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“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 deci
des, ‘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.”
