“Okay, so maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. New subject, Foxx, Arthur, residence Five oh oh two Madison Avenue, New York.”
Searching.
The computer blipped and whined, causing Eve to slap the unit with the heel of her hand to jog it back. She didn’t bother to curse budget cuts.
Foxx appeared on screen, wavering a bit until Eve gave the computer another smack. More attractive, she noted, when he smiled. He was fifteen years younger than Fitzhugh, had been born in East Washington, the son of two career military personnel, had lived in various points of the globe until he had settled in New York in 2042 and joined the Nutrition for Life organization as a consultant.
His annual income just tipped into the six figures. The record showed no marriages but the same-sex license he shared with Fitzhugh.
“List and detail any arrests.”
The machine grumbled as if it were tired of answering questions, but the list popped. One disorderly conduct, two assaults, and one disturbing the peace.
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Both subjects, list and detail any psychiatric consults.”
There was nothing on Fitzhugh, but she got another hit on Foxx. With a grunt, she orde
red a hard copy, then glanced up as Peabody entered.
“Forensics? Toxicology?”
“Forensics isn’t in, but we’ve got tox.” Peabody handed Eve a disc. “Low level alcohol, identified as Parisian brandy, 2045. Not nearly enough to debilitate. No other drug traces.”
“Shit.” She’d been hopeful. “I might have something here. Our friend Foxx spent a lot of his childhood on the therapist’s couch. He checked himself into the Delroy Institute just two years ago for a month. And he’s done time. Piss away time, but time nonetheless. Ninety days lockup for assault. And he had to wear a probie bracelet for six months. Our boy has some violent tendencies.”
Peabody frowned at the data. “Military family. They tend to be resistant to homosexuality still. I bet they tried to head shrink him into hetero.”
“Maybe. But he’s got a history of mental heath problems and a criminal record. Let’s see what the uniforms turned up when they knocked on doors in Fitzhugh’s building. And we’ll talk to Fitzhugh’s associates in his firm.”
“You’re not buying suicide.”
“I knew him. He was arrogant, pompous, smug, vain.” Eve shook her head. “Vain, arrogant men don’t choose to be found naked in the bathtub, swimming in their own blood.”
“He was a brilliant man.” Leanore Bastwick sat in her custom-made leather chair in the glass-walled corner office of Fitzhugh, Bastwick, and Stern. Her desk was a glass pool, unsmudged and sparkling. It suited, Eve thought, her icy and stunning blond beauty. “He was a generous friend,” Leanore added and folded her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the desk. “We’re in shock here, Lieutenant.”
It was hard to see shock on the polished surface of it all. New York’s steel forest rose up glittering behind Leanore’s back, lending the lofty illusion that she was reigning over the city. Pale rose and soft gray added elegant muted color to an office that was as meticulously decorated as the woman herself.
“Do you know of any reason why Fitzhugh would have taken his own life?”
“Absolutely none.” Leanore kept her hands very still, her eyes level. “He loved life. His life, his work. He enjoyed every minute of every day as much as anyone I’ve ever met. I have no idea why he would choose to end it.”
“When was the last time you saw or spoke with him?”
She hesitated. Eve could almost see wheels working smoothly behind those heavily lashed eyes. “Actually, I saw him briefly last night. I dropped a file off for him, discussed a case. That discussion is, of course, privileged.” Her slicked lips curved. “But I will say he was his usual enthusiastic self, and he was very much looking forward to dueling with you in court.”
“Dueling?”
“That’s how Fitz referred to cross-examination of expert and police witnesses.” A smile flickered over her face. “It was a match, in his mind, of wits and nerve. A professional game for an innate game player. I don’t know of anything he enjoyed so much as being in court.”
“What time did you drop off the file last night?”
“I’d say about ten. Yes, I think it was around ten. I’d worked late here and slipped by on my way home.”
“Was that usual, Ms. Bastwick, you slipping by to see him on your way home?”
“Not unusual. We were, after all, professional associates, and our cases sometimes overlapped.”
“That’s all you were? Professional partners?”