by J. D. Robb
“When?”
“Oh . . . around noon, I guess. No, closer to eleven.”
“With his bodyguard?”
Josie bit her lip. “I forgot, that’s one of those things like the vodka. Daddy sometimes gives Clyde an hour or two off, and he sort of lets Clyde think he’ll be staying in, working. But he just wants to get outside and walk and think, on his own.”
“So your father was out on his own, walking and thinking, from around eleven to . . .”
“I’m not sure, because most of us went on before one, to rehearse, and to check with Mama on the wardrobe and so on.”
“Everyone was here at one?”
“Well, I don’t know. Everyone on the girls’ side would’ve been by around one-thirty anyway. I know that sounds silly, but the singers are all girls, and we’re all on stage left, so we call it the girls’ side.”
“Anyone missing, or late?”
“I just don’t know. My sisters and I went straight out to rehearse, and I can’t recall anyone not being there when we switched off so the Eternal Lights could rehearse.”
“And your father?”
“I heard him doing sound checks. He had such a big voice. Then we all rehearsed the final song, and the encore. I went to spend some time with Walt and Jilly—my husband and my daughter.”
“Okay. What’s the address where you’re staying?”
Eve noted it down, nodded. “Thank you, Josie.”
“I know God has a plan. And I know whoever did this will answer to God. But I hope you’ll see that whoever did this answers here on Earth before that day.”
“Well, that’s my plan.”
Eve went back out, wound around to Roarke, who sat front row center, happily playing with his pocket PPC. “Status?”
“God is a very big, and very lucrative business. Want a report?”
“Not just yet. You should go home.”
“Why do you always want to spoil my fun?”
She leaned down until they were eye to eye. “His wife loved him. That’s no bullshit. I love you.”
“That’s no bullshit.”
“If I found out you were screwing around on me, could I off you?” He inclined his head. “I believe I’ve already been informed you’d be doing the rhumba—after appropriate lessons—on my cold, dead body.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” It cheered her up. “Just not sure pink Jolene has the stones for that.”
“Jimmy Jay was in violation of the . . . which commandment is it that deals with adultery?”
“How the hell would I know, especially since I wouldn’t wait for you to face your eternal punishment, should you be in said violation, before I rhumba’d my ass off.”
“Such is true love.”
“Bet your excellent ass. I got the vibe he might’ve been screwing around, but maybe I’m just a cynical so-and-so.”
Pleased with her, Roarke tapped a finger over the dent in her chin. “You are, but you’re my cynical so-and-so.”
“Awww. Money’s another good one. What kind of—round figure—lucrative are we talking?”
“If we put church assets, personal assets, assets neatly tipped into his children’s and grandchildren’s names, his wife’s personal assets into the same hat, upward of six billion.”
“That’s pretty fucking round. I’ll get back to you.”
She hunted down Clyde, found him in a small backstage canteen, sitting over what smelled like a miserable cup of coffee. He smiled weakly.
“Coffee here’s as bad as cop coffee ever was.”
“I’ll take your word.” She sat and looked him in the eye. “Did Jimmy Jay have a sidepiece?”
He puffed out his cheeks. “I never saw him, not once in the eight years I’ve been with him, behave inappropriately with another woman.”
“That’s not an answer, Clyde.”
He shifted in his seat, and she knew her vibe rang true.
“I’ve been divorced twice. Drank too much, saw too much, brought it all home too much and lost two wives to the job. Lost my faith, lost myself. I found them again when I heard Jimmy Jay preach. I went to him, and he gave me a job. He gave me a second chance to be a good man.”
“That’s still not an answer. He’s dead. Somebody put something besides a little shot of vodka in his water. So I’m going to ask you one more time, Detective Sergeant: Did he have a sidepiece?”
“I figure it’s likely. I never saw him, like I said. But I had a sidepiece or two in my time, and I know the signs.”
“Did his wife know?”
“If you asked me to swear to it, I might hesitate, but I’d still say no.”
“Why?”
“I’d’ve seen it, felt it. It’s a good bet I’d have heard it. I think she’d have stood by him if she found out, but I think—hell, I know—she’d have put the stops to it. She’s a soft-hearted woman, Lieutenant, and she loved him to distraction. But she’s got a spine in there. She wouldn’t put up with it. Fact is, he loved her the same way.
“I know,” he said when she stared through him. “We always say we love the wife when we’re screwing around on her. But he did. The man was crazy about Jolene. He just lit up when she was around. If she’d found out and put it to him, if he’d seen it hurt her, he’d have stopped.”
“He didn’t stop the vodka.”
Clyde puffed out his cheeks again. “No. No, I guess he didn’t.”
9
EVE TOOK TIME OUT TO WATCH A REPLAY OF the live feed. To watch the last minutes of Jimmy Jay Jenkins’s life, and study his death. The witness reports fell into the accurate range. But now she was more interested in the reaction than the action.
Jolene, rushing to her fallen husband. Shock, horror, faint. And if that wasn’t a genuine faint, Eve would personally nominate her for the evangelical equivalent of an Oscar.
Clyde next, sprinting from the opposite end of the stage while he shouted orders to the security team to keep people back. The daughters, their husbands, crew running, tumbling, screaming, shoving.
Pandemonium.
Clyde holding them back, sharp words—cop’s words. And, hmm, she mused, a group of women in sparkly, flouncy blue dresses. All blondes, all clinging together like one entity.
Eternal Light Singers, by her guess. One took a step forward, choked out the victim’s name—Eve could see her candy pink lips form the words—before she went to her knees to weep into her hands.
Interesting. Snapping off the replay, she turned to head back. McNab crossed paths with Eve as she snaked her way toward the dressing areas.
“I got the sons-in-law and the security team. She-Body’s finished with the daughters and most of the live-feed crew. We got a snag. One of the sons-in-law’s a lawyer.”
“Shit.”
“Ain’t that always the way?” McNab took a strip of gum from one of the pockets of his fluorescent pants, offered it. At Eve’s head shake, he folded it into his own mouth. “So. He’s making lawyer noises. It’s after two A.M., and people have been held here for over four hours, yaddah-blah-blah.”
“Did you get anything from any of the interviews?”
“Nothing that buzzed and popped. Lawyer Guy’s puffing a bit, but it feels like mostly he just wants to get his family out of here.”
Eve considered a moment. She could cut the immediate family loose, for now. Or . . . “Let’s let them all go. Nobody’s going to cut and run. Maybe we’ll give the killer a few hours to think he or she got away with it. Give some of the others time to mull, maybe come up with more on re-interview. I got something I want to check out anyway.”
“I’ll open the gates.”
“I’ll want your full report, and Peabody’s, by eight hundred, and Peabody at my home office that same hour.”
“Ouch.” He shrugged good-naturedly.
Eve went back to Roarke. “I’m letting them go. Whoever we didn’t get to this round, we’ll interview in the morning.”
“Aren’t you being uncharacteristically co
nsiderate?”
“One of the vic’s sons-in-law is a lawyer.”
“There’s one in every crowd.”
“And, not only is it not worth dicking with the lawyer, but it may work to my advantage. The sweepers will be a while,” she added with a glance back toward the stage. “And I want to check something out on the way home anyway.”
“All right.” He pocketed his PPC and rose.
“Anything in those financials you’ve been playing with hinky?”
He smiled at the term. “Most financials—if they’re worth anything—contain small portions of hink. But no, nothing over the line. Skirting it, in several areas. Your victim had very smart, very creative, and very lucrative advice. He was generous with his good works, but the cynical part of me says he could well afford to be. And those good works played to his advantage tax-wise and publicity-wise. He wasn’t shy about tooting his own horn.”
“I figure, if you’ve got a horn, why wouldn’t you toot it, so that one never makes sense to me.”
“His horn-tooting helped bring in more donations, which translated to a very, very nice lifestyle for Jenkins and family. Multiple homes,” he continued, “luxury vehicles, considerable staff, art, jewelry. In addition, they’re all—including the minor children—on the church payroll. Perfectly legal as they perform or have specific duties and job descriptions. And the church pays very well.”
“So no recent downswings.”
“On the contrary, this tour has sold out in every venue, and has generated a solid increase in donations.”
“Money’s not the motive. Doesn’t play out. Sure, they might get a big spike due to the publicity around his death, the nature thereof. The fact that—sweet, leap-frogging Christ—that death was on air live on a gazillion screens on and off planet. But he’s the image.”
She gestured toward the life-sized billboard as they walked to the car. “He’s the draw. He’s the guy. Why kill the guy who’s providing that really nice lifestyle? Could be the sex, could be professional or personal jealousy. Could be I’ve got a killer who has a boner against religion and wants to kill preachers.”
“I like the sex,” Roarke said, silkily. “For so many reasons.”
“I’m betting Jimmy Jay shared your view.” She gave him the address of the home where the Jenkins family was staying. “Drive by, will you? Then head to the Mark.”
“Where do you suspect he was having that sex?”
“If a guy’s going to diddle on the side, with the least risk factor, he hires an LC. But if the guy preaches against legalized prostitution, he’s not going to take a chance of getting caught paying for a bj or a bang. So, for the extra serving, you’d go to someone you can keep close and trust—and that nobody would blink about you spending time with.”
“Still risky. But the risk might have been part of the appeal.”
Eve shook her head. “Doesn’t strike me as being a risk-taker. More, I think, that he considered himself shielded. Like with the financials. He took steps, he took care. His daughter, most usually, spiked his stage water. Keep it in the family—or close enough with his decades-long manager, his trusted bodyguard. That was his habit—that vodka—but his wife didn’t know. She wasn’t pretending not to know, she didn’t. He gets away with that, why not a little magic on the side?”
“I’m sure Mira would have more lofty terms,” Roarke said after a moment. “But the pathology you outline is clear enough, and logical. There’s your address.”
She studied the town house on Park. “Nice. Roomy. Posh. Private digs for the family, top-drawer security. He took a walk today. A habitual thing, according to the youngest daughter. Ditch the bodyguard, go out for a walk. To meditate, get the energy up. I’m betting he walked as far as the corner here, hailed a cab.”
“And rode to the Mark.” Roarke made the turn to take them to Madison. “Not much traffic this time of night. There’d have been more during the day.”
“Maybe take him twice as long as it’ll take us now. He could’ve walked it in nearly the same amount of time as driving through afternoon traffic. But the six or seven blocks? Too much exposure. Too many people might recognize him. New Yorkers are used to seeing famous faces, and most would rather eat cat shit than react. But see, we’re passing a lot of shops now, restaurants.”
“Where the tourists would flock.”
“And they’re not generally so blasé. So, grab a cab and you’re there in . . .” Eve glanced at her wrist unit when Roarke slid to the curb in front of the Mark. “Double the time, make it ten minutes. Probably more like eight.” She held her badge up as the doorman whisked over to the car. “I need to leave the vehicle here.”
The doorman hissed through his teeth. “Well, ya mind pulling down some? We get a lot of pickups, drop-offs for another couple hours.”
“Sure.” When Roarke pulled down a length or two, she got out on the sidewalk and studied the hotel as she waited for him. “You don’t own this, do you?”
“I don’t, no, but I can arrange that. If it would help.”
“I think I can muddle through without that. Why don’t you own it?”
“Despite your routine claims, I don’t actually own everything. And this?”
He tucked his hands in his pockets, studied the building as she did. “The location’s good, but the architecture doesn’t appeal to me. That Post-Urban War utility feel combined with the dignified to the point of boring. It’s not nearly old enough to warrant the sort of face-lift I’d want to give it. And there’s the interior, which I’d need to rehab and reconfigure to suit my own vision. Generally, it runs at only fifty-percent capacity. It’s overpriced for its ambiance and its service, and lacks a restaurant of any note.”
She rocked back on her heels. “And here I just thought the building was kind of ugly.”
“Well, that’s the short answer.”
“You thought about buying it.”
“No. I looked into it. I look into things, darling, which is one of the many things we have in common. I assume you’re here to look into something and we’re not just standing on the sidewalk at half-two in the morning to take in the air and study unattractive architecture.”
“They’ll be coming along pretty soon. They’ll come straight back after the night they’ve had, go to their rooms. Or to each other’s rooms for comfort, for a rehash. But she won’t. She’ll want to be alone.”
“The side dish.”
“Yeah. My money’s on the blond singer.”
“They were all blondes.”
“Yeah, they were. The blond singer with the biggest rack.”
“As not all men go for large breasts—as I can attest—I’ll also assume you’re basing your money on the replay, and the large-breasted blonde who fell to her knees to weep.”
She poked a finger at his shoulder. “You watched the replay.”
“Looking into things.”
“And your take?”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”
Eve turned as a limo glided to the curb behind her police issue. She watched people come out. A man, a woman, another couple, another man, then the singing quartet. They clumped together like a puffy blue ball, and rolled into the hotel.
“We’ll give them a couple minutes, let them get to their rooms. Could wait to do this in the morning,” she said, half to herself, “but she might be easier to open now, and in her room. Away from the venue, from everyone else.”
“And if she admits to being his lover, what does it tell you?”
“I don’t know. It depends. One angle leads to another. It could be motive. She wanted more; he wouldn’t give it. Or there’s a jealous boyfriend, or former lover. Or . . . I’ve got some others cooking. Okay. Let’s go intimidate the night clerk. No bribing,” she added. “It takes the fun out of it.”
She went in, strode across the lobby with its boring gray floors and unfortunate floral upholstery. She had her swagger on, Roarke noted. It neve
r failed to entertain him.
She slapped her badge on the counter where a droid in a severe black suit manned the front desk.
“Good evening,” he said, and Roarke wondered whose idea it had been to program the droid with such a pussified Brit accent. “Welcome to the Mark.”
“Ulla Pintz. I need her room number.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge the room numbers of our guests. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to ring the guest room for you, and obtain that permission, but Ms. Pintz just came in, and requested a Do Not Disturb. There’s been a terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah. Dead guy. I’m a cop.” She lifted her badge, wagged it in front of his face. “Guess why I’m here.”
He only stared blankly, which Eve admitted was the trouble with service droids. They didn’t usually get sarcasm or subtlety.
“Let’s put this in short sentences,” Eve decided. “Ms. Pintz is a witness to said terrible tragedy. I’m the primary investigator of same. Give me her room number, or I haul all your circuits down to Central, where we’ll get a warrant to shut you down due to obstruction of justice.”
“Here at the Mark, our guests’ wishes are sacrosanct.”
“Try this: How are you going to serve your guests’ wishes when you’re down at Central and the jokers in EDD are playing with you?”
He seemed to consider that, as far as droids considered anything. “I have to verify your identification.”
“Go ahead.” A thin red beam shot out of his eyes as he scanned the badge on the counter. “Everything appears to be in order, Lieutenant Dallas. Ms. Pintz’s room number is 1203.”
“Does she have a roommate?”
“No. The other members of the Eternal Lights share a suite, but Ms. Pintz prefers her own quarters.”
“I bet.”
Satisfied, she walked with Roarke to the elevator. “It’s not as much fun to intimidate droids.”
“We have to take our small disappointments. Think of how you’ll enjoy interrogating Ulla.”
“Yeah.” She stepped on the elevator. “Maybe that’ll make up for it. I also could be chasing my tail by looking at this as essentially unconnected to my first murder, instead of going with the overt and obvious.”
