"She did change," nodded David Drew. "I asked her repeatedly if something had happened, you know, on the tour. But she was evasive. I kicked myself for not going along with her, but it was a symphonic thing. She performed with the symphonies in each of the cities. And I had obligations here. And this last show to prepare for."
"She had no family?" checked Bobby, as he referred to his notes.
"Her father died when she was a child. Her mother retired to Cairo, then she passed away in July. Christine had been their little golden girl. She was educated privately. Her remarkable voice apparent even when she was young. They groomed her for the stage."
"And her father was a political writer?"
Drew nodded again, "He began in the Foreign Service, I think. After he met and married Christine's mother, he quit to write. She came from money. He had emotional problems though. Became paranoid from what Christine told me. A real zealot. From what I understand, things were very tumultuous in the family before his death."
"Friends?"
"She toured so much. Has done so since she was a teenager. I couldn't believe she wanted me. She was a genius. A great artist. I am a good musician. Very good even. But she was great. That she took me on as an accompanist was something, that she let me love her was amazing..." Drew's voice broke then.
"I'm sure you offered her a great deal in return."
"I doubt it," he shook his head sadly. "She would have said so. She was very sweet but honest and would have said so if it were true."
Bobby watched in silence as the pianist withdrew a handkerchief and swiped his eyes.
"This change..." he tried then, bringing the conversation back to where he needed it. "How did it manifest?"
David Drew composed himself and looked Bobby in the eyes, "She became remote. Wanted to see me less. I was on tenterhooks, waiting for her to break up with me any day. She was secretive. There would be afternoons when I wouldn't know where she was. And she had been so regular in her schedule before that. So punctual. Always professional. One day last month..." he looked away sheepishly, "...I followed her."
Bobby lifted his brows, "Where did she go?"
"The library," Drew laughed ruefully. "The New York City Public Library. That's all. The main branch. I couldn't go in to see what she was doing. She would have seen me. I felt so stupid, I didn't follow her again."
"You thought she was seeing someone else?"
Drew looked down.
"It seemed like it could be a possibility."
Bobby nodded and scratched a few notes in his binder.
"Where is your partner today?"
Bobby looked up at this interest in Alex.
"She was in a car accident."
"Oh? Is she alright?"
"She will be."
"Good. She seemed... kind. And... not what you'd expect a detective to be... No offence."
"None taken," said Bobby.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Kind? He doesn't know me very well."
He reached over and clicked off the tape recorder.
"So, there you go. David Drew's story."
He looked at Alex. She was sitting on her sofa, legs tucked under her, wrapped in a patchwork quilt, and gazing out the window to the balcony with a thoughtful gaze.
"I believe he loved her," she finally commented. "Hard to know if she returned the feeling though."
"But is that a motive to kill her?"
"Unless something specific happened, like she did break up with him, he would keep hoping that things between them would improve."
Bobby nodded, then looked over at her sharply when she sighed.
"Are you getting tired?" he asked in concern.
She smiled at him, "No, just restless. I want to get back out and on the case. I've been cooped up here for two days now. Between that and all the fish and spinach you keep bringing for dinner, I may have to make a run for it."
He grinned, "Fish and spinach are...—"
"...High in iron. I know, Bobby. I'm not questioning your research."
"Anemia is nothing to mess with, Eames. Besides it's still snowing like hell and you hate that," he reminded her.
"I can't help you solve a case by listening to recordings of your interviews."
"Oh well, if you want work, I've got stacks of it here," he responded blithely, and reached into his binder to withdraw a dozen or so files. "All Valdez and Lampley's work. Phone records, financials, etc. I haven't had time to look at them yet."
"I think I may be feeling tired after all," she dead panned.
"I'll go start the coffee then," he smiled as he got up.
He glanced over his shoulder before stepping into the kitchen to see her reach for the stack of information. She was reaching with her right arm, he noted, though the files were closer to her left side. Lifting her left arm was still painful, he deduced. She was favoring the ribs below.
Once in the kitchen, he reached for the coffee pot and turned on the tap to fill it. The flow of water taking him back to the night before last...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"I can't believe you found us a cab," she said wearily, as they came through her apartment door.
"It wasn't easy," he admitted. "No one wants to drive in this weather. But I couldn't let you walk home from the hospital."
He gently eased her coat down off her shoulders, being careful of her ribs.
She turned to smile at him. He could see the exhaustion in her face.
"Thank you," she said simply.
He met her gaze, "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.
"Tired," she admitted. "And I really, really want a bath."
"Are you sure you're up to it?"
"Positive."
"Okay, but leave the door open a crack so I can hear you."
She rolled her eyes, "I'm not going to drown."
"Is there anything I can do for you while you're in there?"
She looked down at her feet.
"What?" he asked.
She looked up at him self-consciously.
"Actually, would you mind putting the kettle on? I have this... I have a hot water bottle I like to put in bed. It's just a silly childhood carry-over."
She wasn't thrilled to admit this, but was just tired enough and in enough pain to fess up to it, anyway.
He smiled at the reveal, "No problem."
He heard the pipes for her bath begin in that noisy New York way as he set the kettle on the stove and began rummaging for the hot water bottle.
He looked down at himself as he waited for the water to boil, still surprised by the blood spattered there.
Her blood.
Scotch on the rocks would be really great right now, he decided.
Once the hot water bottle was filled, and a cup of chamomile made just in case, he headed toward her bedroom, stopping to tap on the slightly ajar bathroom door.
"You okay?" he called.
"Peachy," she called back. "I'd invite you in to see some swell bruises but I know how squeamish you can be about stuff like that."
He chuckled and headed to the closed door down on his right a bit. He had to admit he was slightly curious in a puerile sort of way. He'd never seen her bedroom before.
He turned the knob, pushed the door, and flipped the switch just to the left within.
Okay, not what he expected.
Books.
The room was wall to wall books.
From floor to ceiling, shelves, to a large extent book-filled, lined all four walls.
Well-made too. The edges fitted with molded edges. The single window boxed in finely.
He had a dim memory of her telling him that her kid brother, um...Gareth?... did carpentry as a sideline.
And another from her personnel file (that he hadn't bothered reading until they'd been partnered nearly a year) about a double major? Or maybe a minor? At Columbia...
Moving around the brass four-poster (king-sized, he noted,) he set the tea on a little bedside table (no framed photos), and pulled back the ocean blue quilt to slip the hot water bottle in between soft lemon hued sheets.
The scent rising from them filled his nostrils in a distracting way.
So he turned around to face the books.
And that's how she found him fifteen minutes later.
With a stack in one hand, an open volume atop that, running the finger of the other hand along spines which had just caught his interest.
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, watching him in amusement for a moment.
"You probably thought I was scrappier, more the plucky type than the bookish?" she finally asked.
He turned to look at her, "What? No..."
"No?" she mused with a small smile. "I think these books are a surprise to you. Don't really fit with that 'up from the bootstraps' profile you have of me in that noggin of yours."
"I wouldn't say that..." he demurred.
"I surprised you," she said again, both pleased and amazed at the same time.
"Eames..."
She nodded knowingly and walked around the bed.
He noticed that she was wearing silk pajamas then. These, at least, were not a surprise. He was well aware that Eames liked sensual fabrics.
She climbed into her bed gingerly, gasping a little when she had to stretch sore muscles to do so.
"You okay?"
He set the books down and came to her side, helping her adjust the pillows.
"I will be," she told him. "Go home, Bobby. You've had an awful time too. And burn that bloody shirt while you're at it," she added. "I've a fair idea of how much that tie alone cost. I'll replace them for you."
"Don't be silly," he scoffed as he smoothed her quilt. "How's the hot water bottle?" he asked looking into her eyes.
She sighed blissfully, "Perfect. Thank you so much. For everything. It's warm and... cozy..."
He could see her getting sleepy already and smiled.
"Sounds nice. Maybe I should try it sometime."
"You won't regret it..." she mumbled, as he watched her eyes close.
He waited until her breathing evened out, then softly, almost furtively, yet careful of the bandage, kissed her forehead and left.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Hey," she said coming into the kitchen, "Mom brought cookies this morning if you'd like some."
He startled from his fixed stare at the perking coffee pot.
"What?" he asked absently, coming back into the present. "Oh..."
Files. Work. Case. Focus.
"You looked a million miles away," she commented as she reached for a paper bag in the bread box.
"Not that far," he returned, the image of her sleeping in the nearby book-filled bedroom still on his brain these two days later.
"I've found something in Valdez and Lampley's files," she told him then.
"What's that?"
"David Drew rented a car in Boston."
His brain clicked to where it should with that.
"We'll call the company and find out the mileage," he decided.
"It is possible that he flew to Boston, then drove here before returning again to Boston to catch his flight home."
Goren nodded.
"Man, I thought he was one of the few good guys left out there," she said as she took the bag of cookies back into the living room.
He stared after her.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Eames spent the next two days in her apartment going over all of Valdez and Lampley's solid work. Her livingroom serving as base from which Goren could proceed with legwork.
By Saturday afternoon they had a somewhat clearer picture of Christine Larkins and her life but were no closer to clearly identifying a suspect or motive.
Bobby liked Drew for it though couldn't sort out the why of the thing.
Alex was thinking the doorman a likely suspect.
The rental car company had had a computer malfunction and were busy reestablishing their records. It would be several days before they could report the mileage on the car Drew had rented.
And they didn't want to tip him off with questioning until they had more.
Still nothing on the missing temp doorman, the name they had for him clearly an alias not in the system.
Their usual luck was not holding for them on this case, that was clear.
Dead ends abounded.
While Bobby spent the morning at Lincoln Center re-interviewing all those who had seen Christine the night of her death, Alex identified several new and significant pieces of information about her.
First, her bank accounts were at pretty minimal levels. She had wired considerable sums of money to off shore accounts.
Second, two weeks before her death she'd met with her lawyer and had drawn up a new will. They'd have a subpoena on Monday to get hold of it.
Third, she had spoken to her building manager about possibly selling her condo.
And finally, that she had been seeing a psychiatrist, one Dr. Marjorie Shendrick, twice a week since her mother's death the previous July.
It seemed remarkable that David Drew didn't know about any of these things when Alex called him up regarding it all.
"I assure you, Detective, I hadn't the foggiest," he sighed over the phone to her. "You say she was thinking of getting rid of her apartment?"
"That's what it looks like," confirmed Alex. "What about this Dr. Shendrick? You didn't know anything about Christine seeing her?"
"I know she was upset after her mother's death. It was sudden. She may have needed to see someone about it. I don't know why she didn't talk to me though..."
Alex chewed her pen for a moment. The guy seemed sincere. But she'd seen perps give Academy Award winning performances in the past.
"And the money?" she took one final stab.
Drew paused a moment.
"Well, I know she sent donations to various charities in Cairo. He mother was on several committees there, but..."
"These would be some pretty significant contributions," observed Alex dryly.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Two hours later, Goren was ringing her bell.
She opened it with a wry smile, "If you have any food products on you which contain iron, I am not letting you in."
"I'm clean," he assured her.
She stepped aside to allow him entry.
"Any luck?" she asked as he slipped off his coat and ambled into the living room to settle with a sigh.
"No one remembers the mailing tube. Stage Manager remembered that she directed an intern to have all the flowers in her dressing room taken over to the Children's Hospital before she left, but he also said that wasn't unusual."
Alex sat next to him.
"We can't see Shendrick until Monday," she told him.
He nodded.
"Of course psychiatrists aren't really famous for being forthcoming about their patients, even if they are dead."
He nodded again.
They sat quietly for a moment, their defeat tangible, their brains spinning.
Until he looked over at her.
"Would you like to come to Carmel Ridge with me tomorrow?" he asked.
She looked up at him in surprise.