lot, snarled at the obscene hourly price.

"Roarke should buy up all the parking lots in the entire city. He'd double his already ridiculous fortune."

"How do you know he hasn't?"

That gave her a moment's pause. "No. He'd do something like have the scanner read my plate. Wouldn't he? Or maybe he has, and he's messing with me. ‘Well now, Lieutenant,'" she said in a reasonable approximation of an Irish accent as she got out of the car, "‘you had only to ask.' Then he'd say something about how I actually own this one and that one, just to screw with my head."

Then she shook it off. "But no. Crap parking lots aren't challenging enough for him to bother with."

The heat had already set in so the air itself seemed to sweat. Sunlight bounced off steel and window glass and lasered the eyes, making her glad she'd somehow managed to hang on to her kick-ass sunshades.

When they reached the steel and glass that held Fordam, the wide auto doors slid open.

Inside the busy lobby, the temperature dropped easily thirty degrees.

"Why do they do that? Why do they take it down to meat locker?"

Now she found herself grateful for her jacket as they crossed the black-veined white tile floor.

People walked purposefully or wandered dressed in business suits, business casual, or tourist-special tees and shorts. The lobby, ringed with cafés, delis, and shops and centered with a burbling fountain, echoed with voices.

Eve cut across to the security station, palmed her badge. "Marcus Stillwater, Fordam Publishing."

"Got that for you," said the oddly cheerful blonde working the station. "If I could just scan your badge?" She aimed a handheld, then blinked—and her oddly cheerful smile bumped up a couple more degrees. "Welcome, Lieutenant, to Houston Street Tower. Fordam Publishing is on floors twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty. We have Mr. Stillwater on twenty-nine. Bank B, elevators one through three. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance."

"Okay."

"Maybe not all the parking lots in the city," Peabody speculated as they aimed for Bank B, "but it's a pretty good bet Roarke owns this building."

"Yeah, another way he screws with my head." She shoved her hands into her pockets as she waited for an elevator. "If he keeps it up, pretty soon I won't be able to bitch at any doorman, desk clerk, or security guard."

"He's diabolical."

Eve spared her a glance. "You think you're joking."

She got on the elevator, ordered twenty-nine. The elevator smelled, very lightly, of citrus. And though several people got on, got off, got on, on the journey to the twenty-ninth floor, the air maintained that faint, fresh scent.

Roarke class, she thought. It, too, was diabolical.

The lobby on twenty-nine featured pale gray floors, cream-toned walls, a ribbon of windows overlooking downtown, and a sleek black counter manned by two people.

Since one worked on a comp and spoke into a headset, Eve aimed for the other. A bright-eyed redhead who might have been old enough to buy a legal brew.

"Good morning, how can I help you today?"

"Marcus Stillwater."

"Let me check for you. Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Stillwater is currently in a meeting. Could I—"

Eve flashed her badge. "Maybe he could step out."

"Oh! Oh my goodness! Let me just—"

She jumped up and fled through a glass door to the right of the counter.

Watching her go, making damn good time on skinny red heels, Eve rocked back and forth on her sturdy boots. "What do you bet she, or somebody she knows well, had some trouble with the cops?"

"Not taking that bet. She flew like a bird."

"People never say she flew like a shuttle—faster than a bird. It's always a bird."

As she waited, Eve took a look around the small lobby. A little waiting area with dark gray seats, a couple of tall green plants in black pots, a scatter of strange, splashy art.

Two people in business suits came in, both with go-cups, and bounced numbers and statistics between them as they went through the glass door on the left of the counter.

A man came through the other door.

If he'd had a jacket and tie, he'd ditched them. His fitted dress shirt showed off good shoulders. He had a crop of loosely curled sun-streaked blond hair around a vid-star face.

Perfect proportions, a subtle tan, arctic blue eyes, and a smile as bright and warm as a summer sun.

He held out a hand. "Marcus Stillwater. I'm sorry, Dora didn't get your name."

"Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody."

"Well, Lieutenant, Detective, I'm more than a little pressed today, but why don't we take a seat here for a few minutes?"

"Your office would be better. Have you spoken with Shauna Hunnicut this morning?"

His smile wavered a little. "No, as I said, I'm pressed today. Is she in trouble? I can't imagine it, not police trouble. Wait, wait. Last night was the party, wasn't it? Party at the D&D."

Now he shook his head, laughed. "Don't tell me Shauna did the crazy and needs bail. I'm going to say, good for her, and I can take care of that. I can send someone down asap to—wherever. What did she do?"

"Mr. Stillwater, it's best if we speak in your office."

Now the smile dropped completely and he gripped Eve's arm. "Is she hurt?"

"Sir—"

"For fuck's sake, tell me."

"She's not hurt, she doesn't need bail. Erin Albright was murdered last night."

Beneath the tan, he went pasty. "Is this some sort of a sick joke?"

"No. If we could continue this in your office?"

"I just—" He pushed a hand through his hair. "Hanna, let Bill and Tricia know I had an emergency."

He led the way through the door, and, Eve noted, a maze with a pecking order. Cubes, take a turn, desks, small meeting rooms, another turn, offices.

He stepped into one, waited, then closed the door behind Eve and Peabody.

"What happened? Tell me what happened. Sorry, sit. Should I tag Shauna? Don't tell me she's alone. I can—"

"Mr. Stillwater," Peabody interrupted, and gently touched his arm. "Why don't you sit down?"

He dropped down behind a cluttered desk. "I've been so busy, I don't even know if she'd tried to tag me. I turned off my 'link—no distractions. God. What happened? What happened to Erin?"

"She was strangled."

His hand lifted to his own throat. "Strangled? Jesus Christ. Where was Shauna? You said Shauna wasn't hurt."

"She wasn't. She wasn't with Erin at the time of the attack."

"But they were at the party. That was last night. I'm sure of it now. How—"

"Mr. Stillwater, where were you last night?"

The color that had begun to seep back into his face faded again. "Me? I—I'm a suspect."

"This is routine. It's helpful if you can provide that information."

"I need to take a breath. Breathe. Erin. They're getting married this weekend, did you know that? You must know that. Shauna and I have been friends for…"

He held out his hands, composed himself.

"Okay. Okay. We worked late—Bill, Tricia, Jorge, Liza, and me. Until, God, close to nine? Working on a major campaign. I think we logged out about nine, then everybody but Liza went for food and drinks—she's got kids at home, Liza does. Little kids. We went to—where the hell?"

Pausing, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Bojo's. We went to Bojo's, got something to eat, something to drink, went over the work, again. We were there until, I think, I think we were there until—had to be after eleven, maybe close to eleven-thirty. I walked home from there—turned off my 'link because Tricia was still batting ideas, and I know how that works. I wanted a decent night's sleep."

"What time did you get home?"

"I'm not sure. Bojo's is about ten blocks from my apartment."

"When's the last time you saw or spoke with Erin Albright?"

"Ah, maybe a couple weeks? I had drinks with them and Becca and Greg a couple weeks ago. They were full of wedding talk."

"When's the last time you had sex with Shauna?"

He leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh. "Maybe a week or two before she fell for Erin. Was that a surprise for me? Yeah. She'd never dated a woman before. Did I expect it to last? Not really. But I was wrong. They had the deal, the real deal.

"Breathe," he reminded himself. "Shauna's my friend, my really good friend. I was happy for her, happy when I saw she had the real deal. And Erin, you had to like her."

Pausing, he scrubbed at his face again.

"She had so much—what's the word? Verve. I'd've tried to get along with her even if I didn't, for Shauna. But I did like her."

"Who didn't?"

He lifted his hands. "Honest to God, I don't know. I'd tell you in a heartbeat if I did."

"When did Erin tell you about the trip to Maui?"

He frowned. "Shauna's big dream thing? I guess I knew about that since Shauna and I became friends. The one-day-she'd-honeymoon-in-Maui thing. I know they were saving to go, delayed honeymoon. Next year, maybe the year after."

"Did you ever visit Erin's art studio?"

"Yeah, a few times. Shauna loved showing off Erin's work. It's good—at least to my eye. I actually bought one of her charcoal drawings for my apartment. And later, one of her paintings. I liked her, Lieutenant. I liked her.

"I really need to talk to Shauna, to go to Shauna."

"She's staying with Angie Decker."

"Angie… Right, right, I know Angie. Should I tag Angie? Is that better?"

"It might be." Eve got to her feet. "Thank you for your time, for your cooperation." Eve took out a card, laid it on his cluttered desk. "If you think of anything else, please contact either me or Detective Peabody."

"All right." He looked down at the card, then up at Eve. "They were getting married Saturday. Shauna asked if I'd help seat people. It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like it could be real."

"He felt real," Peabody said when they'd left.

"He did, but I've been in Bojo's. You could walk to the D&D inside fifteen minutes. Let's check the timing, Peabody. He's one of Shauna's good friends—why wouldn't Albright trust him? It also feels as if he'd be the perfect backup to Donna Fleschner."