Witness in Death (7 page)

"I've got this idea."

Eve glanced at her wrist unit to check the time as she zipped down into traffic. Goddamn press conference. "Which is?"

"Okay, it's more of a theory."

"Spill it."

"If it's good, can I get a soy dog?"

"Christ. What's the theory?"

"So, they're all actors in a play. A good actor slides into the character during the performance. Stays there. It's all immediate, but another part of them is distant -- gauging the performances, remembering the staging, picking up vibes from the audience and stuff like that. My theory is whoever switched the knives was performing."

"Yeah, performing murder."

"Sure, but this is like another level. They could be part of the play and watch it go down without actually doing the crime. The objective's reached, and it's all still a role. Even if it's a tech who did it, it's all part of the play. Vole's dead. He's supposed to be. The fact that Draco's dead, too, just makes it all the more satisfying."

Eve mulled it over, then pulled over at the next corner where a glide-cart smoked and sizzled.

"So it's a good theory?"

"It's decent. Get your soy dog."

"You want anything?"

"Coffee, but not off that bug coach."

Peabody sighed. "Wow, that sure stirs my appetite." But she got out, beelined through the pedestrian traffic, and ordered the double wide soy dog and a mega tube of Diet Coke to convince herself she was watching her weight.

"Happy now?" Eve asked when Peabody dropped back into the passenger seat and stuffed the end of the dog into her mouth.

"Ummm. Good. Wanna bite?"

Peabody was saved from a scathing response by the beep of the car 'link. Nadine Furst, reporter for Channel 75, floated on-screen. "Dallas. I need to talk to you, soon as you can manage."

"Yeah, I bet." Eve ignored the transmission and whipped around the corner to head back to Central. "Why she thinks I'll give her an exclusive one-on-one before a scheduled press conference, I don't know."

"Because you're friends?" Peabody hazarded with her mouth full of soy dog and rehydrated onion flakes.

"Nobody's that friendly."

"Dallas." Nadine's pretty, camera-ready face was strained, as Eve noted with mild curiosity, was her perfectly pitched voice. "It's important, and it's... personal. Please. If you're screening transmissions, give me a break here. I'll meet you anywhere you say, whenever you say."

Cursing, Eve engaged transmission. "The Blue Squirrel. Now."

"Dallas -- "

"I can give you ten minutes. Make it fast."

It had been a while since she'd swung through the doors into the Blue Squirrel. As joints went, there were worse, but not by much. Still, the dingy club held some sentimental attachment for Eve. At one time, her friend Mavis had performed there, slithering, bouncing, and screaming out songs in costumes that defied description.

And once, during a difficult and confusing case, Eve had gone in with the sole purpose of drinking her mind to mush.

There Roarke had tracked her down, hauled her out before she could accomplish the mission. That night, she'd ended up in his bed for the first time.

Sex with Roarke, she'd discovered, did a much better job of turning the mind to mush than a vatful of screamers.

So the Squirrel, with its debatable menu and disinterested servers, held some fond memories.

She slid into a booth, considered ordering the hideous excuse for coffee for old times' sake, then watched Nadine come in.

"Thanks." Nadine stood by the booth, slowly unwinding a brilliant multicolored scarf from around her neck. Her fingers plucked at the long, dark fringe. "Peabody, would you mind giving us a minute here?"

"No problem." Peabody pushed herself out of the booth, and because Nadine's eyes were clouded, gave the reporter a quick, reassuring squeeze on the arm. "I'll just go sit at the bar and watch the holo-games."

"Thanks. Been a while since we've been in here."

"Never long enough," Eve commented when Nadine took her seat across the wobbly table. At a server's approach, Eve merely took out her badge and set it in clear view on the table. She didn't think she or Nadine were in the mood for a snack, much less possible ptomaine. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe there isn't one." Nadine closed her eyes, shook back her hair.

She'd added some blonde streaky things in it, Eve noticed. She could never figure out why people were always changing colors. All that maintenance baffled her.

"Richard Draco," Nadine said.

"I'm not going to discuss the case with you." Eve scooped up her badge with one impatient swipe. "Press conference at fourteen hundred."

"I slept with him."

Eve paused in the act of getting out of the booth, settled back, and took a closer look at Nadine's face. "When?"

"Not long after I got the on-air job at 75. I wasn't doing the crime beat then. Mostly fluff stories, social gigs, celebrity profiles. Anyway, he contacted me. Wanted to tell me how good I was, how much he enjoyed watching my reports. Which were pretty damn solid, considering I hated every fucking minute of it."

She picked up her scarf, wound it around her hand. Unwound it. Set it down again. "He asked me to dinner. I was flattered, he was gorgeous. One thing led to another."

"Okay. That would have been, what, five years ago?"

"Six, actually, six." Nadine lifted a hand, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. It was a gesture Eve had never seen her make before. On-air reporters didn't like mussing their makeup.

"I said one thing led to another," she continued, "but it led there romantically. We didn't just jump into bed. We dated for a couple of weeks. Quiet dinners, theater, walks, parties. Then he asked me to go away with him for the weekend, to Paris."

This time Nadine simply dropped her head in her hands. "Oh Jesus. Jesus, Dallas."

"You fell for him."

"Oh yeah. I fell for him. All the way. I mean I was gone, stupid in love with the son of a bitch. We were together for three months, and I actually... Dallas, I was thinking marriage, kids, the house in the country. The whole ball."

Eve shifted in her seat. Emotional declarations always made her feel clumsy. "So, I take it things didn't work out."

Nadine stared for a moment, then let her head fall back with a long, shaky laugh. "Yeah, you could say things didn't work out. I found out he was two-timing me. Hell, three- and four-timing me. I caught a gossip report right before I went on air, and there was Richard cuddled up with some big-breasted blonde at some swank club uptown. When I confronted him about it, he just smiled and said he enjoyed women. So what?

"So what," she murmured. "The fucker broke my heart and didn't have the decency to lie to me. He even talked me back into bed. I'm ashamed of that. I let him talk me back into bed, and when I was still wet from him, he takes a call from another woman. Makes a date with her while I'm lying there naked."

"How long was he hospitalized?"

Nadine managed a weak smile. "There's the pity. I cried. I sat there in his bed and cried like a baby."

"Okay, I'm sorry. It was a raw deal. But it was six years ago."

"I saw him the night he was killed."

"Oh hell, Nadine."

"He called me."

"Shut up. Just shut up right now. Don't say another word to me. Get a lawyer."

"Dallas." Nadine's hand shot out, and her fingers dug into Eve's wrist. "Please. I need to tell you everything. Then I need you to tell me how much trouble I could be in."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Eve jabbed at the menu, ordered coffee after all. "I haven't read you your rights. I'm not going to. I can't use anything you say to me."

"He called me. Said he'd been thinking about me, about old times. He wondered if I'd like to get together. I started to tell him to go to hell, but I realized, even after all that time, I wanted some of my own back. I wanted to burn his ass in person. So I agreed to drop by his hotel. They'll have me on the security discs."

"Yeah, they will."

"He'd ordered up a dinner for two. The bastard remembered what we'd had on our first date. Maybe he orders it on all his first dates. It would be just like him. May he rot in hell."

She blew out a breath. "Well, I pulled out the stops myself. I'd really put myself together. New dress. New hair. I let him pour me champagne, and we made small talk while we drank. I knew his moves. I remembered every one of them. And when he ran his fingertips down my cheek, gave me that long, soulful look, I threw my champagne in his face and said everything I wish I'd said six years ago. We had a terrible fight. Broken glass, vicious words, a couple of slaps on both sides."

"He got physical with you?"

"More the other way around, I guess. I slapped him, he slapped me back. Then I punched him in the gut. That took the air out of him. While he was wheezing, I walked out, feeling really good."

"Will the security disc show you looking disheveled, emotional?"

"I don't know." She rubbed her fingers over her mouth again. "Maybe. I didn't think of that. But no matter what, I'm glad I went. I'm glad I finally stood up for myself. But then, Dallas, I made a really big mistake."

The coffee slid greasily through the serving slot. Eve simply pushed it toward Nadine, waited until her friend gulped it down.

"I went to the theater last night. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go, see him, and feel nothing." The coffee was barely lukewarm, but it managed to take the worst chill out of her belly. "I did. I felt nothing. It was like a celebration to finally have that bastard out of my system. I even, oh God, I even went backstage -- used my press pass -- at intermission to tell him."

"You talked to him backstage last night?"

"No. When I got back there, started toward his dressing room, it occurred to me that confronting him again made him too important. It would only feed his ego. So I left. I went out the stage door, and I took a long walk. I did some window-shopping. I stopped off at a hotel bar and bought myself a glass of wine. Then I went home. This morning, I heard... I panicked. Called in sick. I've been sick all day, then I realized I had to talk to you. I had to tell you. I don't know what to do."

"When you went back, you headed for the dressing rooms. Nowhere else?"

"No, I swear."

"Did anyone see you?"

"I don't know. I imagine. I wasn't trying to be invisible."

"I want to do this formally, putting it on record that you came to me with this information. That's the best for you. Meanwhile, I want you to get a lawyer, a good one. Do it quietly and tell the rep everything you told me."

"Okay."

"Did you leave anything out, Nadine? Anything?"

"No. That's all. I only saw him that once in his hotel room, then again onstage. I might have been a sap, Dallas, but I've come a long way. And I'm no coward. If I'd wanted the son of a bitch dead, I'd have killed him myself, not pawned it off on someone else."

"Oh yeah." Eve picked up the coffee, finished it up. "I know it. Talk to the lawyer. We'll do the interview tomorrow." She rose, then after a slight hesitation, patted Nadine's shoulder. "It'll be okay."

"You know what sucks here, Dallas? I was feeling so damn good about everything. Ever since -- you know I do the therapy thing with Mira."

Eve shifted her feet. "Yeah."

"One of the things we got down to is I haven't been open to love -- not the real thing -- since Richard. He really messed me up. Then last night, when I was in that hotel bar, I realized that now I could be. I wanted to be. Lousy timing all around. Thanks for listening."

"Don't mention it." Eve signaled for Peabody. "Nadine, take that literally."

CHAPTER FIVE

The calendar claimed spring was just around the corner, but it was taking a slow walk. Eve drove home in a thin, spitting sleet that was nearly as nasty as her mood.

Press conferences annoyed her.

The only good thing about it, as far as she was concerned, was that it was over. Between that and a day spent in interviews that gave her no more than a murky picture of people and events, she was edgy and dissatisfied.

The fact was, she shouldn't be going home. There was more field work that could be, should be done. But she'd cut Peabody loose, much to her aide's undisguised delight.

She'd take an hour, she told herself. Maybe two. Do some pacing, juggle her thoughts into some sort of order. She chugged and dodged through bad-tempered traffic and tried to block out the irritatingly chirpy sky blimp shouting about the new spring fashions on sale at Bloomingdale's.

She got caught at a light, and in a stinking stream of smoke from a glide-cart currently on fire and being sprayed with gel foam by its unhappy operator. Since the flames seemed reasonably under control, she left him to it and tagged Feeney via her car 'link.

"Progress?"

"Some. I got you backgrounds and current locations, financial data, and criminal records on cast and crew, including permanent theater personnel."

Eve's voice calmed. "All?"

"Yeah." Feeney rubbed his chin. "Well, I can't take full credit. Told you we were backed up here. Roarke passed it on."

Her agitation returned. "Roarke?"

"He got in touch early this afternoon, figured I'd be doing the search. He had all the data anyway. Saved me some time here."

"Always helpful," she muttered.

"I shot it to your office unit."

"Fine, great."

Feeney kept rubbing his chin. Eve began to suspect the gesture was to hide a grin. "I started McNab on running patterns, probabilities, percentages. It's a long list, so it's not going to be quick. But I figure we should have simple eliminations by tomorrow, with a most-likely list to shuffle in with your interview results. How's it going?"

"Slow." She inched her way across the intersection, spied a break in traffic, and went for it. The chorus of horns exceeded noise pollution levels and made her smile thinly. "We managed to make the murder weapon. Standard kitchen knife. It came right out of the sub-level kitchen at the theater."

"Open access?"

"To cast and crew, not to the public. I had a uniform pick up the security discs. We'll see what we see. Look, I'm going to run some probability scans myself, see if they jibe with yours. I should have some profile from Mira tomorrow. Let's see if we can whittle this down from a few thousand suspects. How far's McNab gotten?"

"He got a ways before I sprang him for the day."

"You let him go?"

"He had a date," Feeney said and grinned.

Eve winced. "Shut up, Feeney," she ordered and broke transmission.

She brooded, because it made her feel better, then shot through the gates of home. Even in miserable weather, it was magnificent. Maybe more magnificent, she thought, in that gloom and gray.

The sprawling lawns were faded from winter, the naked trees shimmering with wet. Atmosphere, she supposed Roarke would say. It was all about atmosphere, and it showcased the glorious stone-and-glass structure with its towers, its turrets, its sweep of terraces and balconies that he had claimed as his own.

It belonged on a cliff somewhere, she mused, with the sea boiling and pounding below. The city, with its crowds and noise and sneaky despair couldn't beat its way through those tall iron gates to the oasis he'd built out of canniness, ruthlessness, sheer will, and the driving need to bury the miseries of his childhood.

Every time she saw it, her mind was of two conflicting parts. One told her she didn't belong there. The other told her she belonged nowhere else.

She left the car at the base of the front steps, knowing Summerset would send it lumbering into the garage on principle. The pea-green city issue offended his sensibilities, she supposed, nearly as much as she did herself.

She jogged up the steps in her scarred boots and walked inside to the warmth, the beauty, and all the style money could buy and power could maintain.

Summerset was waiting for her, his thin face dour, his mouth in a flattened line. "Lieutenant. You surprise me. You've arrived home in a timely fashion."

"Don't you have anything better to do than to clock me in and out of here?" She stripped off her jacket, tossed it on the newel post to annoy him. "You could be out scaring small children."

Summerset sniffed and to annoy her, picked up her damp leather jacket with the delicate tips of two fingers. He examined it with dark, disapproving eyes. "What? No blood today?"

"That can still be arranged. Roarke home yet?"

"Roarke is in the lower-level recreation area."

"A boy and his toys." She strode past him.

"You're tracking wet on the floor."

She glanced back, glanced down. "Well, that'll give you something to do."

Well satisfied with their evening exchange, Summerset went off to dry her jacket.

She took the steps, then wound her way through the pool house where wisps of steam danced invitingly over water of deep, secret blue. She thought fleetingly about stripping to the skin and diving in, but there was Roarke to deal with.

She bypassed the gym, the dressing area, and a small greenhouse. When she opened the door of the recreation area, the noise poured through.

It was, in Eve's opinion, a twelve-year-old's wet dream. Though she herself had long since ceased dreaming of toys by the age of twelve. Perhaps Roarke had, too, which was why, she supposed, he indulged himself now.

There were two pool tables, three multi-person VR tubes, a variety of screens designed for transmissions or games, a small holodeck, and a forest of brightly colored, noisy game stations.

Roarke stood at one, long legs comfortably spread, elegant hands on either side of a long, waist-height box with a glass top. His fingers were tapping rhythmically on what seemed to be large buttons. The top of the box was a riot of lights.

Cops and Robbers, she read and had to roll her eyes as a high-pitched siren began to scream. There was an explosion of what she recognized as gunfire, the wild squeal of tires on pavement, and blue and red lights crowned the vertical length of the box as it began to spin.

Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and strolled over to him. "So this is what you do with your downtime."

"Hello, darling." He never took his eyes off the duo of silver balls that raced and ricochetted under the glass. "You're home early."

"Only temporarily. I want to talk to you."

"Mmm-hmm. One minute."

She opened her mouth to object, then nearly jumped as bells began to clang and lights shot like lasers. "What the hell is this thing?"

"Antique -- prime condition. Just -- fucker -- just got it in today." He bumped the machine lightly with his hip. "It's a pinball machine, late-twentieth century."

"Cops and Robbers?"

"How could I resist?" The machine ordered him to "Freeze!" in menacing tones, and Roarke responded by zipping his remaining ball up a chute where it banged and bumped against a trio of diamond shapes, then slid into a hole.

"Free ball." He stepped back, rolled his shoulders. "But that can wait." As he leaned down to kiss her, she slapped a hand on his chest.

"Hold on, ace. What do you mean by calling Feeney?"

"Offering my assistance to New York's finest," he said easily. "Doing my duty as a concerned citizen. Give us a bite of this." So saying, he drew her against him and nipped at her lower lip. "Let's play a game."

"I'm primary."

"Darling, you most certainly are."

"On the case, smart guy."

"That, as well. And as such, you'd have requested the data from the theater's files and funneled it to Feeney. Now it's done. Your hair's damp," he said and sniffed at it.

"It's sleeting." She wanted to argue but didn't see the point when he was exactly right. "Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved with The Globe and this production?"

"Because, Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me." He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he'd set beside the machine. "Had an annoying day, have you?"

"Mostly." When he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a small swig. "I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind."

"Me, too. And I've the perfect method. Strip pinball."

She snorted. "Get out."

"Oh well, if you're afraid you'll lose, I'll give you a handicap." He smiled when he said it, knowing his wife very well.

"I'm not afraid I'll lose." She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. "How much of a handicap?"

Still smiling, he toed off both his shoes. "That, and five hundred points a ball -- seems fair, as you're a novice."

She considered, studying the machine. "You just got this in today, right?"

"Just a bit ago, yes."

"You go first."

"My pleasure."

And as he enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to be. Within twenty minutes, she'd lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness, and was currently losing her shirt.

"Damn it! This thing is rigged." Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine, then hissed when her flippers froze. "Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to me?"

"Perhaps you're a bit too aggressive. Why don't I help you with this," he offered and began unbuttoning her shirt.

She slapped his hands away. "I can do it. You're cheating." While she tugged off her shirt, she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers. "I don't know how, but you're cheating."

"It couldn't be that I'm just the superior player."

"No."

He laughed, then pulled her in front of him. "I'll give you another go here, and help you out. Now." He placed his fingers over hers on the control buttons. "You have to learn to finesse it rather than attack it. The idea is to keep the ball lively, and in play."

"I got the idea, Roarke. You want it to smash up against everything."

Wisely, he swallowed a chuckle. "More or less. All right, here it comes."

He released the ball, leaned into her, watching over her shoulder. "No, no, wait. You don't just flip madly about. Wait for it." His fingers pressed over hers and sent the little silver ball dancing to the tune of automatic weapon fire.

"I want the gold bars over there."

"In time, all in good time." He leaned down to skim his lips over the back of her neck. "There now, you've evaded the squad car and racked yourself up five thousand points."

"I want the gold."

"Why am I not surprised? Let's see what we can do for you. Feel my hands?"

He was pressed into her back, snug and cozy. Eve turned her head. "That's not your hands."

His grin flashed. "Right you are. These are." Slowly, he skimmed those clever hands up her body, over her breasts. Beneath the thin cotton, he felt her heart give one fast leap. "You could forfeit." His mouth went to the curve of her neck this time, with the light scrape of teeth.

"In a pig's eye."

He caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth, and the resulting jolt to her system had her fingers jabbing into the buttons. Even as she moaned, the machine exploded under her hands.

"What? What?"

"You got the gold. Bonus points." He tugged at the button of her trousers. "Extra ball. Nice job."

"Thanks." Bells were clanging. In the machine, in her head. She let him turn her so they were face-to-face. "Game's not over."

"Not nearly." His mouth came down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands had already snaked under her shirt to cup her breasts. "I want you. I always want you."

Breathless, eager, she dragged at his shirt. "You should've lost a few times. You wouldn't be wearing so many clothes."

"I'll remember that." The need reared up so fast, so ripe, it burned. Her body was a treasure to him, the long, clean lines of it, the sleekness of muscle, the surprising delicacy of skin. Standing, wrapped tight, he sank into her.

She wanted to give. No one else had ever made her so desperate to give. Whatever she had. Whatever he would take. Through all the horrors of her life, through all the miseries of her work, this -- what they brought to each other time and time again -- was her personal miracle.

She found his flesh with her hands -- firm, warm -- and sighed deeply. She found his mouth with hers -- rough, hungry -- and she moaned.

When she would have pulled him to the floor, he turned, stumbled with her until her back was pressed against something cool and solid.

"Look at me."

His name caught in her throat as those skilled fingers slid over her, into her, and sent her spinning as madly as the silver ball under glass.

He watched her eyes cloud, then the rich brown of them go opaque as she came. "More. Again." While she shuddered, while her hands gripped his shoulders, he took her mouth, swallowed her cry of release.

His breath was as tattered as hers as he took her hips, lifted them, and plunged.

He pinned her, pummeled her system with a pleasure too outrageous for reason. Energized her so that she fought to give it back, beat for beat. When her hands slipped from his shoulders, she lifted them to his hair, fisted her fingers in all that black silk.

They drove each other up, and over.

"I didn't lose."

Roarke glanced over, smiled at the view of her pretty naked butt as she gathered up her clothes. "I didn't say you did."

"You're thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. I just don't have time to finish playing that stupid game."

"It'll hold." He fastened his trousers. "I'm hungry. Let's have something to eat."

"It'll have to be quick. I've got work. I want to go over and take a look at Draco's hotel room."

"That's fine then." Roarke wandered to the AutoChef, considered, and decided a cool, sleety night called for something homey. He ordered beef and barley stew for both of them. "I'll go with you."