Down the Rabbit Hole Page 2

  She saw her parents dancing by a silver lake and, laughing, flew toward them.

  And flying, never felt the fall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Instead of enjoying a rare night off sprawled out with her ridiculously sexy husband watching a vid where lots of stuff blew up, Eve Dallas stood over death.

  She’d pulled rank—a favor for a friend—to take primary on what, on the surface, struck as a murder/suicide. Sibling rivalry taken to extremes.

  The friend was currently in the kitchen area of the crime scene—the swank Upper East Side penthouse of the late Marcus Elliot Fitzwilliams—with her own pretty sexy husband. And the uniformed cop who kept them in place.

  Eve studied the silver shears deeply embedded in the victim’s chest. Cause of death might have been apparent, but she opened her field kit, crouched to do her job.

  “Visual identification of Fitzwilliams, Marcus, confirmed with print match on scene. Victim is thirty-six, single Caucasian male, owner and only listed resident of this unit. Employed CEO and president of Fitzwilliams Worldwide.”

  She took out microgoggles, lifted one of the victim’s hands with her own sealed ones. “No visible defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. COD, three puncture wounds to the chest. ME to confirm.”

  Bled out right here, she thought.

  “An attempt to resuscitate the victim resulted in some compromising of the scene.”

  Rising, she crossed over to the open terrace door, studied the bloody palm print on the glass. Running it, she ID’d the victim’s sister. Who was even now splatted on the sidewalk below.

  Eve stepped out into the cold, looked down to the street, the police barricades, the crowd lined up behind them.

  The icy wind dragged at her short, choppy brown hair, had her sticking her hands in the pockets of her long leather coat to warm them.

  “Long drop,” she muttered.

  And since she’d gotten a report from the first-on-scene, she knew Darlene Fitzwilliams had taken that long drop less than ten minutes after the doorman had let her into the building.

  She’d talk to the doorman herself, but for now . . .

  She wandered back inside. “She comes in. Not much time for an argument or to get heated up. Plus, who carries a pair of scissors that size in a handbag? Stabs the brother in the heart, three times, walks over, goes outside, jumps.”

  Eve scanned the room.

  Rich, tasteful, with some humorous touches, like the pencil sketch of a frog wearing a crown.

  She’d have her partner do a solid run on both of the dead, and the family business, when Peabody got there. But for now, she’d get a sense of things from Doctor Louise Dimatto and Charles Monroe.

  The kitchen—a lot of steel and glass—flowed into a lounge area—lots of leather and wood. Charles and Louise sat hip-to-hip on a long, low sofa the color of fog. He had his arm around her shoulders; she had her head tipped toward him.

  She’d changed her hair, Eve noted, wearing the gentle blond in a straight, chin-length deal, sharply angled.

  And she’d been crying, which made Eve uneasy.

  While Louise looked delicate, Eve knew her to be tough as they came, strong enough to defy her wealthy, conservative family and start her own clinic, run a mobile medical that serviced some of the diciest areas in the city.

  But now she was pale and puffy-eyed, and fresh blood stained her elegant blue sweater.

  Her eyes, nearly the same color as the sofa, met Eve’s.

  “Dallas. I couldn’t save him. Marcus. I couldn’t save him.”

  Eve nodded to the uniform standing by to dismiss her, then, nudging a shallow bowl of wooden balls aside, sat on the table to face her friend.

  “I’m sorry. You knew Marcus Fitzwilliams.”

  “We’ve known each other since we were kids. We even dated awhile. Our families . . . There was some hope we’d make a match of it, but we didn’t suit that way. We’ve been friends for most of our lives. You met him—Marcus and Darlene and their parents—you met them at the wedding.”

  “Okay.” Eve had a vague recollection of the man she’d just examined dancing with Louise, lifting her off her feet with a laugh, spinning her around.

  “It was only a few weeks later—we were just back from our honeymoon, Charles and I—when Gareth and Bria, Marcus’s parents, were killed.”

  “How?”

  “It was an accident.” Charles spoke now, using his free hand to grip Louise’s. “Rain-slick road, a semi lost control, overturned. Eight people were killed, the Fitzwilliams among them.”

  “They were so close,” Louise murmured. “It crushed Marcus and Darlene.”

  “Take me through tonight.”

  “We were coming over, just for drinks. To catch up. We’ve all been so busy, and we wanted to catch up with each other.” She closed her eyes. “And he wanted to talk to me about Darlene—as a doctor.”

  “Why?”

  “He was worried about her. She wasn’t coping well. She’d closed off from friends—I can’t count the times she’s put me off in the last few months. There’s considerable to deal with, the business, the estate, but Marcus told me she was dragging her heels at every turn. She’s engaged—a great guy—but she’d been drawing back from Henry, too. She’d been secretive. Darlene’s always been so open—naively so, really—but that changed.”

  “And that caused friction between them, between the siblings?”

  “Some, yes. But not—” Louise shook her head, took a steadying breath. “They loved each other, Dallas, they’re friends as well as family. Darlene was going through a difficult period. They argued. Marcus told me they had a shouting match just today when—”

  “Today?”

  “She missed an appointment, regarding the estate. And not for the first time. An estate is complex and broad-based and takes a lot of time and work to handle. Marcus felt, and I agree, that settling it, closing it, was important for Darlene. It would help her reach some sort of closure. But she put up a lot of roadblocks. She’d say . . .”

  “She’d say what?”

  “She’d say she needed to talk to her parents before she signed off on anything.”

  “Her dead parents.” Sitting back a little, Eve laid her hands on her thighs. “Was she using?”

  Louise sighed. “I’ve never known her to, and I’ve known her most of her life. Henry—her fiancé—told me she was using some sleep aids. Herbal-based, nothing heavy.”

  The scene, Eve thought, and the players in it read loud and clear. “She argued with her brother today, came here tonight. You were coming over. As far as you know she wasn’t expected.”

  “She wasn’t. She was supposed to meet Henry for dinner, about eight. I hate how this sounds, but he was going to contact me, let me know her mood. We thought a kind of intervention. If it seemed right, Henry would bring her over here, and we’d talk to her together. All of us who loved her.”

  “Henry Boyle. Where is he now?”

  “You said I couldn’t contact anyone, so . . .” Tears rose up in Louise’s eyes again. “He must be waiting for her. He doesn’t know she’s— I know how it looks.” Some of that toughness came through as Louise leaned forward, gripped Eve’s hands. “I know it looks as if Darlene came here and killed Marcus, then herself. It’s not how it looks. I knew them, Dallas. There’s something else here.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “About . . . eight fifteen, eight twenty?” She looked at Charles for confirmation.

  “Yes, close to that. When our cab pulled up there was already a crowd, people shouting. The doorman told us it had just happened. Just minutes before. He was pretty shaken up, told us he’d just spoken with her about ten minutes earlier, and she’d gone up to see Marcus.”

  “There was nothing I could do for her.” Louise drew in a breath. “Nothi
ng I could do.”

  “We ran in,” Charles continued, “both of us thinking of Marcus. Security let us up—they know us, came with us. Marcus didn’t answer, so they bypassed.”

  “He was on the floor. I tried to— Maybe if I’d had my medical bag.”

  “Louise.” Charles pressed his lips to her hair.

  Turning into him, she squeezed her eyes shut. “No, I couldn’t have brought him back. He was gone, but I had to try.” She looked down at the blood on her sweater. “He was family to me. They were family.”

  “We contacted you,” Charles said. “Right away. We didn’t touch anything but . . . but Marcus, and contacted you.”

  “Was Marcus involved with anyone?”

  “No, not right now. For the last several months, he’s been focused on the family business, the estate, the Fitzwilliams Foundation.”

  “Who gets the money now?”

  “I don’t know.” Because her voice was thick, Louise cleared her throat. “There are aunts, uncles, cousins. Many of them are involved in the business, the foundation.”

  “Do you know who I’d talk to about that?”

  “Ah, probably Gia Gregg—the family attorney. My family’s, too. She’d know.”

  “Enemies?”

  Louise shook her head. “I can give you a list of friends, family. I don’t know enemies—though I’m sure he had a few. He was a tough and exacting businessman. He’d been groomed to run the family empire, and he didn’t suffer fools. Someone set this up, Dallas. Someone set this up to make it look as if Darlene killed him, then herself. I’m telling you, that’s impossible.”

  Eve pushed to her feet. “Make me a list. Friends, exes, family, coworkers. Anyone you can think of, and their connection to both Marcus and Darlene. I’m going to have you taken home.”

  “Home? But—”

  “There’s nothing you can do here.” Harsh as it was, it was true. “You called me for a reason, now trust me to take care of your friends.”

  “I do.” Clinging to Charles’s hand, Louise rose. “I trust you’ll find out who’s responsible for what happened here. You need to trust me. What you see here is a cover.”

  She rode down with them, arranged for a black-and-white to drive them home.

  Then she ducked under the barricade. As she approached the body, Peabody pushed her way through the crowd of gawkers.

  “Sorry, Dallas. Twenty-minute delay on the subway.” Peabody pulled her pink and green hat—with bounding pom-pom—farther over her dark flip of hair as she studied what was left of Darlene Fitzwilliams. “Wow. Long drop.”

  “Fifty-second floor.”

  “Really long.”

  “I gave her a cursory look when I came on scene, so I’ll finish her. I’ve already done the one upstairs—her brother. Multiple stab wounds, heart area. Big pair of scissors. Talk to the doorman again, see if he wavers in his statement. He says he talked to the sister here, let her go up to see her brother. Some ten minutes later, she came down, the hard way. Security—along with Charles and Louise—”

  Peabody’s head swiveled back. “Charles and Louise?”

  “They were coming to visit the brother—old family friends of Louise’s. He was dead when they went in.”

  “Oh man.” Peabody’s dark eyes reflected sympathy. “Are they still here?”

  “I just sent them home. This one has a fiancé I need to contact who’s apparently waiting for her. She’s going to be really late for dinner.”

  “I’ll say.” Peabody tipped her head back, looked up. “Murder/suicide.”

  “It sure as hell looks like it. Louise gauges that as impossible. Talk to the doorman, any other wits you can find. We treat it as undetermined until otherwise.”

  Opening her field kit, she knelt beside the shattered body, and put aside what it sure as hell looked like.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eve officially identified the body, determined time of death—within two minutes of the first victim. Cause of death was brutally apparent, but the ME would determine if there were other injuries, injuries incurred before flesh and bone met concrete.

  No sign of struggle, no break-in, she thought. If the doorman stuck to his story, he’d opened the door for Marcus approximately two hours before his death.

  No one except the sister had come calling.

  The apartment security showed only the sister at the door, only she going inside.

  Sitting back on her heels, Eve played it through.

  Sister, depressed, unable to cope with parents’ sudden death, friction with brother. Arguments, including one that day. Suffers a breakdown, goes to brother’s apartment, stabs him, crosses over to the terrace doors—leaving a bloody handprint—walks out, climbs up, jumps off.

  She could see it, just that clearly. And she could hear Louise’s voice telling her it wasn’t possible.

  “Okay, Louise.”

  Who else had motive? A lot of money and power at stake. The murder weapon. Determine if the scissors belonged to the sister, the brother, or who else. Tox report. Maybe, despite Louise’s belief, the sister leaned on illegals to get her through.

  Who else had access to the penthouse?

  “Bag her,” she ordered the waiting morgue attendants, and started to rise when she saw something in a pool of blood.

  “Hold it.” She pulled out tweezers and lifted bits of shattered plastic, and what she recognized as a mini lens, in pieces.

  Just why would Darlene Fitzwilliams have worn a recorder? Eve wondered as she sealed the bloody pieces into evidence.

  Sealed bag in hand, she pushed to her feet. “Tag her for Morris—flag tox as priority. Same with the one inside.”

  Peabody jogged back to her. “The doorman’s solid on it. He did say she looked a little off—distracted. And I talked to this couple who got in the elevator on fifty-two as she got out. They live on that floor, know both the DBs. They said she looked right through them even when they spoke to her. Like she was in a trance.”

  “She was wearing a mini recorder.” Eve held up the evidence bag.

  “It didn’t handle the fall any better than she did. Why would she have been wearing one?”

  “Good question. When did the wits see her?”

  “They passed just a few minutes before she came down—without the elevator. They ended up walking about a block when the woman remembered she’d forgotten the little gift she’d gotten for the friends they were meeting. So they backtracked. They hit the lobby about the same time she hit the pavement.”

  “I’ve flagged her tox, given that a push. Have the Electronic Detection Division go over all the electronics, including security. Let’s take another pass upstairs, and I want another look at his feed, her at the door.”

  As they started toward the lobby, Eve turned in the direction of shouting, saw a man struggling against the two uniforms who held him back.

  After passing the evidence bag to Peabody, Eve crossed over to the barricade. “What’s the problem?”

  “Lieutenant, this guy—”

  “Darlene! Let me through, goddamn it, I need to see Darlene. The media flash said— Darli!”

  “Who are you?”

  He stopped fighting long enough to catch his wind, but his eyes remained wild. “I’m Henry Boyle. I’m Darlene Fitzwilliams’s fiancé. Let me through.”

  “Mr. Boyle, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You need to calm down and come with me.”

  “I want to see Darlene.”

  Eve nodded to the uniforms, who let Henry through the barricade.

  “I want to know what’s going on. I need to—” He stopped dead, every ounce of color leaching from his face as he saw the body bag being lifted into the back of the dead wagon. “Who is that? What’s happening?”

  Eve took a firm grip on his arm, pulled him toward the lobby doors and ins
ide. She took him to the far side, ordered him to sit.

  “Go up, get started,” she told Peabody. “I’ll take him. When the sweepers get here, make sure they take that recorder, get it to the lab.”

  “Are you sure you want him? He’s going to break.”

  “Yeah. I got it.” She dragged over another chair, sat facing Henry Boyle.

  He already knew. He was clinging to the slippery thread of denial, Eve thought, but he already knew. She cut the thread, fast.

  “Mr. Boyle, I’m sorry to tell you that Darlene and Marcus Fitzwilliams are dead.”

  “That’s not possible. I’m meeting Darlene for dinner. She’s running late, and the media flash said . . .”

  He looked toward the doors, the lights, the barricades, the body bag.

  “Oh God.” He started to lurch up. “Darlene.”

  “Sit.” Eve pulled him down again.

  “The media flash said murder/suicide. That’s insane. That’s absolutely insane.”

  Goddamn leaks, Eve thought. “We haven’t determined murder or suicide. Where were you between eight and eight thirty?”

  “What? I don’t know. What time is it?” He looked at his wrist unit, and started to shake. “In the restaurant. In KiKi’s—it’s on Third. She was late, she didn’t answer her ’link. Marcus didn’t answer his. Darlene . . .”

  “When did you last speak to her?”

  “This morning, before I left for work. We live together. We’re getting married. We haven’t set the date, but . . .”

  Tears rolled. Eve thought his eyes were still too shocked to realize they wept, so the tears just spilled down his cheeks.

  “How would you describe her mood?”

  “She’s been struggling—her parents’ death. But she seemed a little steadier this morning. But we talked later, on the ’link, and she was upset. She and Marcus had an argument. She hadn’t gone to the lawyer’s office for the estate meeting. She’d promised him she’d be there, and she hadn’t gone. Papers needed to be signed, so Marcus was frustrated. I spoke with him, too. Mediating, I guess. They’d never hurt each other, not this way.”