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“What are friends for?”
Eve stood in the master bedroom of Steinburger’s apartment. She listened to Feeney’s roundup of Nadine’s interview while Roarke searched the dressing area.
Together with the search team, they’d already picked their way over the living area, the dining area, office, kitchen, even the terrace.
She had higher hopes for the second floor, but so far they’d scored a fat zero.
“Okay. Keep me in it,” she told him, then stuck her communicator back in her pocket.
“He told Nadine he was heading home—tired, long day—but he tagged a friend—some other producer, talked him into drinks and dinner out.”
“So we’ve more time before he gets here and expresses his outrage.”
“Yeah. Could be he wanted company. Could be he wanted an alibi. Nadine did a number on him, according to Feeney. Tied the dead ex-wife, the pregnant lover into it—even the business partner, college pal, and first wife’s great-grandfather. Made him sweat.”
Roarke glanced over as she came in. “Which you’ll enjoy watching, but that’s not what’s got that glint in your eye.”
“He asked her to go off-record. All keyed up. She’s smart, she had her camera turned off, but didn’t voice an agreement. Lawyers might quibble about the wire but we had a warrant for it. Anyway, he tried to play her, how
he might know something, how he’s worried he knows something, but can’t say. Won’t cast stones at his friends, and so on.”
“You think he’s picked his patsy.”
“I think he’s got to move on it pretty soon, yeah. I shook him with the imminent arrest, then Nadine piles it on. But better yet, he slipped. Trying to cover for this alleged friend, he said Harris would still be alive if she hadn’t gone up to the roof to smoke.”
Roarke paused, lifted a shoulder. “That’s true enough and a matter of record.”
“But the zoner isn’t a matter of record. And he brought it in. How the combination of herbal and zoner reeks—his term.”
“Foolish to let his abhorrence of the habit slip him up. Still, not to put a damper on that glint, if it was common knowledge she mixed in illegals, it’s not particularly damning.”
“It keeps adding up. One after another, he said, too. If he wasn’t up there, how does he know she went through multiple, laced herbals inside the dome? She tripped him up some on the pregnant lover, too. Little trips. They add up to a fall.”
She turned, walked back to the bedroom. “He’s organized—in how he thinks, how he lives, how he works. How he kills. Not obsessively so, but careful. Still, there are little things. Too many sex enhancements and toys.”
“Can there be too many?”
“From his supply, he’s never met one he didn’t like. Sex is power. He’s got his awards and kudos in every single room. He has to see them wherever he goes in here. He’s got files of what appears to be every article, blurb, mention, photo with his name or face in it throughout his career. We’ve got his B.B. Joel account on his comps here, just as you predicted.”
“Which should help making the embezzlement connection, when I get my fingers into it again. Until then, it’s simply a secondary account—taxes meticulously paid.”
Damned if he wasn’t dulling her glint. But she pushed on. “And there’s the file you found, with background checks, deep bio on everyone involved in this project—right down to the last gofer—that’s power-tripping again.”
“But not illegal.”
“No, not illegal.”
“But this might be.”
“What have you got?” She pounced, nearly bowled him over as he turned.
“Easy, darling. False bottom in this cabinet, and beneath that a small safe drawer. Which I’ve handily opened. And in that—”
“Codes. Pass codes, swipe cards, keys—all nicely labeled. Here’s the code for the marina gate, for the boat security. Oh, baby. Codes for Roundtree’s home, studio office, his vehicle.”
“You may have found your patsy.”
“Can’t use Roundtree but his wife’s a strong possible. Still, there’s a lot of other people in here. That’s the pal he called tonight.” She gestured. “That’s his home’s pass code, swipe card for the guy’s country club locker. Codes for all the trailers, as far as I can tell, being used on this production.”
