Witness in Death (16 page)

"Then the perp had to wait." Peabody narrowed her eyes. "Wait, and count on no one making the switch through the next courtroom scene, through the dialogue and action. Wait out the play until Christine Vole grabs it up and uses it. That's about thirty minutes. A long time to wait."

"Our killer's patient, systematic. I think he or she enjoyed the wait, watching Draco prance around, emoting, drawing applause, all the while knowing it was his last act. I think the killer reveled in it."

Eve set down her coffee, sat on the edge of her desk. "Roarke said something last night. Life imitates art."

Peabody scratched her nose. "I thought it was the opposite."

"Not this time. Why this play? Why this time? There were easier, less risky, more subtle ways to off Draco. I'm thinking the play itself meant something to the killer. The theme of love and betrayal, of false faces. Sacrifice and revenge. The characters of Leonard and Christine Vole have a history. Maybe Draco had a history with his killer. Something that goes back into the past that twisted their relationship."

Feeney nodded, munched on a handful of nuts. "A lot of the players and techs had worked with him before. Theater's like a little world, and the people in it bump into each other over and over."

"Not a professional connection. A personal one. Look, Vole comes off charming, handsome, even a little naive, until you find out he's a heartless, ruthless opportunist. From what we've uncovered, this mirrors Draco. So who did he betray? Whose life did he ruin?"

"From the interviews, he fucked over everybody." McNab lifted his hands. "Nobody's pretending they loved the guy."

"So we go deeper. We go back. I want you to run the players. Look for the history. Something that pops out. Vole destroyed a marriage or relationship, ruined someone financially. Seduced someone's sister. Setback their career. You look for the data," she told McNab and Feeney. "Peabody and I will chip away at the players."

Eve decided to start with Carly Landsdowne. Something about the woman had set off alarms in her head since their first conversation.

The actress lived in a glossy building with full security, glitzy shops, and circling people glides. The expansive lobby area was elegantly spare, with water-toned tile floors, modest indoor shrubbery, and a discreet security panel worked into an arty geometric design in the wall.

"Good morning," the panel announced in a pleasant male voice when Eve approached. "Please state your business in The Broadway View."

"My business is with Carly Landsdowne."

"One moment, please." There was a quiet tinkle of music to fill the silence. "Thank you for waiting. According to our logs, Ms. Landsdowne has not informed us of any expected visitors. I'll be happy to contact her for you and ask if she is able to receive guests at this time. Please state your name and produce a photo ID."

"You want ID? Here's some ID." Eve shoved her badge up to the needle-sized lens of the camera. "Tell Ms. Landsdowne Lieutenant Dallas doesn't like waiting in lobbies."

"Of course, Lieutenant. One moment, please."

The music picked up where it had left off, and it had Eve gritting her teeth. "I hate this shit. Why do they think recorded strings do anything but cause annoyance and an urgent desire to find the speakers and rip them out?"

"I think it's kind of nice," Peabody said. "I like violins. Reminds me of my mother. She plays," Peabody added when Eve just stared at her.

"Thank you for waiting. Ms. Landsdowne will be happy to see you, Lieutenant Dallas. If you would proceed to elevator number two. You have been cleared. Have a safe and happy day."

"I hate when they say that." Eve strode to the proper elevator. The doors opened, and the same violin music seeped out. It made her snarl.

"Welcome to The Broadway View." A voice oozed over the strings. "We are a fully self-contained, fully secured building. You are welcome to apply for a day pass in order to tour our facilities, including our state-of-the-art fitness and spa center, which offers complete cosmetic, physical, and mental therapies and treatments. Our shopping area can be reached through public or private access and welcomes all major debit cards. The View also offers its patrons and, with proper reservations, the public, three five-star restaurants as well as the popular Times Square Cafe for those casual dining needs."

"When is it going to shut up?"

"I wonder if they have a swimming pool."

"If you are interested in joining our exclusive community, just press extension ninety-four on any house-link and request an appointment with one of our friendly concierges for a tour of our three model units."

"I'd rather have all the skin peeled from my bones," Eve decided.

"I wonder if they have efficiencies."

"Please exit to the left and proceed to apartment number two thousand eight. We at The View wish you a pleasant visit."

Eve stepped out of the car and headed left. The apartment doors were widely spaced down a generously sized hallway. Whoever'd designed the place hadn't worried about wasted space, she decided. Then she had the uncomfortable feeling she was going to discover her husband owned the building.

Carly opened the door before Eve could buzz. The actress wore a deep blue lounging robe, her feet bare and tipped with ripe pink. But her hair and face were done and done well, Eve noted.

"Good morning, Lieutenant." Carly leaned against the door for a moment, a deliberately cocky pose. "How nice of you to drop by."

"You're up early," Eve commented. "And here I thought theater people weren't morning people."

Carly's smirk wavered a bit, but she firmed it again as she stepped back. "I have a performance today. Richard's memorial service."

"You consider that a performance?"

"Of course. I have to be sober and sad and spout all the platitudes. It's going to be a hell of an act for the media." Carly gestured toward an attractive curved sofa of soft green in the living area. "I could have put on the same act for you, and quite convincingly. But it seemed such a waste of your time and my talent. Can I offer you coffee?"

"No. It doesn't worry you to be a suspect in a murder investigation?"

"No, because I didn't do it and because it's good research. I may be called on to play one eventually."

Eve wandered to the window wall, privacy screened, and lifted her brows at the killer view of Times Square. The animated billboards were alive with color and promises, the air traffic thick as fleas on a big, sloppy dog.

If she looked over and down, and it was the down that always bothered her, she could see the Gothic spires of Roarke's New Globe Theater.

"What's your motivation?"

"For murder?" Carly sat, obviously enjoying the morning duel. "It would, of course, depend on the victim. But parallelling life, let's call him a former lover who done me wrong. The motivation would be a combination of pride, scorn, and glee."

"And hurt?" Eve turned back, pinned her before Carly could mask the shadow of distress.

"Perhaps. You want to know if Richard hurt me. Yes, he did. But I know how to bind my wounds, Lieutenant. A man isn't worth bleeding over, not for long."

"Did you love him?"

"I thought I did at the time. But it was astonishingly easy to switch that emotion to hate. If I'd wanted to kill him, well, I couldn't have done it better than it was done. Except I would never have sacrificed the satisfaction of delivering the killing blow personally. Using a proxy takes all the fun out of it."

"Is this a joke to you? The end of a life by violent means?"

"Do you want me to pretend to grieve? Believe me, Lieutenant, I could call up huge, choking and rather gorgeous tears for you." Though her mouth continued to smile, little darts of angry lights played in her eyes. "But I won't. I have too much respect for myself and, as it happens, for you, to do something so pitifully obvious. I'm not sorry he's dead. I just didn't kill him."

"And Linus Quim."

Carly's defiant face softened. "I didn't know him very well. But I am sorry he died. You don't believe he killed Richard, then hanged himself, or you wouldn't be here. I suppose I don't, either, however convenient it would be. He was a little, sour-faced man, and in my opinion didn't think of Richard any more than he thought of the rest of us actors. We were part of his scenery. Hanging, it takes time, doesn't it? Not like with Richard."

"Yes. It takes time."

"I don't like suffering."

It was, Eve thought, the first simple statement the woman had made. "I doubt whoever helped him into the noose thought about it. Are you worried, Ms. Landsdowne, that tragedies come in threes?"

Carly started to make some careless remark, then looking into Eve's eyes changed her mind. "Yes. Yes, I am. Theater people are a superstitious lot, and I'm no exception. I don't speak the name of the Scottish play, I don't whistle in a dressing room or wish another performer good luck. But superstitious won't stop me from going back on that stage the moment we're allowed to do so. I won't let it change how I live my life. I've wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember. Not just an actor," she added with a slow smile. "A star. I'm on my way, and I won't take a detour from the goal."

"The publicity from Draco's murder may just give you a boost toward that goal."

"That's right. If you think I won't exploit it, you haven't taken a good look at me."

"I've taken a look at you. A good look." Eve glanced around the lovely room, toward the staggering view from the window. "For someone who hasn't yet achieved that goal, you live very well."

"I like living well." Carly shrugged. "I'm lucky to have generous and financially responsible parents. I have a trust fund, and I make use of it. As I said, I don't like suffering. I'm not the starving-for-art type. It doesn't mean I don't work at my craft and work hard. I simply enjoy comfortable surroundings."

"Did Draco come here?"

"Once or twice. He preferred using his place. In hindsight, I see it gave him more control."

"And were you aware he recorded your sexual activities?"

It was a bombshell. Eve had her rhythm now, and recognized simple and utter shock in the eyes, in the sudden draining of color. "That's a lie."

"Draco had a recording unit installed in his bedroom. He had a collection of personal discs detailing certain sexual partners. There's one of you, recorded in February. It included the use of a certain apparatus fashioned of black leather and -- "

Carly leaped off the sofa. "Stop. You enjoy this, don't you?"

"No. No, I don't. You were unaware of the recording."

"Yes, I was unaware," Carly snapped back. "I might very well have agreed to one, have been intrigued by the idea if he'd suggested it. But I detest knowing it was done without my consent. That a bunch of snickering cops can view it and get their kicks."

"I'm the only cop who's viewed it so far, and I didn't get any kick out of it. You weren't the only woman he recorded, Ms. Landsdowne, without her consent."

"Pardon me if I don't give a fuck." She pressed her fingers to her eyes until she could find a thread of control. "All right, what do I have to do to get it?"

"It's in evidence, and I've had it sealed. It won't be used unless it has to be used. When the case is closed, and you prove to be cleared, I'll see that the disc is given to you."

"I guess that's the best I can expect." She took a long breath. "Thank you."

"Ms. Landsdowne, did you employ illegals in the company of Richard Draco, for sexual stimulation or any reason?"

"I don't do illegals. I prefer using my own mind, my own imagination, not chemicals."

You used them, Eve thought. But maybe you didn't know what he was slipping into that pretty glass of champagne.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Roarke had two holo-conferences, an interspace transmission, and a head-of-departments meeting, all scheduled for the afternoon and all dealing with his Olympus Resort project. It was over a year in the works, and he intended for it to be open for business by summer.

Not all of the enormous planet wide pleasure resort would be complete, but the main core, with its luxury hotels and villas, its plush gambling and entertainment complexes, was good to go. He had taken Eve there on part of their honeymoon. It had been her first off-planet trip.

He intended to take her back, kicking and screaming no doubt, as interplanetary travel was not on her list of favorite delights.

He wanted time away with her, away from work. His and hers. Not just one of the quick forty-eight-hour jaunts he managed to push her into, but real time, intimate time.

As he pushed away from his in-home control center, he rotated his shoulder. It was nearly healed and didn't trouble him overmuch. But now and again, a faint twinge reminded him of how close both of them had come to dying. Only weeks before, he'd looked at death, then into Eve's eyes.

They'd both faced bloody and violent ends before. But there was more at stake now. That moment of connection, the sheer will in her eyes, the grip of her hand on his, had pulled him back.

They needed each other.

Two lost souls, he thought, taking a moment to walk to the tall windows that looked out on part of the world he'd built for himself out of will, desire, sweat, and dubiously accumulated funds. Two lost souls whose miserable beginnings had forged them into what appeared to be polar opposites.

Love had narrowed the distance, then had all but eradicated it.

She'd saved him. The night his life had hung in her furious and unbreakable grip. She'd saved him, he mused, the first moment he'd locked eyes with her. As impossible as it should have been, she was his answer. He was hers.

He had a need to give her things. The tangible things wealth could command. Though he knew the gifts most often puzzled and flustered her. Maybe because they did, he corrected with a grin. But underlying that overt giving was the fierce foundation to give her comfort, security, trust, love. All the things they'd both lived without most of their lives.

He wondered that a woman who was so skilled in observation, in studying the human condition, couldn't see that what he felt for her was often as baffling and as frightening to him as it was to her.

Nothing had been the same for him since she'd walked into his life wearing an ugly suit and cool-eyed suspicion. He thanked God for it.

Feeling sentimental, he realized. He supposed it was the Irish that popped out of him at unexpected moments. More, he kept replaying the nightmare she'd suffered through a few nights before.

They came more rarely now, but still they came, torturing her sleep, sucking her back into a past she couldn't quite remember. He wanted to erase them from her mind, eradicate them. And knew he never would. Never could.

For months, he'd been tempted to do a full search and scan, to dig out the data on that tragic child found broken and battered in a Dallas alley. He had the skill, and he had the technology to find everything there was to find: details the social workers, the police, the child authorities couldn't.

He could fill in the blanks for her, and, he admitted, for himself.

But it wasn't the way. He understood her well enough to know that if he took on the task, gave her the answers to questions she wasn't ready to ask, it would hurt more than heal.

Wasn't it the same for him? When he'd returned to Dublin after so many years, he'd needed to study some of the shattered pieces of his childhood. Alone. Even then, he'd only glanced at the surface of them. What was left of them were buried. At least for now, he intended to leave them buried.

The now was what required his attention, he reminded himself. And brooding over the past -- there was the Irish again -- solved nothing. Whether the past was his or Eve's, it solved nothing.

He gathered up the discs and hard copies he'd need for his afternoon meetings. Then hesitated. He wanted another look at her before he left for the day.

But when he opened the connecting doors, he saw only McNab, stuffing what appeared to be an entire burger in his mouth while the computer droned through a background search.

"Solo today, Ian?"

McNab jerked from a lounging to a sitting position, swallowed too fast, choked. Amused, Roarke strolled over and slapped him smartly on the back.

"It helps to chew first."

"Yeah. Thanks. Ah... I didn't have much breakfast, so I thought it'd be okay if I..."

"My AutoChef is your AutoChef. The lieutenant's in the field, I take it."

"Yeah. She hauled Peabody out about an hour ago. Feeney headed into Central to tie up some threads. I'm working here." He smiled then, a quick flash of strong white teeth. "I got the best gig."

"Lucky you." Roarke managed to find a French fry on McNab's plate that hadn't been drowned in ketchup. He sampled it while he studied the screen. "Running backgrounds? Again?"

"Yeah, well." McNab rolled his eyes, shifting so his silver ear loops clanged cheerfully together. "Dallas has some wild hair about there might be some way-back connection, some business between Draco and one of the players that simmered all these years. Me, I figure we already scanned all the data and found zippo, but she wants another run, below the surface. I'm here to serve. Especially when real cow meat's on the menu."

"Well now, if there is some bit of business, you're unlikely to find it this way, aren't you?"

"I'm not?"

"Something old and simmering, you say." Considering the possibility, Roarke hooked another fry. "If I wanted to find something long buried, so to speak, I'd figure on getting a bit of dirt under my nails."

"I don't follow you."

"Sealed records."

"I don't have the authority to open sealeds. You gotta have probable cause, and a warrant, and all that happy shit." When Roarke merely smiled, McNab straightened, glanced at the entrance door. "Of course, if there was a way around all that off the record -- "

"There are ways, Ian. And there are ways."

"Yeah, but there's also the CYA factor."

"Well then, we'll just have to make sure your ass is covered. Won't we?"

"Dallas is going to know, isn't she?" McNab said a few minutes later, when their positions were reversed and Roarke sat at the computer.

"Of course. But you'll find that knowing and proving are far different matters, even to the redoubtable lieutenant."

In any case, Roarke enjoyed his little forays into police work. And he was a man who rarely saw a need to limit his enjoyments.

"Now you see here, Ian, we've accessed the on-record fingerprints and DNA pattern of your primary suspects. Perfectly legitimate."

"Yeah, if I was doing the accessing."

"Only a technicality. Computer, match current identification codes with any and all criminal records, civil actions and suits, including all juvenile and sealed data. A good place to start," he said to McNab.

Working... Access to sealed data is denied without proper authority or judicial code. Open records are available. Shall I continue?

"Hold." Roarke sat back, examined his nails. Clean as a whistle, he thought. For the moment. "McNab, be a pal, would you, and fetch me some coffee?"

McNab stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, did a quick mental dance over the thin line between procedure and progress. "Um. Yeah, okay. Sure."

He ducked into the kitchen area, ordered up the coffee. He dawdled. McNab didn't have a clue how long it would take to bypass the red tape and access what was not supposed to be accessed. To calm himself, he decided to see if there was any pie available.

He discovered to his great delight that he had a choice of six types and agonized over which to go for.

"Ian, are you growing the coffee beans in there?"

"Huh?" He poked his head back in. "I was just... figured you'd need some time."

He was a sharp tech, Roarke thought, and a delightfully naive young man. "I think this might interest you."

"You got in? Already? But how -- " McNab cut himself off as he hurried back to the desk. "No, I'd better not know how. That way, when I'm being charged and booked, I can claim ignorance."

"Charged and booked for what?" Roarke tapped a finger on a sheet of paper. "Here's your warrant for the sealeds."

"My -- " Eyes goggling, McNab snatched up the sheet. "It looks real. It's signed by Judge Nettles."

"So it appears."

"Wow. You're not just ice," McNab said reverently. "You're fucking Antarctica."

"Ian, please. You're embarrassing me."

"Right. Um. Why did I ask for Judge Nettles for the warrant again?"

With a laugh, Roarke got to his feet. "I'm sure you can come up with some appropriately convoluted cop speak to justify the request if and when you're asked. My suggestion would be a variation on a shot in the dark."

"Yeah. That's a good one."

"Then I'll leave you to it."

"Okay. Thanks. Ah, hey, Roarke?"

"Yes?"

"There's this other thing." McNab shifted from foot to foot on his purple airboots. "It's kind of personal. I was going to work around to talking to the lieutenant about it, but, well, you know how she is."

"I know precisely." He studied McNab's face, felt a stir of pity wrapped around amusement. "Women, Ian?"

"Oh yeah. Well, woman, I guess. I gotta figure a guy like you knows how to handle them as well as you handle electronics. I just don't get women. I mean I get them," he rushed on. "I don't have any problem with sex. I just don't get them, in an intellectual sense. I guess."

"I see. Ian, if you want me to discuss the intricacies and capriciousness of the female mind, we'll need several days and a great deal of liquor."

"Yeah. Ha. I guess you're in a hurry right now."

Actually, time was short. There were a few billion dollars waiting to be shifted, juggled, and consumed. But Roarke eased a hip on the corner of the desk. The money would wait. "I imagine this involves Peabody."

"We're, you know, doing it."

"Ian, I had no idea you were such a wild romantic. A virtual poet."

Roarke's dry tone had McNab flushing, then grinning. "We have really amazing sex."

"That's lovely for both of you, and congratulations. But I'm not sure Peabody would appreciate you sharing that piece of information with me."

"It's not really about sex," McNab said quickly, afraid he'd lose his sounding board before he'd sounded off. "I mean, it is, because we have it. A lot of it. And it rocks, so that's mag and all. That's how I figured it would be if I could ever get her out of that uniform for five damn minutes. But that's like it, that's all. Every time we finish, you know, the naked pretzel, I have to bribe her with food or get her going about a case or she's out the door. Or booting me out, if we landed at her place."

Roarke understood the frustration. He'd only had one woman ever try to shake him off. The only woman who mattered. "And you're looking for more."

"Weird, huh?" With a half laugh, McNab began to pace. "I really like women. All sorts of women. I especially like them naked."

"Who could blame you?"

"Exactly. So I finally get a chance to bounce on the naked She-Body, and it's making me crazy. I'm all tied up inside and she's cruising right along. I always figured women, you know, mostly they were supposed to want the whole relationship thing. Talking about stuff so you come up with all those nice lies. I mean, they know you're lying, but they go along with it because maybe you won't be later on. Or something."

"That's a fascinating view on the male/female dynamic." One, Roarke was certain, would earn the boy a female knee to the balls if ever voiced in mixed company. "I take it Peabody isn't interested in pleasant lies."

"I don't know what she's interested in; that's the whole deal." Wound up now, he waved his arms. "I mean, she likes sex, she's into her work, she looks at Dallas like the lieutenant has the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Then she goes off with that goddamn Monroe son of a bitch to the opera."

It was the last, delivered with vitriol, that had Roarke nodding. "It's perfectly natural to be jealous of a rival."

"Rival, my ass. What the hell's wrong with her, going around with that slick LC? Fancy dinners and art shows. Listening to music you can't even dance to. I ought to smash his face in."

Roarke thought about it a moment and decided, under similar circumstances, he'd be tempted to do just that. "It would be satisfying, no doubt, but bound to annoy the woman in question. Have you tried romance?"

"What do you mean? Like goofy stuff?"

Roarke sighed. "Let's try this. Have you ever asked her out?"

"Sure. We see each other a couple, three nights a week."

"Out, Ian. In public. In places where you're both required, by law, to wear clothes of some kind."

"Oh. Not really."

"It might be a place to start. A date, where you'd pick her up at her apartment at a time agreed upon, then take her to a place where food and entertainment are offered. While enjoying that food and/or entertainment, you might try having a conversation with her, one that doesn't directly involve sex or work."

"I know what a date is," McNab grumbled, and felt put upon. "I haven't got the credit base to take her places like that bastard Monroe."

"Ah, therein lies one of the wonders of the female mind and heart. Go with your strengths, take her places that appeal to her sense of adventure, romance, humor. Don't compete with Monroe, Ian. Contrast with him. He gives her orchids grown in greenhouses on Flora I, you give her daisies you picked from the public field in Greenpeace Park."

As the information, the idea of it, processed, McNab's eyes cleared. Brightened. "Hey, that's good. That could work. I guess I could try it. You're really into this shit. Thanks."

"My pleasure." Roarke picked up his briefcase. "I've always been a gambling man, Ian, and one who likes to win. If I were to wager on your little triangle, I'd put my money on you."