Celebrity in Death

Mr. Birmingham’s approved visitors list.”
    “I need security to go up to his suite with me.”
    “Is there a problem?”
    “There will be if you don’t get security, now.”
    “Just one moment, Ms. Furst. I’ll get the manager.”
    “I don’t want the manager. Hell with it. You send security up, or you, Marree,” she said, reading the name tag, “and this hotel are going to be the subject of a scathing exposé on
Now.”
    She turned, loped toward the elevators.
    He was probably there, cozied up with his
femme du jour,
she thought as she jumped on the elevator. And she was about to make a fool of herself. He’d be amused, she decided, and very likely invite her to join the party—and he wouldn’t really be kidding.
    They’d have a quick laugh over it. Please. She closed her eyes, struggling to find her usual cool. Please, let him be with a woman, let them have a quick laugh, let his horrible sense of dread and panic be the product of working too long on the crime beat, seeing potential murders everywhere.
    She bolted out of the elevator, raced on feet now thankfully numb to the end of the corridor. Ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB light, she punched the buzzer, added several hard knocks.
    “Julian! Open the door. It’s important. It’s Nadine.”
    He couldn’t hear her, of course, unless he engaged the intercom, but she continued to call out as she buzzed and banged.
    And with every second the panic and dread swelled.
    “Ms. Furst!” The manager strode down the hall with a big, dark-suited man at her side. “Please. You’re disturbing our guests.”
    “They’ll be a lot more disturbed if you don’t open this door.”
    “Ms. Furst, Mr. Birmingham has requested not to be disturbed. If you’d like to leave him a message, I’ll—”
    “Open the damn door.”
    “I’m going to have to have you removed. If you and Mr. Birmingham have had a tiff, this is no way to—”
    Nadine braced on her numb feet, slitted her eyes in dire warning. “Try to have me removed and you won’t be able to get a job managing a dog kennel. Julian’s in trouble, and it may already be too late. The police are on their way. Open the goddamn door. If there’s nothing wrong you can have me arrested. If I’m right, and something happens to Julian because you won’t open the door, I’ll do everything I can to persuade Lieutenant Dallas to arrest you for accessory to murder.”
    Either murder or Eve’s name had the manager stiffening.
    “I don’t appreciate the threats. And you can be assured we will press charges.” She nodded to Security. “Open it. I’m sure Mr.
Birmingham
will wish to press charges as well.”
    “Just hurry. Hurry.”
    “I’m going to ask you to step back, ma’am.” The security chief swiped his master, eased the door open slightly. “Security,” he called out.
    Nadine ducked under his arm, shoved through.
    “Julian.” She rushed across the room, dropped to the floor beside him. “Call an ambulance!” She turned him from his side to his back asthe security man crouched beside her. But even as he felt for a pulse, Julian stirred.
    “Julian! Wake up. Talk to me. Julian.”
    “Tired.” He slurred it out. “Too tired.”
    “Julian, what did you take?” She saw the wine bottle, the broken glass. “What did you put in the wine?”
    “Wine. Sleep.”
    “No. Stay awake.”
    “Let’s prop him up.”
    Nadine shook her head, reared back, and cracked her palm across Julian’s face. “Stay awake!” She slapped him again.
    “Go ’way. Tired. Sick. Didn’t mean t’do it.”
    “Don’t touch that,” Nadine snapped at the manager as she crossed toward the broken glass. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
    “That’s my line.” Eve strode in, laid a hand on Nadine’s shoulder as she checked Julian’s pulse, then peeled up an eyelid to check his pupils.
    “OD’ing. Keep him talking, get him on his feet, try to make him walk. Roarke, start looking for the drugs. They’ll be somewhere we can find them without too much trouble. He’s got a better chance if we can tell them what he took. You were right to get the field kit. Saves a trip back down. You—” She pointed at the white-faced manager. “Go down, get the medics up here quick and fast—and don’t come back.”
    She shoved the woman out the door.
    “Sleeping pills—in with the wine bottles. Empty. K.T. Harris’s prescription.” Roarke glanced back as Eve bagged the wine bottle. “He didn’t