"Is that what happened?" she continued. "Did he get up in the middle of the night?"
"I don't even remember." Foxx lifted his hands, let them fall. "I sleep soundly, never have a bit of trouble. We'd gone to bed just before midnight, watched some of the late news, had a brandy. I woke early. I tend to."
"What time was that?"
"Perhaps five, five fifteen. We both like early starts, and it's my habit to program the morning meal personally. I saw that Fitz wasn't in bed, assumed he'd had a bad night and that I'd find him downstairs or in one of the spare bedrooms. Then I went into the bath, and I saw him. Oh God. Oh God, Fitz. All the blood. It was like a nightmare."
His hand pressed against his mouth, all glittering rings and trembles. "I ran over, I beat on his chest, tried to revive him. I suppose I went a little mad. He was dead. I could see he was dead; still, I tried to pull him out of the water, but he's a very big man, and I was shaking. Sick." He dropped his hand from mouth to stomach, pressed. "I called for an ambulance."
She'd lose him if she couldn't manage to rein him in. Tranquing him wasn't an option until she had the facts. "I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Foxx. I'm sorry we have to do this now, but it's easier, believe me, if we can."
"I'm all right." He reached for the glass of water atop the droid. "I want to get it over."
"Can you tell me his frame of mind last night? You said he was worried about a case."
"Worried, yes, but not depressed. There was a cop he couldn't shake on the stand, and it irritated him." He took a gulp of water, then another.
Eve decided it was best not to mention she was the cop who had irritated him.
"And there were a couple of other cases pending that he was plotting out the defense for. His mind was often too busy for sleep, you see."
"Did he receive any calls, make any calls?"
"Certainly, both. He often brought work home with him. Last night he spent a couple of hours in his office upstairs. He arrived home about five thirty, worked until nearly eight. We had dinner."
"Did he mention anything that was troubling him besides the Salvatori case?"
"His weight." Foxx smiled a little. "Fitz hated to put on an extra pound. We discussed him increasing his exercise program, perhaps having some body adjustment work done when he had the time. We watched a comedy on screen in the living room, then went to bed, as I told you."
"Did you argue?"
"Argue?"
"You have bruises on your arm, Mr. Foxx. Did you and Mr. Fitzhugh fight last night?"
"No." He paled even more, and his eyes glittered with the threat of another bout of weeping. "We never fought physically. Certainly we argued from time to time. People do. I – I suppose I might have gotten the bruises on the tub when I was – when I tried to – "
"Did Mr. Fitzhugh have a relationship with anyone else other than yourself?"
Now those swollen eyes went cool. "If you mean did he have outside lovers, he did not. We were committed to each other."
"Who owns this unit?"
Foxx's face went rigid, and his voice was cold. "It was put in our joint names ten years ago. It belonged to Fitz."
And now it belongs to you, Eve thought. "I would assume Mr. Fitzhugh was a wealthy man. Do you know who inherits?"
"Other than charitable bequests, I would inherit. Do you think I would kill him for money?" There was disgust in his tone now, rather than horror. "What right do you have to come into my home at such a time and ask me such horrible questions?"
"I need to know the answers, Mr. Foxx. If I don't ask them here, I'll have to ask them at the station house. I believe this is more comfortable for you. Did Mr. Fitzhugh collect knives?"
"No." Foxx blinked, then went pasty. "I do. I have a large collection of antique blades. Registered," he added quickly. "They're duly registered."
"Do you have an ivory-handled knife, straight blade, about six inches long in your collection?"
"Yes, it's nineteenth century, from England." His breath began to hitch. "Is that what he used? He used one of my knives to -? I didn't see. I only saw him. Did he use one of my knives?"
"I've taken a knife into evidence, Mr. Foxx. We'll run tests. I'll give you a receipt for it."
"I don't want it. I don't want to see it." He buried his face in his hands. "Fitz. How could he have used one of my knives?"
He fell to weeping again. Eve heard the voices and hums from the next room and knew the sweepers had arrived. "Mr. Foxx." She rose. "I'm going to have one of the officers bring you some clothes. I'm going to ask that you stay here for a little while longer. Is there someone I can call for you?"
"No. No one. Nothing."
"I don't like it, Peabody," Eve muttered as they rode down to her car. "Fitzhugh gets up in the middle of an ordinary night, gets an antique knife, runs himself a bath. He lights the candles, puts on the music, then carves up his wrists. For no particular reason. Here's a man at the height of his career with a shit load of money, plush digs, clients beating down his door, and he just decides, 'What the hell, I think I'll die'?"
"I don't understand suicide. I guess I don't have the personality for big highs and lows."
Eve understood it. She'd even considered it briefly during her stint in state-run homes – and before that, in the dark time before that, when death had seemed a release from hell.
That was why she couldn't accept it for Fitzhugh. "There's no motivation here, at least none that shows yet. But we have a lover who collected knives, who was covered with blood, and who will inherit a sizable fortune."
"You're thinking maybe Foxx killed him." Peabody mulled it over when they reached garage level. "Fitzhugh's nearly twice his size. He wouldn't have gone without a fight, and there wasn't any sign of struggle."
"Signs can be erased," Eve muttered. "He had bruises. And if Fitzhugh was drugged or chemically impaired, he wouldn't have put up too much of a struggle. We'll see the tox report."
"Why do you want it to be a homicide?"
"I don't. I just want it to make sense, and the self-termination doesn't fit. Maybe Fitzhugh couldn't sleep; maybe he got up. Someone was using the relaxation room. Or it was made to seem so."
"I've never seen anything like that," Peabody mused, thinking back. "All those toys in one place. That big chair with all the controls, the wall screen, the autobar, the VR station, the mood tube. Ever use a mood tube, Lieutenant?"
"Roarke's got one. I don't like it. I'd rather have my moods come and go naturally than program them." Eve spotted the figure sitting on the hood of her car and hissed, "Like now, for example. I can feel my mood shifting. I think I'm about to be pissed off."
"Well, Dallas and Peabody, together again." Nadine Furst, top on-air reporter for Channel 75, slid gracefully from the car. "How was the honeymoon?"
"Private," Eve snapped.
"Hey, I thought we were pals." Nadine winked at Peabody.
"You didn't waste any time putting our little get-together on the air, pal."
" Dallas." Nadine spread her pretty hands. "You bag a killer and close a very public and intense case at your own bachelor party celebration, to which I was invited, it's news. The public not only has the right to know, they eat it up with a spoon. Ratings rocketed. Now look at this, you're barely back and right in the middle of something else big. What's the deal with Fitzhugh?"
"He's a dead man. I've got work to do, Nadine."
"Come on, Eve." Nadine plucked at Eve's sleeve. "After all we've been through together? Give me a nibble."
"Fitzhugh's clients had better start looking for another lawyer. That's all I've got to give you."
"Come on. Accident, homicide, what?"
"We're investigating," Eve said shortly and coded open her locks.