Celebrity in Death

several ounces of bourbon in his system at TOD. No other signs of violence or struggle.
    Eve added the report, Asner’s picture, the crime scene and apartment photos to her board.
    Then she got a large coffee, sat down, put her boots on her desk.
    She studied the board while she drank her coffee.
    All sorts of connections, she thought. All sorts of egos. Throw in sex, money, fame.
    Start with sex, she decided.
    Connect Harris to Julian and Matthew. Indirect to Preston due to her threat to shout sexual harassment. She was tossing his alibi for now. In a tight-knit group, people lied for each other.
    Possibility Harris connected by sex to others on the list, she mused. Sex was always a possibility.
    Connect Matthew with Marlo, and again indirectly due to publicity hype, to Julian. That connects Harris and Marlo through sex, one degree removed—times two.
    Connect Roundtree and Connie. Possibility one or both unfaithful at some time, either with the vic or one of the others. Harris claimed to have had an affair with Roundtree, cannot verify. Claimed Marlo engaged in sexual acts with Roundtree, cannot verify.
    Connect Steinburger and Valerie, whether that sexual connection was past or present. Harris had had a talent for digging up dirt. Very possible she’d known, threatened to use the information somehow.
    No discernible connection through sex with Andrea.
    Money.
    It just didn’t feel like money. These people had money, though more was always good. Then again, numbers, which equaled money in this case, were the reason for the publicity hype re Julian and Marlo, and the spin and cover on the continual problems with Harris.
    So money. She needed to find out more about how that end of it worked for all involved.
    Fame. That was like sex, wasn’t it? A rush, a need, and particularly applicable to this set of individuals. Celebrity. The need to have it, the need to maintain it, or grow it. And like sex and money, celebrity held power. Could be used to wield power, and to control.
    Circling, circling, she thought. And yet …
    Sex, money, fame, power. It was all a mix, all a stew these people worked in, lived in. And all of those things could be weapons, vulnerabilities. Could be threatened, lost, diminished.
    Motive. To maintain power at all costs.
    First murder. A snap of temper, or even the victim’s own clumsiness. Followed by impulse/calculation. Quick, opportunistic, no real plan or deep thought.
    But the second, blow after blow? That’s anger, she thought, with a little desperation thrown in. From behind, not personal. Opportunistic again, grabbing the heavy statue. But not face-to-face. And a careful, thorough follow-through on murder two.
    Laborious even, transporting the electronics, loading them into the victim’s car, doing the same at his apartment. Risky, too, though on the low side. Pumped with adrenaline, a definite task to accomplish, a plan of action.
    And there had to be more to it than recovering a recording of two people having sex who were perfectly free to have sex.
    Add blackmail to sex, money, fame, power.
    “Dallas?”
    Distracted, she frowned over her shoulder at Peabody. “Working.”
    “I know, but K.T. Harris’s brother came in. He asked if he could talk to you. He’s been to the morgue. They’re going to release the body tomorrow. I thought you might want to talk to him, and didn’t think you’d want to do it in here.”
    Eve looked back at the board, the crime scene and dead photos of Harris.
    “Have somebody escort him to the lounge. I’ll be right there.”
    She sat for a moment, checking Harris’s family data to be certain she had it straight. She stood up, surprised to see rain splatting against her window. She’d been in too deep to notice.
    When she walked into the lounge with its vending machines, spindly tables and chairs, she picked out Brice Van Horn right away. He didn’t look anything like a cop. A big man, broad in the shoulders, with short, dark hair that looked freshly cut, he sat brooding down at a tube of ginger ale.
    He had a rawboned, sunburned look about him—a corn-fed, farmer’s look to her eye. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt with boots that had seen a lot of miles.
    He lifted his head when Eve approached the table, and she saw eyes as faded a blue as his jeans, and the lines fanned out from them from squinting into the sun.
    “Mr. Van Horn, I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “Ma’am.” He got to his feet, shifted the other chair. It took Eve a