Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(93)

“You made it sound urgent. Are those doughnuts?”

Peabody, unable to speak with a mouth full of cream, nodded.

“Detectives Peabody and McNab thought they were called for,” Eve told him.

“When aren’t they?” Whitney selected a jelly, topped with sprinkles. But the board caught his eye before he could sample. In silence he studied the data, the pattern.

“Nine?”

“Yes, sir. It’s possible there are more, but these dates, times, circumstances I can verify. I’m expecting Doctor Mira, Captain Feeney, APA Reo, and would like to brief everyone on the data and my conclusions at once.”

“Yes. Kyung will join us here at oh-nine-hundred. I can bump that time if you need more.”

“Hopefully not.”

Whitney shook his head. “This is a shit storm.”

A lot of that going around, Eve thought.

She stayed out of the way as Feeney came in, reacted enthusiastically to the doughnuts, then stood munching one as he studied the board. Mira and Reo came in together, and Eve heard a snippet of their continued conversation about a shoe sale.

Eve waited as each caught the board, as Mira accepted the cup of tea Peabody brought her. As she sat, sipped, studied.

Eve judged the timing, then walked up to the board, faced the room.

“The data, my gut, and a probability of seventy-three-point-eight say that Joel Steinburger killed the nine individuals on these boards. Motives may be murky as yet, but beginning with Bryson Kane, when the victim and the suspect were twenty and twenty-one respectively, the suspect had received a warning of imminent academic suspension due to spotty attendance and failing grades. While records show the suspect’s attendance did not significantly improve, he went from near suspension to honors list in a four-week period.”

“You figure he cheated,” Feeney commented.

“I do. I figure he paid the victim, who was a straight honors student, to write his papers, crib any tests or exams. I believe the victim either wanted to stop or asked for more money. They argued, and the suspect pushed him down the stairs. The suspect’s grades dipped sharply for the three weeks after his roommate’s death. This was put down to natural emotional upheaval at the time. I call bullshit. His grades dipped because he killed his source. He had to find another.”

“How do you prove it?” Reo asked her.

“By analyzing financial data from that period. By interviewing the other roommates, instructors, students.

“Second victim,” she continued. “His fiancée’s wealthy, influential great-grandfather, and the suspect’s boss. At his death, the great-granddaughter—who married the suspect—came into a considerable inheritance. And from the pattern that emerges here, the suspect has a fondness for women.”

“A cheat’s a cheat,” Feeney commented. “He cheats on the girlfriend, Granddaddy finds out, tells him to blow.”

“That’s the one I like,” Eve agreed. “The suspect ends up with a wealthy wife, a solid position at the studio, and the potential to become heir apparent.

“Victim three,” Eve said and worked her way down.

She juggled data and theories, answered questions, reasserted time lines.

“Considering the length of time we’re dealing with,” Reo began, “it would take a miracle to access all the data. The financial records, travel, wit statements. Much less locate and interview all parties involved. Then we have to jog, and trust those memories and impressions.”

“So he keeps getting away with it, because he scatters his kills, changes his method. Nine people—maybe more—are dead because Joel Steinburger wanted them that way. Because he wanted money or sex or fame or a reputation he’d never earned. They’re dead because he wanted the easy way to the red carpet, the media spotlight, the power chamber of a glamorous industry. And he wanted all the benefits that go with it. The money again, the sex, the envy of others.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Dallas. But you’ve got pattern—a logical pattern, a convincing one. You don’t have evidence.”

“We’ll get it.”

“How close are you to getting him for K.T. Harris and/or Asner?”

“Closer than I was. Closer still when you put them together with the others—when you see the pattern. Get me a warrant to search his residence, his office, his vehicle. Get me one to confiscate and search his electronics.”

“And would you like me to get you a pony while I’m at it?” The Southern in Reo’s voice went to steel. “Where’s the cause? The judge and any decent lawyer, which believe me Steinburger will have a fleet of, will point out that many men in their sixties can be connected to nine deaths over the course of their lives. That only one of these cases was designated homicide, for which the individual charged was convicted. I can get a judge to look at this, to see what you see, what I’m damn well seeing, too. And we still won’t get a search warrant.”

“So that’s it?” Eve shot back. “You don’t even try.”

“Of course I’m going to try. Damn it. I want to put this creepy bastard away for the rest of his life. I’m telling you we’re going to get a big, fat, solid no on a search warrant.”

Eve paced away.

“I’ll talk to your boss,” Whitney told Reo, “and as many judges as it takes. If Doctor Mira will reprofile. If you have some thoughts on this, Doctor Mira.”