Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(67)

“Nothing,” Peabody confirmed. “No wrist unit either. No pocket ’link on him, or memo book, no weapon.”

“There’s a jacket on the floor over there, under that peg. Check it, then the desk. Tried to make it look like a robbery,” Eve continued, “the way they tried to make Harris look like accidental drowning. Make-believe, but not convincing if you know squat about police work.”

“Because we’re not idiots,” Peabody confirmed. “Nothing in the jacket. A couple of wrapped mints on the floor, like maybe they were in the pocket.” She moved onto the desk as Eve sat back on her heels.

“The vic got a hundred K, but he kept the original recording. Just couldn’t resist. Maybe a little more to make here, he thinks. From who? He has to figure Harris is going to hit Marlo and Matthew. Would he try a double dip there? Or would he try for another interested party?”

“I guess we find out what all interested parties were doing right around eleven-thirty last night.”

“That would be good information.”

“They’re all probably at the studio. Preston contacted me last night to tell me they’re scheduled to shoot my scene on Saturday, and if I had any time free, I could swing in, take a look at some wardrobe today.”

“You’re still doing that?”

“Well …” Peabody stopped sifting through the debris on and around the desk. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

“No reason not to. If we don’t have this nailed down by then, cops playact with killers all the time.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. McNab’s going with me. They may sneak him into a scene, too. And I can handle some wussy smash-from-behind Hollywood killer. Buffing up on hand-to-hand, remember?” She flexed her right biceps.

“When you’re picking out wardrobe, pick out something that can handle your weapon, or an ankle piece.”

“Good idea. No memo or appointment book, no pocket ’link, no recording.”

“Keep looking. I’ll take reception.”

She’d barely started when the uniforms arrived. She sent them both out to canvass the building and a two-block radius. The killer had hauled out electronics, which meant he’d had transportation or a partner with same. So he’d had to park, and make at least two trips up and back. They’d see how late the restaurant on the street level operated, and the tattoo parlor. She had no doubt the sketchy-looking bar would have been open and doing business at the killing hour.

She looked up again at the click, click, click of heels in the corridor—the giggle, and the lower male laugh.

Eve moved to the door, stepped out to see Barbie in a red skirt barely bigger than a dinner napkin, doing the hair-toss, eyelash-bat routine for the benefit of a lanky, lantern-jawed guy in a wrinkled suit.

Bobbie, Eve presumed. It appeared they’d done more than have a drink.

Still giggling, Barbie turned her head, and this time batted her lashes in surprise. “Oh. You’re back.”

“Yeah.”

“A let you in? I didn’t expect him so early. I came early ’cause I felt a little guilty about leaving before closing yesterday.”

“Did you speak to Mr. Asner after my partner and I left?”

“No. He never tagged back, so I just v-mailed I was closing up.” She bit her lip. “Is he mad? I didn’t think he’d care since—”

“No, he’s not mad. I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Asner was murdered last night.”

“What? What?” She screeched the second what. “A doesn’t get murdered. He’s a professional.”

“It appears he came in with, or let someone into his office last night. He was struck on the back of the head with the statue of a black bird.”

“Birdie! No. Are you sure, are you sure? Because A can take care of himself. He shouldn’t be dead.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“But—but.” Tears erupted like spurts of lava, rolled down her face as she turned it in to her companion’s chest. “Bobbie.”

“Robert Willoughby. I’m an attorney. My office,” he added, gestured to the neighboring door. “I know you need to ask, so I’ll save you time. Barbie and I left the building around four-thirty, went over to the Blue Squirrel for a drink, stayed for a couple of sets. I think it was about seven when we left, and caught dinner at Padua, a little Italian place on Mott. We decided to make a night of it, and went for music and drinks at Adalaide’s. I guess we stayed till about midnight, then we …”

“We went back to my place.” She sniffled. “We can do that. We’re not married or anything—to other people, I mean. Bobbie, somebody killed A.”

“I know. Why don’t you go in my office, honey, and sit down?”

“Can I?” she asked Eve. “I feel really bad.”

“Sure.”

Bobbie unlocked the door, settled her in, then stepped out again. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Literally.”

“I’ve no reason to believe she had anything to do with Mr. Asner’s death.”

“You said he let somebody in, or came in with someone. So it wasn’t a break-in.”

“There’s no evidence of a break-in, but we can’t rule it out at this stage.”