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“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 skywalk 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.”
