She smiled as she stepped back. “No mind reading necessary. I recognize you. Please come in.”
The apartment—surprisingly spacious; Eve saw it ran the length and width of the restaurant below—reflected a quiet taste and elegance. A collection of crystal balls in a wall case caught the sunlight and seemed attractive rather than occult.
“I don’t read anyone without permission,” she said. “So discourteous. You’ll have to tell me what I can do for you, but first, please sit. It’s coffee you prefer, isn’t it? I’d be happy to serve you.”
“We’re fine.” Eve took a seat in a high-backed chair with curved legs while Roarke took its twin, and the madam settled on a long, low couch.
“I’ve read of your work—both of you—and very much enjoyed Nadine Furst’s book on your investigation of the Icoves. It’s my sense you don’t generally seek the services I provide.”
“We’re here on official business. Did you know Darlene Fitzwilliams?”
“Fitzwilliams?” Madam Dupres’s dark eyes narrowed. Her index finger went to her right temple, pressed. “Darlene. Why?”
“Last night she stabbed her brother to death, then jumped off his fifty-second-floor terrace to her own death.”
“Death? Two deaths?” Now all four fingers pressed, and her color drained. “What time? Could you tell me what time they died?”
“Between eight and eight thirty last night.”
“I . . . I’ve been in meditation. I was disturbed, felt something dark crowding me. Shortly after eight last night.”
“Is that so?”
“I dreamed of death—a waking dream—so much blood, such grief. There was no ignoring such grief, so I went into meditation, inside a circle of light.”
“Are you going to tell me you know why Darlene killed her brother and herself?”
“Fitzwilliams?” Pain clouded her eyes. “I don’t . . . Was she— I’m sorry, terrible headache.” She got to her feet. “It came on so quickly. I need to take a blocker. I want to help, but . . . She was young, wasn’t she? Very beautiful and young and in love and sad and— I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”
She walked away quickly, turned in to a doorway.
“Meditation, circle of light.” Eve pushed to her feet. “She knows something. Your bullshit meter’s as tuned as mine. What’s your take?”
“The pain was real.”
“Yeah.” Frustrated, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “Yeah, it was. We’ll give her a minute. There’s something . . . She avoided a yes or no. Did you know her or not? And she damn well did. People don’t go pale and sick over the death of a stranger.”
Impatient to get back to it, Eve looked around. “The place looks normal, quiet and normal. Where’s all her trappings?”
She circled the room, glancing at crystals, candles, then angled to look into a neat kitchen with white cabinets.
“She’s taking too long.”
Suspicion rose up to twine with impatience. Eve crossed to the doorway, saw the pretty bedroom beyond. Across from it another doorway opened to a kind of cozy sitting room, with dozens of white candles.
Circle of light, she thought, and started to step into the bedroom, to call again, when she heard the sound of breaking glass.
She charged in, tried the closed door, found it locked. As Roarke rushed in behind her, Eve kicked the door once, cursed, kicked it a second time.
Dupres lay on the white tiled floor of the bathroom, blood pooling around her from the deep gash in her thigh.
“Call for a bus!” Eve shouted.
Grabbing towels, she kicked the shards of broken mirror out of her way, crouched down to bind the towels on the wound.
“She’s bleeding out—gashed the femoral artery. For Christ’s sake.”
“On their way.” Roarke took another towel, wrapped it around the deep gash in Dupres’s hand.
Dupres’s eyes opened, stared into Eve’s. “Beware the Mad Hatter.”
“Who is that? Give me a name.”
“Lies, all lies. All his words, even his name. Dark is his truth. Death is his joy. I sent her to him. I sent her to her death. He’ll seek yours now. Beware the Mad Hatter,” she repeated, and the eyes staring into Eve’s died.
CHAPTER NINE
Having someone die under her hands pissed her off. Having someone die under her hands during a damn interview added a whole new level to pissed.
She watched the MTs pronounce Dupres and wished she had something handy to kick into pulp.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Roarke said.
“I let her walk off, walk out of sight to get a damn blocker.”
“The pain was real,” he reminded her. “You’d need to be psychic yourself to have known she intended to kill herself.”
“Yeah.” Eve loosened the fists she’d balled into the pockets. “The pain was real,” she repeated, and yanked out her ’link to contact Morris.
“I’m sending one in to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Self-termination—broke a mirror, jabbed a shard into her femoral artery.”
“That would do it.”
“She had a severe and sudden headache a minute before she did it. It came on during the interview when I asked her about Darlene Fitzwilliams. I think we’re dealing with the same thing here. Drugs and mind-control. Some sort of post-hypnotic trigger. Look for any similarities with Darlene Fitzwilliams, will you?”
“I will. Mira might be helpful here, as she’s trained in hypnotherapy.”
“I’ve talked to her, and will again. Do me a solid, send the dead wagon.” She gave him the address, signed off. Then immediately tagged Peabody to have her and McNab report to her.
“Dupres was a link,” Eve said to Roarke. “We’re going to turn this place inside out, find out where Dupres sent Darlene Fitzwilliams. Mad Hatter, my ass.”
“But you’re considering the fact both dead women made references to Alice in Wonderland.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ll start on the electronics while you consider.”
“McNab can handle it. This is going to take longer than the hour or two I asked for.”
“She died on my watch as well, Eve.” Roarke took her hand briefly. “I’m fully in it now.”
Understanding, she started her search in the bedroom.
Dupres had a conservative wardrobe—nothing extravagant, but good fabrics, good quality. The same ran true with jewelry, accessories. Nothing there shouted mind-reading psychic who talks to dead people.
No sign, Eve noted, anyone else had spent any time there—no sex toys or enhancements, no men’s belongings. No women’s belongings, she noted, other than what appeared to belong to Dupres.
Oddly, in the underwear drawer, like at Darlene’s, she found a small notebook. A paper book with a good leather binding. She frowned as she paged through, and was still standing there reading when Peabody stepped in.
“The morgue’s right behind me,” she said, and glanced into the bathroom. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“Gashing the femoral artery will empty you out pretty fast.”
“Why kill herself if she’d drugged Darlene into murder/suicide? Did she try to . . . you know?”
“Put the whammy on me? No. And I don’t think she killed herself because she worked Darlene into killing. I think the same person who did that, did this.”
“But . . . you were right here. Was she high?”