Celebrity in Death

just how the hell Stein-burger could kill—or induce a man to suicide—while he himself enjoyed a fancy dinner with a friend on the other side of town.

 
    IN THE BACK OF THE CAB, NADINE TRIED Julian’s ’link again. Stupid, she told herself, as she knew it would go straight to message—as it had the other three times she’d tried it. And he’d set the room ’links on DO NOT DISTURB .
    Why hadn’t she followed up sooner? she asked herself. Why hadn’t she listened to that niggling concern and gone straight back to Stein-burger’s office, or at least grabbed a cab blocks earlier and headed to the hotel?
    Because she’d wanted to get into the studio, review and edit the interview. To lick her chops. Do her victory boogie.
    “Goddamn it, goddamn it,” she muttered as guilt drove the niggling toward full-blown fear.
    The way they were snagged in traffic, Steinburger could kill Julian, have a drink, plan the memorial, and write the fricking eulogy before she got there.
    Stupid, she thought again. It was probably nothing. Just nerves, which had shifted from the good, on-your-mark type for the interview to sweaty-palms stress during this excuse for a cab ride.
    “Can’t you get through this?” she demanded.
    The cab driver continued to dance his fingers over the wheel in time with the hideous music blasting through the speakers.
    “Sure, lady. Just let me activate the transport beam and we’ll shoot through the wormhole and pop out clear.”
    “Goddamn it,” she repeated, swiped her card for payment. “I’ll walk from here.”
    She bolted out of the cab, squeezed through bumpers and scrambled to the sidewalk where the pedestrian traffic surged like a sea.
    She dodged, weaved, cursed the gorgeous heels that made running a death wish, and which she was no doubt trashing. She cursed New York traffic, cursed tourists who didn’t know
how to get out of the damn way!,
cursed what she tried to convince herself was her overblown imagination.
    But she kept running.
    I nside his hotel room Julian ignored the ’link he’d tossed on the table. He didn’t have the energy to get up, power it down. He didn’t think he had the energy for that whirlpool either, not when it felt so good to just sit there, sprawled in the chair, drinking some wine, letting everything go. Just go.
    Joel had been right, of course. You could count on Joel.
    He counted on Joel, now more than ever. Somebody smart, steady, good in a crisis. Somebody who could tell him what to do.
    It didn’t seem so horrible—not after two glasses of wine, and with another going down so smooth.
    Still, maybe he should talk to Eve. Just explain everything—well, not everything because everything was so mixed up he couldn’t actually explain it to himself.
    But just talk to her, tell her what happened, what he remembered, anyway.
    She’d understand. He knew she would. He knew her.
    She was fair, and brave, and just—and sexy.
    Joel was wrong about her, Julian thought as he sipped, as his not-quite-Roarke blue eyes drooped. She wouldn’t do whatever it took to put him in prison. It wasn’t just about the arrest, about the—what was it? The collar. No, not for his Eve, he thought as his mind and vision blurred.
    It was about justice.
    But Joel was smart. If he was right …
    He couldn’t think about it now. His brain was so tired. And he needed to start the whirlpool. Hadn’t he promised? Had he?
    Funny, he couldn’t remember exactly.
    Too much to drink. He needed to stop drinking so much. But he was so upset, so unhappy, and a little bit scared.
    No more wine, he ordered himself. A nice, hot, relaxing tub, and some music. Then maybe he’d tag Andi, or Marlo, or Connie. He didn’t like being alone. He wanted a woman to talk to.
    Women always listened.
    He tried to get up, intending to put the wine aside, go start the tub. Drunk, he thought, disgusted with himself.
    Determined, he shoved to his feet, managed one staggering step.
    The glass flew out of his hand, shattering against the table as he went down.
    W inded, reasonably sure her feet were bleeding, Nadine made a beeline for the front desk.
    “Nadine Furst. I need your head of security.”
    The woman on the desk smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Ms. Furst, and welcome back. May I ask what you require security for?”
    “Listen, you know I’m on the cleared list for … Mr. Birmingham’s suite.” She used the alias Julian used to protect his privacy.
    “Yes, Ms. Furst, you’re on