Encore in Death, page 23
16
She called in more uniforms to transfer everything from the hotel room and into evidence.
Then she took one last scan of the room, because with all they’d found, there was one thing they hadn’t.
Any evidence of the possession or acquisition of cyanide.
“Maybe something on her PPC or ’link,” Eve muttered.
“Are you going to pull in Reo or another APA?” Peabody asked.
“Read her in, let her know we’ll have the suspect in the box within the hour. And you can start talking to the rest of the cleaning crew, get statements. Did she leave with them? If not, why?”
In the hallway, Eve sealed the door. “Let’s check with the bank, see if she got any more funds wired there. No cams on the doors, the lobby, the shitpile elevator. Doubtful anybody paid attention if she had visitors, but we’ll ask.”
The woman currently manning the desk shared a strong family resemblance with the bored nail-filer. Since the odds favored the regular clerk, Peabody paved the way with a sympathetic smile. “How’s your boy?”
“Busted his nose, rattled his teeth, scared the crap out of me. When they hit thirteen, they know everything. Is Ms. Starr coming back?”
“That’s hard to say,” Peabody continued. “For now, we’ve sealed off the room. We’ll let you know.”
The woman leaned over, whispered, “Can you tell me what she did? Something awful?”
“We need to ask her some questions.”
“Luce, my sister, she said she ran like a rabbit. She was pretty excited. Luce, I mean.”
“I bet. Did Ms. Starr have any visitors you know of?”
“I never saw anybody. For sure this ain’t the Roarke Palace, and we got dick-all for security, but I mostly notice who’s what on my shift, and nobody ever asked about her. Chance has short shift, the four-to ten. We don’t have a night man on the desk, just Bower or Clark bunking in the bank for emergencies and the like.”
“Can you give us their contact information so we can check?”
“Sure thing. Craig and I were just talking— Here’s Craig now. I’m saying we were just talking about how that Ms. Starr didn’t have much to say, but what she did was snooty. Like she was too good to be here.”
“Doing us a favor by it,” Craig pitched in. The manager—skinny, mixed-race, late twenties—leaned companionably on the check-in counter. “Paid extra—and complained about it—to have her sheets changed twice a week.”
“Do you know if anybody shared those sheets?” Eve asked.
“Not that I know of, nope. Paid cash for the first week, right, Adele?”
“That’s right. If you want the long-term rate, you pay the first week up front.”
“Did you ever see her wearing a uniform? A gray uniform, like a cleaning person might?”
“No, but … You know, it’s funny you ask that.” Adele pointed at Eve. “Not yesterday … No, the day before that, just as I was walking down to come in for my shift, I saw this woman coming out—tall like Ms. Starr, but blond, and wearing what I’d call a classy maid service uniform. All pressed up. I thought how somebody must’ve checked in after I clocked out, and made up a story in my head.”
“She does that all the time,” Craig commented, and gave Adele a friendly poke in the arm.
“It passes the time. I figure, okay, she checked in last night because she finally left that asshole she’s married to, and now she’s going off to work cleaning somebody’s fancy house.”
She flushed a little. “So I checked the register to see who checked in, but there wasn’t anybody. Then I decided, okay, she left that asshole and she stayed here with somebody who treats her good, and now she’s heading to work.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t see her face because she was heading the other way, but she was blond—had her hair in a braid and all—so it wasn’t Ms. Snooty—I mean, Ms. Starr. I called her the other in my head. Plus, she always dressed fancy, not in something like a cleaning person would.”
“Was she carrying anything?”
“Um, had a big handbag.” She held her hands out about two feet apart.
“About what time was that?”
“Oh, just before eight. I’m on at eight on Mondays. Nobody’s on the desk until eight when I get here.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful. We’ll be in touch.”
“Blond wig in the wig case,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, and long enough to braid. So she leaves before anyone’s on the desk, gets uptown, and when she connects with the rest of the crew, walks right in the penthouse. I’ll take the bank, it’s right across the street there. Start on the other cleaners.”
Eve jogged across the street. In the bank—a space smaller than the take-out-only joint she’d often used pre-Roarke—she badged the security droid. And waited while he scanned her ID.
Both tellers were human, as was the man sitting at a desk behind a half wall scowling into his comp.
Since she didn’t have a warrant—she could get one reasonably fast—she decided to skip the scowl guy and aimed toward the young, perky-looking female behind the shockproof shield.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve began, holding up her badge.
“I knew it! I knew it when you were talking to Mike over there. I said that’s Dallas from the Icove vid. Didn’t I say, Jerry? Didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” The other teller paused in his work to eye Eve carefully.
“I saw the vid three times already. My neighbor was one of the clones—didn’t I say, Jerry? I know it! And didn’t she move out as soon as the vid hit? She did! She said how she was moving to Atlanta, but come on! Totally one of those clones. You’re looking for her, right? That’s why you’re here.”
“Actually, I’m here on another matter. This woman?” Eve held up her ’link with Debra’s ID shot on-screen.
“Is she a clone? I should’ve known! I’ve got an eye for them. She’s been in here three times, hasn’t she, Jerry? No, I lie, four! She came in and opened an account, then she came in three more times. Had people—clones, I bet!—wiring her money. Five thousand each time. I know because I handled two of them. Jerry had the other, isn’t that right, Jerry?”
“I guess, sure.” He hunched on his stool as if trying to make himself invisible.
“It would be very helpful to have that information. The dates of the transactions, the names of the individuals who wired her money.”
“So you can trace the clones!”
Eve decided to let that ride. “She may have opened the account with false identification. If you’d check Debra Bernstein first.”
“That’s it! That’s it! I remember now.”
“Ah, Dory, maybe you should talk to Mr. Jabbot before you—”
But Dory was already busy accessing the account. “Jerry, this is Dallas! Get a grip. Okay, she opened the account on June nineteenth with a hundred dollars. That’s the minimum. And the next day, a Maeve Spindal wired her five thousand, and she took all but another hundred out in cash. Then two days later, another five thousand from Steven K. Lewis, and she took all but the hundred in cash. Then! Last Friday, another five from David Quaid, and she took it all in cash.”
“That’s very helpful.” Since, in Eve’s mind, you respected the streak, she pushed it. “Could I get a copy of the account information for my files?”
“Absolutely!”
“Dory, you can’t just—”
“Stuff it, Jerry. This isn’t just police business. It’s humanity’s business. Humanity, Jerry!”
She printed out a copy, slid it to Eve through the slot. “The other clone who used to live across the hall? She went by Nessa Bowie.”
“Very helpful,” Eve repeated. “Thank you.”
“I heard they’re making a sequel to the vid, but it’s not about clones. You should really think about making another one about clones.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Weird, Eve thought as she got the hell out. But if the damn vid cut through some bullshit, who would she be if she didn’t take advantage?
Across the street, Peabody leaned against the car, still talking on her ’link. Eve jogged up the clanging steps to join her.
“Yes, thank you, Ms. Gretzy. Best of luck to your grandson at the Academy.”
She beamed at Eve as she pocketed her ’link. “Aileen Gretzy’s grandson’s going into the Police Academy. She’s worked for the cleaning service for eighteen years, and, as their most experienced employee, worked with Bernstein on Monday. She was very informative.”
“Great. I also hit a very informative. You go first,” she added as they got in the car.
“I spoke with the owner first, and she confirmed they’d checked all Ms. Rose’s—Debra Rose’s—credentials, references, work history. So I’d say she had some help on that end. She assigned her to the Lane-Fitzhugh job, under Ms. Gretzy’s supervision, because she had such solid references and so on, had a pleasant, dignified manner and appearance. Plus, timing. She needed additional help for that job, and Debra popped at just the right time.”
“Bet she did.”
“However, Debra was assigned to another job today, and was a no-show, and her contact number has been closed.”
“See my shock and surprise.”
“Gretzy said Debra worked hard and well—no complaints. Not especially chatty, but friendly enough, and said she was starting over in New York to be closer to her own mother, and her daughter, an actress.
“When they were leaving, Debra remembered she’d left her bag behind in the third-floor storage room where the cleaning crew stowed their personal items. Gretzy offered to wait, but Debra insisted she go on, and since the others were anxious to call it a day, they all left.”
“And she didn’t. Found that bolt-hole, waited it out. This is good information.”
“It ranks. What did you get?”
Eve braked at a light, watched the tidal wave of pedestrians roll by. “A teller who’d seen the vid three times. Her former neighbor’s a clone. She’s sure of it.”
“Oh.”
“In this case, it opened the gates. I’m pretty sure she’d have given me the codes to the vault if I’d asked, because humanity.”
On the green, Eve pushed south.
“Bernstein opened an account with the minimum deposit the same day she checked into the hotel. In the last ten days, she’s gotten three five-thousand-dollar payments wired to that account. I’ve got a printout of all the transactions in my back pocket.”
“She gave you a printout?”
“It’s humanity’s business, Peabody.”
Peabody shifted in her seat. “Did you tell her Debra was a clone?”
“No, I did not. She may have jumped to that conclusion, and as I have no conclusive data at this time one way or the other, I felt it inappropriate to confirm or deny.”
“Sneaky.”
Eve shrugged. “Dory the teller claims to have an eye for them. Clones. I suspect that eye may fall on her coworker Jerry at any time. Regardless, I got the data. Of the fifteen thousand one hundred dollars, Debra left three hundred in said account. I imagine she intended to close said account before she took off.”
“We didn’t find any cash in the room.”
“If she has any left, it’s probably in Evidence now.” She pulled into Central’s garage. “I’m going to see if I can get a quick consult with Mira. You head up, write this up, copy Whitney.”
She tugged the printout from her pocket as they crossed the garage. “We’ll run these other two idiots who sent her money, determine if they’re marks or accomplices.”
“David Quaid,” Peabody read. “I know that name, I know it.”
When they reached the elevator, she started to pull out her PPC and check. A couple of detectives Eve recognized from Fraud hotfooted over.
“Hold the door! Hold it. LT, Peabody.”
“Detectives Stringer, Nalley.”
“Fitzhugh murder, right? Damn shame.”
“I’m hearing that a lot.”
“My first ex-wife’s cousin had parts in two of his vids. Got lines and everything in the second one,” Stringer added.
“What was he doing Monday night between twenty-one hundred and twenty-three hundred hours?”
Stringer barked out a laugh. “He’s doing a western in Montana or somewhere out there. Good guy. We keep in touch.”
“David Quaid,” Peabody said again, as she started the search.
“Pretty good character actor in his day,” Stringer commented. “Gotta be past the century mark by now.”
“Quaid or your first ex-wife’s cousin?”
“Quaid. Jesse hasn’t hit forty.”
Everyone shuffled back or to the side as more cops piled on.
“That’s it! I knew I knew that name. David Quaid—he’s a hundred and eleven. Career spanned seventy-five years, and yeah, he’s got a filmography a mile long. Retired now, living in County Mayo, where he played Doc Justice, the irascible uncle to Willa Rogan’s amateur sleuth, Honor Muldoon, in the long-running series Honor and Justice. I’ve seen that show in reruns, like a million times. It’s comfort food, and really pretty.”
“Find the tie to Bernstein,” Eve ordered, and shoved off on Mira’s level.
She expected to get grief from the dragon at Mira’s gates, and got a steely stare from same when she walked into the outer office.
“I need five minutes.”
“Many do. Is this regarding the Brant Fitzhugh investigation?”
“It is.”
She tapped her earpiece. “Dr. Mira, Lieutenant Dallas would like five minutes, if possible. Of course.” She tapped again.
“You can go right in.”
Torn between suspicion and shock, Eve sent the admin a long look. “A fan? Of Fitzhugh’s?”
“He was my hall pass.”
“Oh. Okay.” She sort of wished she’d skipped that information as she walked into Mira’s office.
“Your timing’s good. I just finished a consult. Let me get us some tea.”
“Honestly, it’ll only take a few minutes. We brought in a suspect. Rose Bernstein’s mother.”
“Well.” Mira stayed behind her desk, but swiveled her chair, crossed her legs. She wore a sleeveless sheath the color, Eve imagined, you got when you added just the right amount of melted butter to cream. “That’s quick work. You established she was on scene?”
“We’ve established she faked her way into the apartment with the cleaning crew who worked that morning. She didn’t leave with them. I’m going to check the security feed to confirm her time in, to establish her time out of the building. We found Eliza Lane’s Tony for the original Upstage in Bernstein’s luggage in her hotel room. Also a collection of wigs—she wore a blond one when she posed as a cleaner—a large collection of makeup, face putty, and so on. A master swipe, burglary tools, several fake IDs under various names, her maid’s uniform that was provided by the company who hired her.”
“Nothing on the poison itself?”
“Not yet, but she had fifteen thousand in cash, that we know of. Five thousand each wired to her here in New York in the last ten days from three sources.
“Let me run by you what we know about her from research and statements.”
She outlined the background, the observations on her relationship with her daughter, Peabody’s conversation with the agent, the boyfriend, the behavior toward her daughter’s stepsister at Rose’s funeral, and the observations of the primary on Rose Bernstein’s murder.
Mira listened in her calm way as she gently swiveled back and forth behind the desk.
“You’re wondering if, in my opinion, the revival of Upstage pushed Debra Bernstein from a life of, by all accounts, doggedly pursuing fame and fortune—and the spotlight—of assuming other identities to potentially cheat, steal, or con her way into some fame, some fortune, into murder.”
“Could it?”
“Her daughter’s talent opened the doors to what Debra wanted. It must have been shocking and infuriating to have her own child, one I’m sure she believed then, believes now, she sacrificed everything for, shut those doors.”
“And with the OD, shut them permanently.”
“Yes. Their last conversation, argument, encounter, may very well have caused Rose—under professional stress, struggling with addiction—to reach for the crutch she’d used before. There may be part of the mother that knows that, fears that, and can’t face that.”
“Maybe.”
“Admitting it would mean accepting some responsibility and blame, something she isn’t equipped to do. Others must be blamed. The boyfriend, the understudy, even the younger sister who mourned. She’s a narcissist, and though I’d need to do a deeper evaluation to confirm, I suspect borderline personality. She must be the center—and while she could bask in the reflected glory of her daughter’s talent, she needed to be the center of her daughter’s life.
“A boyfriend, a sister who had talent of her own?” Mira shook her head. “Competition for Debra as she’d see it. ‘You can’t give them what’s mine.’ With Rose gone, Debra could reestablish herself, rewrite their relationship, become the center of the daughter who was taken from her.”
“And twenty-five years later?”
Idly, Mira hooked a finger around the gold chain she wore with its circles of pale multicolored stones.
“To go through so many ruses to get into Lane’s home, to actually spend time cleaning it? It certainly wasn’t whim or impulse. Nor was taking that award, that specific thing. Not Eliza Lane’s Tony in her mind, not even so much her daughter’s by this time.”
“Hers.”
“Her reward for all the years of sacrifice. As for murder? There’s a reason a certain type chooses poison. It has the illusion of being nonviolent. It’s bloodless. It requires no direct physical contact. It calls on cunning rather than brute strength. From your statements, background, observations, I’d say her conscience is very flexible.”
“Yeah, flexible’s a word,” Eve said, and made Mira smile.
“Killing Eliza Lane, and doing it in a way, on a stage, before an audience, and taking the award, it’s very consistent with that flexibility, and pathology.”
