“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 miss a trick.”
She brought over an evidence bag. “Seal up if you’re going to touch stuff.”
“How bad is it?” Roarke murmured as Nadine and Security dragged a nearly unconscious Julian around the room.
“His pulse is weak, barely there, and his pupils are the size of Pluto. It’s pretty damn bad, but it would be over if Nadine hadn’t tuned in. Where the hell are the MTs?”
Determined, she marched back to Julian, shoved her face into his. “Walk, goddamn it. Don’t you fucking die on me. Where did you get the pills? Where did you get the wine?”
His head fell forward; Eve shoved it back. “Stay awake,” she ordered as Roarke stepped over to take Julian’s weight from Nadine.
“Sleeping pills.” She glanced at Roarke. “Somnipoton.” She considered options, went with instinct. And plowed her fist into Julian’s belly.
“Dallas!”
“I’m not sticking my fingers down his throat unless I have to.”
He coughed, gagged, slumped. She hit him again. And nipped back to save her new boots when he doubled over. He vomited heroically.
“Lovely,” Roarke muttered.
“It’s one way to pump a stomach. Keep him walking.”
He moaned now, staggered a bit, as she took a sample of puke into evidence.
“The MTs are coming,” Nadine called out.
“About damn time. Walk him into the bedroom—and Roarke, stay with him. They can work on him in there, keep clear of my crime scene.”
She pulled out her communicator. Time to call in the team. As the medics rushed in, she pointed to the bedroom door, shook her head at Nadine.
“You don’t want to be in there. It’s not going to be pretty and I don’t want him talking to you yet, if he starts to talk. Roarke? Stay with him.”
“Do you think he’s going to make it? I thought he was dead when I finally got that tight-assed
“I think he’s going to make it. I know if you’d gotten here a half hour later he’d have been dead. You saved his life.”
Nadine swiped at her damp eyes. “I didn’t make him puke.”
“I have that effect on people.”
Sniffling, Nadine found a seat, peeled off her ruined shoes. “Do you think I can get a drink—a real drink? From room service.”
“Fine with me. Just don’t drink anything from in here.”
Nadine limped over to the ’link. “Yes. I want a vodka martini, dry as the Sahara, three olives. And I want it pronto.”
She sat again. “How did Steinburger get him to take the pills?”
“Let’s hope Julian’s able to tell us. Got some blisters working there,” Eve noted.
Nadine winced, continued to rub her feet. “Shut up.”
“Since you earned them in the line, let’s see if the MTs have something for them.” Even as Eve spoke, one of the medics stepped out of the bedroom.
“Status.”
“Cleaned him out good. He’s conscious, feeling like serious crap, and stabilizing. We got him hooked up to an IV, get some fluids back in him. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Eve glanced over as Peabody and two uniforms came in. She gestured toward Nadine, turned back to the MT. “Does he need to?”
“Guy downs a buncha downers with his Cabernet or whatever, he needs some help. That’s auto into Psych for eval and observation. Twenty-four hours.”
“It wasn’t attempted suicide.” She tapped her badge. “It was attempted homicide.”
The MT looked dubious, but shrugged. “You say so.”
“I say so. Is he recovered enough, physically, to stay here?”
“Guy hadn’t barfed most of it up before we got here, you wouldn’t be asking. He needs to have somebody with him to monitor, but he’s stable enough. Pretty fried, but stable.”
“Somebody will stay with him, and I’ll have a doctor examine him.”
The MT looked around, glanced over to where Peabody took Nadine’s official statement. “Guess that’s it then.”
“Thanks for your help.” Eve stepped into the bedroom. Roarke sat on the edge of the bed with Julian propped up on a mountain of pillows. His face remained nearly as white as the linens as they carried on a halting, murmured conversation.
“You can tell her,” Roarke said. “She’ll help you.” Roarke rose. “The MT said clear liquids would be fine, for now. I’m going to go order him something up.”
“All right.” She moved over to the bed, looked down at Julian.
“Record’s on. Do you need me to read you your rights again, Julian?”
“No.” His voice rasped out, and he winced as he swallowed. “Throat’s sore.”
“I bet. Where did you get the pills?”
“I swear to God, I didn’t take any pills. I just had a couple glasses of wine.”
“Where did you get the wine?”
“Joel brought it over last night. He knew I was … upset. We only had one glass each. I’ve been drinking too much since … you know. I drink too much, I guess, when I’m upset.”
“So Joel brought you the bottle of wine, but you didn’t finish it last night.”
“Just one glass each. And it was fine. Just fine. I don’t know why it made me so sick tonight. I guess, maybe, I caught a bug or something.”
“You nearly caught an OD. The wine was full of Somnipoton.”
“Sleeping pills? No, I didn’t take any pills. I told the MTs. I didn’t take any medication.” Agitated, he tried to sit up straighter. “I have some of my own sleeping pills—Delorix—but I didn’t take any. I don’t think.”
He rubbed a hand up and down his throat, closed his shadowed eyes. “I don’t think I did,” he repeated. “I don’t remember taking any. Things get mixed up when I drink too much.”
“The sleeping pills were K.T. Harris’s prescription. The empty bottle was in with the other wine bottles.”
His brow furrowed in a combination of puzzlement and pain. “That doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t take her pills … did I? Why is this happening?”
“You talked to Joel tonight before you came back here. What did you talk about?”
He looked away. “I was upset. I’ve been upset, and I can’t think straight when I’m upset. He said I should come back, have some of the wine he gave me, take a whirlpool. Relax.”
“He said, specifically? For you to drink the wine
