by J. D. Robb
“Gee, that’s really sweet, Feeney. Maybe you could tell her you want to save it for special occasions.”
“You think she’d tumble for that? Dallas, you don’t understand women.”
“Got me there.” They turned the corner and saw Peabody outside Interview Three talking to another uniform. Eve recognized the tall young cop, sent him a nod when he turned, saw her, flushed.
“Well, it’s Officer Trueheart. How’s it going?”
“It’s going good, Lieutenant. The suspect’s inside.”
“Subject,” Eve corrected. “We’re not calling him suspect at this point.” She watched him process the difference in procedure. She could smell rookie on him as clearly as she could smell Feeney’s cologne. “Did the subject request a lawyer or representative?”
“No, sir. I think—” He cut himself off, stiffened his already soldierly back. “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.”
“You’re allowed to think, Trueheart. In fact, we encourage thinking around here.” She remembered, with some bitterness, his first trainer who’d not only discouraged thinking, but humanity. “Give me your take.”
“Yes, sir. Well, sir, I think he’s too mad to ask for representation at this time. Mad, Lieutenant, plus he wants to go a few rounds with you. In my opinion. The subject referred to you in…inflammatory terms during transport.”
“And here I was planning to be nice to him. Stand by, Trueheart. You can go to Observation if you want. We’ll need you to transport the subject, one way or the other, after interview.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. And I’d like to express my appreciation for your assistance in having me transferred from stiff-scooping detail to Central.”
“The transfer was easy, Trueheart. Staying here will be up to you. Are we set?” she asked Peabody and Feeney.
She opened the door, strolled inside.
Stiles sat at the small table, his arms crossed, his face mutinous. He sent Eve one steely glare. “And what is the meaning of this outrage, Lieutenant Dallas? I want an explanation as to why I was removed from my home by two uniformed officers and shoved into the backseat of a police car.”
“Peabody, make a note to speak with said uniformed officers. No shoving.”
“So noted, sir.”
“Record on,” she said meandering to the table. “Interview with subject Kenneth Stiles, regarding case number HS46178-C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, as primary. Also in attendance Feeney, Captain Ryan, and Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Stiles, have you been informed of your rights and obligations in this matter?”
“The cop with peach fuzz on his chin recited the standard. I want to know—”
“And do you understand these rights and obligations, Mr. Stiles?”
He showed his teeth. “I’m not a nitwit; of course I understand them. I insist—”
“I apologize for the inconvenience.” She settled back, tried out a smile. There was no need to repeat the revised Miranda and remind him he could holler lawyer. “I realize this is unpleasant for you, again apologize for the inconvenience, and will try to expedite this interview.”
Feeney gave a sharp snort so that Eve sent him a quick, worried look that had Stiles shifting in his seat.
“What is this about?” Stiles demanded. “I have a right to know why I’ve been dragged down here like a common criminal.”
“You’ve been read your rights, Stiles.” Feeney’s voice was clipped and harsh. “Now we’re the ones who ask the questions.”
“I’ve already answered questions. I don’t know anything other than what I’ve already told Lieutenant Dallas.”
“I guess you don’t know anything about that poor slob who ended up dangling by his neck a couple feet off the floor, either.”
“Feeney.” Eve held up her hands for peace. “Easy.”
Feeney folded his arms over his chest and tried to look burly. “He keeps pulling my chain, I’m pulling his back.”
“Let’s take a minute. Want some water?”
Stiles blinked at her, baffled. He’d been ready to rip into Eve, and now she was giving him sympathetic looks and offering him water. “Yes, yes, I would.”
“Why don’t you offer him a snack while you’re at it?”
Ignoring Feeney, Eve rose to fill a small cup with lukewarm water. “Mr. Stiles, some new information has come to light regarding your relationship with Richard Draco.”
“What new information? I told you—”
“I said we ask the questions.” Feeney came half out of his chair. “You didn’t tell us squat. You didn’t tell us you kicked Draco’s face in, did you? A guy puts another guy in the hospital, maybe he finds a way to come back around and put him in the ground.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stiles’s voice was smooth, even, but his hand trembled lightly as he took the cup of water.
“Mr. Stiles, I’m going to warn you that there’s a very stiff penalty for lying in interview.” Eve leaned forward so that Stiles would focus on her face. “You don’t want that kind of trouble; take my word for it. You cooperate with me, and I’m going to do what I can to straighten this out. If you’re not straight with me, I can’t help you. And it’s going to be tough for you to help yourself.”
“Guy’s a coward,” Feeney said in disgust. “Takes Draco out, but hides behind some poor woman to do it.”
“I never—” The mutiny in Stiles’s eyes turned to horrified shock. “My God, you can’t believe I actually arranged Richard’s death. That’s absurd.”
“At least he used to have some guts,” Feeney went on, and deliberately cracked his knuckles in three nasty little pops. “Used his own hands to pound Draco’s face in. Must’ve really ticked him off, huh, Stiles. You actor guys are fussy about your pretty faces.”
Stiles moistened his lips. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Richard’s death. I’ve told you everything I know about it.”
Eve put a hand on Feeney’s shoulder as if to restrain him, then with a sigh, rose. “The file, Officer Peabody. Hard copy.”
“Yes, sir.” Keeping her face blank, Peabody offered Eve a folder.
Eve sat with it, opened it, gave Stiles a chance to read as much as he could manage upside down. And watched his color drain. “I have documents here relating to both criminal and civil actions, which involve you, as defendant.”
“Those matters were resolved years ago. Years. And sealed. I was assured they were sealed.”
“This is murder, pal.” Feeney’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Seal’s broken.”
“Let’s give the guy a chance to settle into this, Feeney. Mr. Stiles, we were authorized to break the seal due to the course of this investigation.”
“You don’t owe him explanations.”
“Let’s just keep it smooth,” Eve murmured to Feeney. “You were charged with assaulting Richard Draco, causing extensive bodily harm, mental and emotional trauma.”
“It was twenty-four years ago. For God’s sake.”
“I know. I understand that. But…you indicated to me in your previous statement, on record, that you and the deceased had no overt difficulties. And yet…” Eve said, letting the silence hang a moment. “At one time you were driven to assault him seriously enough to result in his hospitalization, in your arrest, in a seven-figure civil suit.”
The paper cup crumpled in Stiles’s hand. Little drops of water flew. “It was all resolved.”
“Look, Kenneth.” She used his first name now, establishing intimacy. “The fact is, everything I’ve come up with on Draco points to him being a sorry son of a bitch. I have to figure you had cause to lay into him. Good cause. You were seriously provoked. You don’t strike me as a violent man.”
“I’m not.” The sheen of sophistication had turned into a sheen of sweat. It gleamed on his face as he nodded at Eve. “No, I’m not. Of course, I’m not.”
Feeney snorted again. “I’ll buy that one. Didn’t even have the nerve to stick Draco himself.”
&nbs
p; “I didn’t kill Richard!” Stiles’s voice rose, boomed as he looked at Feeney. “I had nothing to do with it. What happened before, good Lord, I was hardly more than a boy.”
“I understand that, Mr. Stiles. You were young, you were provoked.” Sympathy rang in Eve’s voice. She got up, filled another cup with water, brought it back to him. “Tell me how it happened. Why it happened. All I want to do is clear this up so you can go home.”
Stiles closed his eyes, drew air in slowly, released it. “We’d both begun to make our marks in theater, in small regional theaters. Not much of a mark, of course, but we were beginning. We were both aiming for New York. Broadway was enjoying a rich revival in those days.”
His voice warmed a bit as he remembered his youth, that sense of anticipation, invulnerability. Color came back to his cheeks. “It was a return to the lights, the glamour, the brilliance after the destruction of the Urban Wars. People were looking for entertainment, for escape and, I suppose, for heroes who didn’t carry weapons. We were a tight and perhaps an arrogant circle. It was a heady time, Lieutenant, a renaissance. We were treated like royalty. Offstage, we lived very large lives. Excessive lives. Sex, illegals, lavish parties.”
He picked up his water again, drank deeply. “It ruined some of us. I would say it ruined Richard. He reveled in the fame, in the excesses. It never affected his work, that was his genius, but offstage, he indulged in every possible vice. There was a cruelty to him, particularly toward women. He crushed more than one on his way. He liked to brag about it, to make bets about which woman he’d have next. I found it…unpleasant.”
He cleared his throat, shoved his cup away. “There was a woman, a girl, really. We were seeing each other. It wasn’t serious, but we enjoyed each other’s company. Then Richard began the hunt. He stalked her, lured her, and in the end, ruined her. When he cast her off, it broke her. I went to her apartment. I don’t know what instinct sent me there. When I found her, she…she was on the point of taking her own life. She had already slashed her wrists. I got her to a health center. I…”
He trailed off, hesitated, then continued with obvious difficulty. “They saved her, but something inside me snapped when I looked at her lying there, so pale, so used. I got drunk, then I went after Richard.”
Stiles ran his hands over his face. “I might have killed him that night. I admit it. But people from the neighboring apartments stopped me. Afterward, I realized what a useless gesture it had been. It changed nothing and cost me a great deal. Instead of damaging Richard, I could have destroyed my own career, my own life. I put myself at his mercy, you see. He agreed to the settlements and the seals to protect his own image. I had reason to be grateful he was just that self-interested. It took me three years to pay off the suit, with merciless interest. Then I put it behind me.”
“Seems to me you had plenty of reason to hate the son of a bitch,” Feeney put in.
“Perhaps.” Steadier now that the story was told, Stiles nodded. “But hate takes enormous amounts of time and energy. I prefer employing mine in more positive channels. I have everything I want; I enjoy my life. I would never risk it again on the likes of Richard Draco.”
“Not such a risk when you put the knife in the hands of a woman.”
Stiles’s head snapped up. His eyes burned. “I don’t use women. I’ve had nearly twenty-five years to learn a lesson, Lieutenant. Richard Draco stopped mattering to me a very long time ago.”
“What happened to the woman?”
“I don’t know.” He heaved a huge sigh, full of regret. “She ceased to be part of my life. I believe the fact that I knew what had happened made it difficult for her to be around me, to maintain our friendship.”
“Seems to me she’d have been grateful.”
“She was, Lieutenant. But like me, she had to put the incident, all of it, behind her. I went to London very shortly after the incident, worked there, and then in California, in Canada. We didn’t keep in touch, and I never heard of her again.”
Convenient, Eve thought. Maybe just a little too convenient. “What was her name?”
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s a sad story you tell, Mr. Stiles. An effective one. But there’s no one here to back it up. What was her name?”
“Anja Carvell.” He looked back into the past, then down at his hands. “Her name was Anja. I’ve told you all I can.”
“One more thing. Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of ten and eleven?”
“Yesterday? It’s the hour I take my daily exercise. A brisk walk in the park.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I was alone.” His voice was cold again. The temper was coming back, but it was more controlled. “Am I to be detained any longer? I have a memorial service to attend.”
“You’re advised not to leave the city.” Eve studied his face. There was something off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Any attempt to do so will result in an immediate warrant for your detention.”
She rose, signaled toward Observation and Trueheart.
“An officer will take you back to your apartment. Oh, Mr. Stiles, one last thing. Did you ever have occasion to converse with Linus Quim?”
“Quim?” Stiles got to his feet, brushed the back of his fingertips down his lapel. “No. One didn’t converse with Quim. He had a disdain for people in my profession. An odd little man. I wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered he’d switched the knives. He really couldn’t stand actors.”
• • •
“Peabody, start tracking down Anja Carvell.”
“I don’t like the way it plays,” Feeney commented. “Too slick.”
“Yeah, I was waiting for the lights to come up and the music to start. Still, it could’ve gone down pretty much like he said.”
“Even if it did, it doesn’t change anything. He had a hard-on for Draco, a big, fat one. He strikes me as the type who’d chew on it for at least two decades.”
“I like him for a long-term planner,” Eve agreed. “Somebody who keeps slights and annoyances tucked in little boxes. And as someone who wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty, not a second time.”
But something was out of step. Details left out, or details added in. “We’ll see how the Carvell connection shakes out,” she decided. “He was leaving holes, picking what he wanted to tell us, how he wanted it told. Ad-libbing,” she mused. “Isn’t that what they call it? He did a good job of it.”
“I think he was in love with Anja.” Peabody had her palm unit out but hadn’t yet started the scan. “It makes a difference if he was.”
Eve shuffled back her own thoughts, turned to her aide. “Where do you get that from?”
“It was the way he talked about her before he started to think it through, before he started picking his way. He got this look in his eyes. Wistful.”
Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “He got a wistful look in his eye?”
“Yeah, just for a minute, he was really thinking about her, about the way it was, or the way he’d wanted it to be. I think she was the love of his life. When you’ve got one of those, it does stuff to you.”
“Define stuff.”
“It makes you think about them even when you’re doing routine things. It makes you want to protect them, to make them happy and safe. You know,” Peabody said with some frustration. “You’ve got one.”
“One what?”
“Love of your life, jeez, Dallas. But see, you’re the love of his right back. This wasn’t the same way, because she threw him over for Draco. If you were to go insane and throw Roarke over for somebody, what do you think he’d do?”
“Before or after this somebody was no more than a smudge on the bottom of Roarke’s shoe?”
“See?” Pleased, Peabody grinned. “If you’ve got a love of your life, you know.” She paused, sniffed. “Something smells really good.”
“Just keep going,” Feeney ordered quickly. “If the theory is that Stiles was stuc
k on this Carvell woman, how does that change the picture?”
“Because you never get over the love of your life. That’s the whole definition, isn’t it? You only get one. So that bit about him losing touch with her was bull.”
“I like it. If we find that Stiles had some contact with the woman, we’ve got a motive that spans a quarter century. The setup suits him in both murders. He had opportunity.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Feeney reminded her.
“Yeah, but we pile on enough, we might finesse a confession out of him. Find the woman, Peabody. If you run into snags, hook up with McNab on it. Feeney, how do you feel about going to a splashy memorial service?”
“My wife loves it when I rub elbows with celebrities.”
“Peabody, we’re in the field.”
“Yes, sir.” She watched them head off, and had a sudden craving for a big, chunky salad.
• • •
Feeney’s wife was going to be delirious. Performers from every medium were in attendance. The service was held at Radio City. Though Draco had never performed there, its Art Deco glamour had just the right ambiance. Word was Draco’s agent had hired the top Mourner’s Association company to arrange the affair.
And as it was, technically, Draco’s last performance, he’d skimmed off 15 percent of the gross.
Enormous screens flickered with Draco in dozens of images. There was a holo-performance running on a side stage, with Draco in full costume, defending country and womankind with sword and fancy footwork.
For two hundred and fifty dollars a pop, a thousand lucky fans could attend. The rest were invited guests.
There were seas of flowers, islands of people in sophisticated black, streams of gawkers who, despite the posted request, were busy immortalizing the event on disc.
On the main stage, atop a white pedestal, was Draco himself, resting in a coffin of pale blue glass.
“Hell of a show.”
