by J. D. Robb
“My nerves.” She fumbled with the lighter until Mira stepped over, gently pried it from her fingers, and flicked it on. “Thanks. Okay.” Areena took a deep drag, blew it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so . . . fragile. The theater smashes the fragile to bits, and quickly.”
“You’re doing very well.” Mira kept her voice low, calm. “Talking it through with Lieutenant Dallas will help.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Areena stared back at Mira with the trust Eve had wanted to see radiating in her eyes. “It just happened.”
“When you picked up the knife,” Eve interrupted, “did you notice anything different?”
“Different?” Areena blinked as she focused on Eve again. “No. It was exactly where it was supposed to be, hilt toward me to make the movement fast and smooth. I swept it up, to give the audience that one shocked instant to see the blade. The lighting’s designed to catch it, to glint off the edges. Then I charged. It’s only two steps from the table to Richard. I take his right arm, between the elbow and the shoulder, with my left hand, holding him, draw back with the right, then . . . the impact,” she said after another long drag, “of the prop knife against his chest releases the pack of stage blood. We hold there for an instant, just two beats, intimately, before the others onstage rush forward to pull me away.”
“What was your relationship with Richard Draco?”
“What?” Areena’s eyes had glazed.
“Your relationship with Draco. Tell me about it.”
“With Richard?” Areena pressed her lips together, her hand running up between her breasts to massage the base of her throat as if words were stuck there, like burrs. “We’ve known each other several years, worked with each other before—and well—most recently in a London production of Twice Owned.”
“And personally?”
There was a hesitation, less than a half beat, but Eve noticed and filed it away.
“We were friendly enough,” Areena told her. “As I said, we’ve known each other for years. The media in London played up a romance between us during that last work. The play was a romance. We enjoyed the benefit of the interest. It sold tickets. I was married at the time, but that didn’t discourage the public from seeing us as a couple. We were amused by it.”
“But never acted on it.”
“I was married, and smart enough, Lieutenant, to know Richard wasn’t the kind of man to throw out a marriage for.”
“Because?”
“He’s a fine actor. Was,” she corrected, swallowed hard before she drew one last time on her cigarette. “He wasn’t a particularly fine human being. Oh, that sounds vicious, horrible.” Her hand lifted to her throat again, fingers restless against flesh. “I feel vicious and horrible saying it, but I—I want to be as honest as I can. I’m afraid. I’m terrified you’ll think that I meant this to happen.”
“At the moment, I don’t think anything. I want you to tell me about Richard Draco.”
“All right. All right.” She drew in a breath, sucked on the cigarette as if it were a straw. “Others will say it in any case. Richard was very self-interested and egocentric, as many . . . most of us are in this business. I didn’t hold it against him. And I jumped at the chance to work with him in this play.”
“Are you aware of anyone else who, believing him not a particularly fine human being, might have held that against him?”
“I imagine Richard insulted or offended everyone attached to this production at one time or another.” She pressed a fingertip to the inside corner of her eye, as if to relieve some pressure. “Certainly there were bruised feelings, complaints, mutters, and grudges. That’s theater.”
The theater, as far as Eve was concerned, was a screwy business. People wept copiously, gave rambling monologues when any half-wit lawyer would have advised them to say yes, no, and shut the hell up. They expounded, they expanded, and a great many of them managed to turn the death of an associate into a drama where they themselves held a starring role.
“Ninety percent bullshit, Peabody.”
“I guess.” Peabody crossed the backstage area, trying to look everywhere at once. “But it’s kind of cool. All those lights, and the holoboard, and there’re some really mag costumes if you’re into antique. Don’t you think it’d be amazing to be standing out front and having all those people watching you?”
“Creepy. We’re going to have to let some of these people go before they start whining about their civil rights.”
“I hate when that happens.”
Eve smirked, scanned her memo pad. “So far, we’re getting an interesting picture of the victim. Nobody really wants to say so, but he was well disliked. Even when they don’t want to say so, they do anyway, while they dab tears from their eyes. I’m going to look around back here. Go ahead and have the uniforms cut these people loose. Make sure we have all pertinent data on them, that they’re issued the standard warning. Set up interviews for tomorrow.”
“At Central or in the field?”
“Let’s keep it light and go to them. For now. After you’ve set them up, you’re relieved. Meet me at Central at oh eight hundred.”
Peabody shifted her feet. “Are you going home?”
“Eventually.”
“I can hang until you do.”
“No point in it. We’ll do better with a fresh start tomorrow. Just scramble the interviews in. I want to talk to as many people as possible as soon as possible. And I want a follow-up with Areena Mansfield.”
“Yes, sir. Great dress,” she added as she tucked her memo log away. “You’re going to have to get the blood and sweeper gunk off the skirt before it sets in.”
Eve looked down, scowled at the elegant black column. “Damn it. I hate not being dressed for the job.” She turned, strode deeper backstage, where a uniform stood by a huge, locked cabinet.
“Key.” She held out a hand while the uniform took out a key in an evidence bag. “Anybody try to get in this thing?”
“The prop master came back—old guy, pretty shaky. But he didn’t give me any hassle.”
“Fine. Go out front and tell the sweepers they’ll be cleared to run this area in about ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone, Eve unlocked the cabinet and pulled the double doors open. She frowned, noting the box of cigars, the old-fashioned telephone, and a few other items neatly arranged in an area marked Sir Wilfred’s Office.
Another section held props that had been used in the bar scene. The courtroom section was empty. Apparently, the prop master was very careful about replacing and arranging his props, and did so directly after the scene where they were needed was wrapped.
Someone that meticulous wouldn’t have mistaken a kitchen knife for a dummy.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
Eve glanced back and saw the young brunette from the last act moving from the shadows of the wings into the lights of backstage. She’d changed from her costume and wore a simple black jumpsuit. Her hair had been combed out of its tight waves and fell straight and richly brown down the center of her back.
“I hope I’m not disturbing your work.” She had the faintest accent, soft and southern, and an easy smile on her face as she walked closer. “I was hoping to have a word with you. Your aide told me I was free to go, for the moment.”
“That’s right.” Eve cast her mind back over the program she’d scanned after the murder. “Miss Landsdowne.”
“Carly Landsdowne, Diane in this tragic production.” She shifted her large blue eyes to the cabinet. “I hope you don’t think Pete had anything to do with what happened to Richard. Old Pete wouldn’t hurt a fly if it was buzzing in his ear.”
“Pete would be the property master?”
“Yes. And as harmless as they come. That can’t be said for everyone in this little circus.”
“Obviously. Is there something specific you want?”
“Only to say what I doubt most of the others will, at least initially. Everyone hat
ed Richard.”
“Including you?
“Oh, absolutely.” She said it with a brilliant smile. “He’d step on your lines every chance he got, cut off your mark, anything that would draw the attention onto him and off anyone else. Offstage, he was a vicious little worm. His world revolved around one thing, his own ego.”
She gave a delicate shrug. “You’ll hear it from someone eventually, so I thought it would be best if you heard it from me. We were lovers for a brief period. It ended a couple of weeks ago, in a nasty little scene. Richard was fond of nasty little scenes and staged this one for the biggest impact. During our first full dress rehearsal.”
“I take it he broke things off.”
“He did.” She said it carelessly, but the gleam in those green eyes told Eve the resentment still simmered. “He went out of his way to charm me, and once I was charmed, he went out of his way to humiliate me in front of the cast and crew. This was my first Broadway production.”
She glanced around, and though her lips were curved, the smile was sharp as broken glass. “I was green, Lieutenant, but I ripen fast. I won’t bother to say I’m sorry he’s dead, but I will say I don’t think he was worth killing.”
“Were you in love with him?”
“I don’t have room for love at this point in my career, but I was . . . dazzled. Much, I think as my character was dazzled by Leonard Vole. I doubt there’s anyone involved in this production who didn’t have some grudge against Richard. I wanted to be up front about mine.”
“I appreciate that. You said he humiliated you. In what way?”
“In his last scene, the one where I come down with him into the courtroom and he confronts Christine, he broke off my lines to her, stormed around the stage, claiming my delivery was flat.”
Her lips compressed, her eyes slitted. “He compared its lack of passion and style to my performance in bed. He called me a brainless rube who was trying to trade her lack of talent on mildly attractive looks and a good pair of breasts.”
Carly brushed back her hair, a lazy gesture in direct contrast with the bright fury in her eyes. “He said I was boring, and while I’d amused him for a while, if I couldn’t pretend to act in my minor capacity, he’d see I was replaced with someone who could.”
“And this came as a complete surprise to you?”
“He was a snake. Snakes strike quickly, because they’re cowards. I gave back a few shots, but they weren’t my best. I wasn’t prepared, and I was embarrassed. Richard stalked offstage, locked himself in his dressing room. The assistant director went off to try to placate him, and we ran the scene again with Richard’s stand-in.”
“Who’s the stand-in?”
“Michael Proctor. He’s very good, by the way.”
“And if the play goes back into production, would he step into the part?”
“That’s a question for the producers, I imagine. But it wouldn’t surprise me, at least in the short term.”
“I appreciate the information, Miss Landsdowne.” And that much information, unbidden, was always suspect.
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” She moved her shoulders again and kept those big green eyes on Eve’s face. “And if I did, I imagine you’d dig it out. I’ve heard quite a bit about Roarke’s cop wife over the last few months. It took a certain arrogance, don’t you think, to choose a night you’d be in the audience to do murder?”
“Arrogance is required to take another’s life. I’ll be in touch, Miss Landsdowne.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Eve waited until the woman was nearly to the wings. “One thing.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t care much for Areena Mansfield either.”
“I don’t have strong feelings about her one way or the other.” Carly tilted her head, lifted one eyebrow in a high arch. “Why do you ask?”
“You weren’t very sympathetic when she fainted.”
The smile came back, bright enough to play to the back rows. “A damn graceful faint, wasn’t it? Actors, Lieutenant Dallas, you can’t trust them.”
With a casual toss of her hair, she made her exit.
“So,” Eve murmured, “who’s performing?”
“Lieutenant.” One of the sweepers, a young, fresh-faced woman, marched up to Eve. Her baggy protective jumpsuit made little swishing noises with each step. “Got a little toy here I think you’ll want to take a look at.”
“Well, well.” Eve took the evidence bag, pursed her lips as she studied the knife. Through the clear plastic she fingered the tip of the blade, felt it retract. “Where’d you find this, ah . . .” She scanned the name stitched on the breast of the dull gray jumpsuit. “Lombowsky.”
“In a vase full of genuine long-stemmed red roses. Nice flowers. The room was packed with them like it was a state funeral or something. Areena Mansfield’s dressing room.”
“Good work.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“Do you know where Mansfield is?”
“She’s in the cast lounge. Your man’s with her.”
“Peabody?”
“No, sir. Your husband.” Lombowsky waited until Eve scowled down at the prop knife before she dared to raise her eyebrows. It had been her first up-close look at Roarke, and she considered him worth two big eyesful.
“Finish the sweep, Lombowsky.”
“On it, Lieutenant.”
Eve strode offstage and caught Peabody coming out of a dressing room. “I’ve got four of the interviews scheduled.”
“Fine. Change of plan for tonight.” Eve held up the dummy knife. “Sweepers found this in Mansfield’s dressing room, tucked in with some roses.”
“You going to charge her?”
“Her lawyer’d get her bounced before I got her into Central. It’s awfully damn pat, isn’t it, Peabody? She kills him in front of a packed house and stashes the prop knife in her own dressing room. Very neat or very stupid.” Eve turned the evidence bag over in her hands. “Let’s see what she has to say about it. Where’s the cast lounge?”
“Lower level. We can take the stairs.”
“Fine. You know anything about actors?”
“Sure. Free-Agers are big on all the arts. My mother did some little theater when I was coming up, and two of my cousins are actors. Live stage work and small screen stuff. And my great-grandmother was a performance artist in San Francisco before she retired. Then there’s my—”
“Okay, all right.” Shaking her head, Eve clattered down the stairs. “How did you stand all those people crowding into your life?”
“I like people,” Peabody said cheerfully.
“Why?”
Since it wasn’t a question that required an answer, Peabody gestured to the left as they came to the bottom of the steps. “You like them, too. You just pretend to be snarly.”
“I am snarly. If and when I cut Mansfield loose, or she lawyers, I want you to stick with her. If she goes home, settles in, call for a couple of uniforms to watch her place. We’ve got enough for a surveillance clearance. I want to know where she goes and what she does.”
“Want me to run the background check on her now?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
Eve pulled open the door to the lounge. As with anything Roarke had his fingers in, it was far from shabby. Obviously he wanted the talent comfortable and had spared no expense to insure it.
There were two separate seating areas with plush sofas flanked by serving droids. The room bent into an ell, with the short leg offering an AutoChef she assumed was fully stocked, a clear-fronted friggie holding a variety of cold drinks, and a small, separate table with a slick little computer setup.
Roarke sat, cozily to Eve’s mind, beside Areena in the sitting area on the right, swirling a snifter of brandy. His gaze; that lightning-strike blue, shifted to his wife’s face, gleamed there, and reminded her of the first time she’d seen him, face-to-face.
He hadn’t been baby-sitting a murder suspect then. He’d b
een one.
His lips curved in a lazy, confident smile. “Hello, Peabody,” he said, but his eyes remained on Eve’s face.
“I have a few more questions for you, Miss Mansfield.”
Areena blinked up at Eve, fluttered her hands. “Oh, but I thought we were finished for the evening. Roarke’s just arranged my transportation back to my penthouse.”
“The transpo can wait. Record on, Peabody. Do you need me to refresh you on your rights and obligations as pertains to this investigation, Miss Mansfield?”
“I—” The fluttering hand landed on her throat, rested there. “No. I just don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Recognize this?” Eve tossed the sealed prop knife onto the table between them.
“It looks like . . .” Her hand, still restless, reached out, then fisted, drew back. “It’s the dummy knife. It’s the prop that should have been on the set when . . . Oh, God. Where did you find it?”
“In your dressing room, buried in red roses.”
“No. No.” Very slowly, Areena shook her head from side to side. She crossed her arms over her breasts, fingers digging into her shoulders. “That’s not possible.”
If it was an act, Eve mused, it was damn good. The eyes were glazed, the lips and fingers trembled. “It’s not only possible, it’s fact. How did it get there?”
“I don’t know. I tell you, I don’t know.” In a sudden spurt of energy, Areena leaped to her feet. Her eyes weren’t glazed now, but wild and wheeling. “Someone put it there. Whoever switched the knives put it there. They want me to be blamed for Richard. They want me to suffer for it. Wasn’t it enough, God, wasn’t it enough that I killed him?”
She held out her hand, a Lady Macbeth, staring at blood already washed away.
“Why?” Eve’s voice was cold and flat. “Why not just toss the prop away, into a corner, a recycling bin. Why would anyone hide it in your dressing room?”
“I can’t think . . . who would hate me so much. And Richard . . .” Tears shimmered, fell gorgeously as she turned. “Roarke. You know me. Please, help me. Tell her I couldn’t do this terrible thing.”
