The uniform who was sitting miserably beside the man glanced over at Eve, started to speak.
Eve shook her head quickly, keeping her badge in plain sight. She gestured toward the ceiling, cocking her head in question.
He nodded, jerked his thumb up, then shook his head.
Eve slipped back out. She wanted to see the body, view the scene before she dealt with the witness.
There were several rooms off the second floor. Still, it was simple enough to find her way. She simply followed the trail of blood. She stepped into a bedroom. Here the scheme was soft greens and blues, so that it felt like floating underwater. The bed was an oblong of blue satin sheets, mountained with pillows.
There was statuary here as well, of the classic nude variety. Drawers were built into the walls, giving it an uncluttered—and to Eve—an unlived-in appearance. The ocean blue carpet was soft as a cloud and spotted with blood.
She followed the trail into the master bath. Death didn’t shock her, but it appalled her, and she knew it always would: the waste of it, the violence and cruelty of it. But she lived with it too much to be shocked, even by this.
Blood had spurted, showered, streamed on gleaming tiles of ivory and seafoam green. It had fountained over glass, pooled over the mirrored floor from the gaping wound in the wrist of the hand that hung limply over the lip of a huge clear-sided tub.
The water inside was a dark, nasty pink, and the metallic
smell of blood hung in the air. Music was playing, something with strings—perhaps a harp. Fat white candles had been lighted and still burned at both the foot and the head of the long oval tub.
The body that lay in that cloudy pink water had its head resting on a gilt-edged bath pillow, its gaze lifted and fixed on the feathery tails of a fern that hung from the mirrored ceiling. He was smiling, as if he’d been desperately amused to watch himself die.
It didn’t shock her, but she sighed as she coated her hands and feet with clear seal, engaged her recorder, and carried her kit inside to stand over the body.
Eve had recognized him. Naked, bled almost dry, and smiling up at his own reflection was the renowned defense attorney S. T. Fitzhugh.
“Salvatori’s going to be very disappointed in you, Counselor,” she murmured as she got to work.
Eve had taken a sample of the bloody bathwater, done her initial scan to estimate time of death, bagged the deceased’s hands, and recorded the scene when Peabody appeared, slightly out of breath at the doorway.
“I’m sorry, sir. I had some trouble getting uptown.
“It’s all right.” She passed Peabody the ivory-handled buck knife she’d secured in clear plastic. “Looks like he did it with this. It’s an antique, I’d guess. Collector’s item. We’ll run it for prints.”
Peabody tucked the knife in her evidence kit, then narrowed her eyes. “Lieutenant, isn’t that—”
“Yeah, it’s Fitzhugh.”
“Why would he kill himself?”
“We haven’t determined that he did. Never make assumptions, Officer,” she said mildly. “First rule. Call in the sweepers, Peabody, and let’s get the scene tagged. We can release the body to the ME. I’m done with it for now.” Eve stepped back with blood smearing her sealed hands. “I want you to take a prelim from the two uniforms who responded while I talk to Foxx.”
Eve glanced back at the body, shook her head. “That’s just the way he’d grin at you in court when he figured he’d tripped you up. The son of a bitch.” Still studying the body, she used the cleaner from her kit to remove the blood, tucked the soiled wipe into a bag as well. “Tell the ME I want toxicology ASAP.”
She left Peabody and followed the blood trail back downstairs.
Foxx was down to choking, whimpering sobs now. The uniform looked ridiculously relieved when Eve reappeared. “Wait for the ME and my adjutant outside, Officer. Give Officer Peabody your report. I’ll speak with Mr. Foxx now.”
“Yes, sir.” With almost unseemly delight, he fled the room.
“Mr. Foxx, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve located the button that released the drapes, pushed it to let watery light into the room. “You need to talk to me. You need to tell me what happened here.”
“He’s dead.” Foxx’s voice was faintly musical, accented. Lovely. “Fitz is dead. I don’t know how that can be. I don’t know how I can go on.”
Everyone goes on, Eve thought. There’s little choice. She sat and put her recorder on the table in plain sight. “Mr. Foxx, it would help us both if you talked to me now. I’m going to give you the standard caution. It’s just a matter of procedure.”
She recited the revised Miranda while his sobs trickled off, he lifted his head, and aimed swollen, red-rimmed golden eyes at her.
“Do you think I killed him? Do you think I could hurt him?”