Witness in Death

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Working out of her home office could be an advantage. The equipment, even counting her new computer system at Central, was far superior. There were fewer distractions. And it was next to impossible to run out of coffee.

Eve chose to do so from time to time, even if only to have a fresh view to clear her mind.

Her plan today was to start the morning with something fulfilling. She stood in the center of her home office, smirking down at her old, despised, computer.

"Today," she told it, "death comes to all your circuits. Will it be slow and systematic or fast and brutal?" Considering, she circled it. "Tough decision. I've waited so long for this moment. Dreamed of it."

Showing her teeth, she began to roll up her sleeves.

"What," Roarke asked from the doorway that connected their work areas, "is that?"

"The former bane of my existence. The Antichrist of technology. Do we have a hammer?"

Studying the pile on the floor, he walked in. "Several, I imagine, of various types."

"I want all of them. Tiny little hammers, big, wall-bangers, and everything in between."

"Might one ask why?"

"I'm going to beat this thing apart, byte by byte, until there's nothing left but dust from the last trembling chip."

"Hmmm." Roarke crouched down, examined the pitifully out-of-date system. "When did you haul this mess in here?"

"Just now. I had it in the car. Maybe I should use acid, just stand here and watch it hiss and dissolve. That could be good."

Saying nothing, Roarke took a small case out of his pocket, opened it, and chose a slim tool. With a few deft moves, he had the housing open.

"Hey! Hey! What're you doing?"

"I haven't seen anything like this in a decade. Fascinating. Look at this corrosion. Christ, this is a SOC chip system. And it's cross-wired."

When he began to fiddle, she rushed over and slapped at his hands. "Mine. I get to kill it."

"Get a grip on yourself," he said absently and delved deeper into the guts. "I'll take this into research."

"No. Uh-uh. I have to bust it apart. What if it breeds?"

He grinned and quickly replaced the housing. "This is an excellent learning tool. I'd like to give it to Jamie."

"What're you talking about? Jamie Lingstrom, the e-prodigy?"

"Mmm. He does a little work for me now and then."

"He's a kid."

"A very bright one. Bright enough that I prefer having him on my team rather than competing with him. It'll be interesting to see what he can do with an old, defective system like this."

"But I want it dead."

He had to smother a chuckle. It was as close to a whine as he'd ever heard from her. "There, there, darling. I'll find you something else to beat up. Or better," he said, wrapping his arms around her, "another outlet entirely for all that delightful natural aggression."

"Sex wouldn't give me the same rush."

"Ah. A dare." He accepted it by leaning down and biting her jaw. When she swore at him, he took her mouth in a hot, hungry, brain-sucking kiss.

"Okay, that was pretty good, but just what are you doing with your hands back there?"

"Hardly anything until I lock the door, and then – "

"Okay, okay, you can have the damn thing." She shoved away from him, tried to catch her breath. Her system was vibrating. "Just get it out of my sight."

"Thank you." He caught her hand, lifted it, nibbled on her fingers as he watched her. One taste of her always made him crave another. And another. He tugged her forward, intending to nudge her into his office.

Peabody walked in.

"Sorry." She averted her eyes, tilting her head to study the ceiling. "Summerset said I should come right up."

"Good morning, Peabody." Roarke gave his wife's furrowed brow a quick brush of his lips. "Can we get you some coffee?"

"I'll get it. Don't mind me. Just a lowly aide." She muttered it as she crossed the room, giving Eve a wide berth as she aimed for the kitchen.

"She's upset about something." Roarke frowned toward the kitchen area as he listened to Peabody muttering as she programmed the AutoChef.

"She just hasn't had her morning fix yet. Take that heap of junk out of here if you want it so much. I have to get to work."

He hefted the system, discovered he had to put his back into it. "They made them a lot heavier back then. I'll be working from home until noon," he called over his shoulder, then his door closed behind him.

It was probably shallow, it was definitely girlie to have gotten such a rise out of watching that ripple of muscle. Eve told herself she wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't stirred her up in the first place.

"Peabody, bring me a cup of that."

She went behind her desk, called up the Draco file, and separating it into suspects, witnesses, evidence gathered, and lab reports, ordered all data on the screens.

"I reviewed the disc of the play last night," she began when she heard the sturdy clop of Peabody's hard-soled cop shoes cross the room. "I have a theory."

"Your coffee, Lieutenant. Shall I record, sir?"

"Huh?" Eve was studying the screens, trying to shift and rearrange data in her mind. But Peabody's stiff tone distracted her. "No, I'm just running it by you."

She turned back and saw that once again Roarke was right. Something was up with her aide. She ordered herself not to poke into the personal, and sat. "We've pretty well nailed down the time of the switch. The prop knife is clearly visible here. Computer, Visual Evidence 6-B, on screen five."

"You've marked and recorded this VE?" Peabody asked, her voice cold as February.

"Last night, after my review." Eve moved her shoulders. The snipe was like a hot itch between her shoulder blades. "So?"

"Just updating my own records, Lieutenant. It is my job."

Fuck it. "Nobody's telling you not to do your job. I'm briefing you, aren't I?"

"Selectively, it appears."

"Okay, what the hell does that mean?"

"I had occasion to return to Central last night." That just added to her slow burn. "In the process of reviewing the file, assimilating evidence and the time line, certain pieces of that evidence, marked and sealed for Level Five, came to my attention. I was unaware, until that point, that there were areas of this investigation considered off limits to your aide and your team. Respectfully, sir, this policy can and will hamper the efficiency of said aide and said team."

"Don't use that snotty tone on me, pal. I marked Level Five what, in my judgment, required Level Five. You don't need to know every goddamn thing."

Little spots of heat bloomed on Peabody's cheeks, but her voice was frosty. "So I am now aware, Lieutenant."

"I said knock it off."

"It's always your way, isn't it?"

"Yeah, damn right. I'm your superior, and I'm the primary on this investigation, so you bet your tight ass it's my way."

"Then you should have advised subject Monroe, Charles, to keep his mouth shut. Shouldn't you? Sir."

Eve set her teeth, ground them. Try to spare feelings, she thought, and you get kicked in the face. "Subject Monroe, Charles, has, in my opinion, no connection to this investigation. Therefore any communication I've had with him is none of your goddamn business."

"It's my goddamn business when you interrogate him over my goddamn personal relationship with him."

"I didn't interrogate him." Her voice spiked with frustrated fury. "He spilled it all over me."

They were both standing now, leaning over the desk nearly nose-to-nose. Eve's face was pale with temper, Peabody's flushed with it.

When McNab walked in, the scene had him letting out a low, nervous whistle. "Um, hey, guys."

Neither of them bothered to so much as glance in his direction, and said, in unison, at a roar: "Out!"

"You bet. I'm gone."

To insure it, Eve marched over and slammed the door in his fearful and fascinated face.

"Sit down," she ordered Peabody.

"I prefer to stand."

"And I prefer to give you a good boot in the ass, but I'm restraining myself." Eve reached up, fisted her hands in her own hair and yanked until the pain cleared most of the rage.

"Okay, stand. You couldn't sit with that stick up your butt, anyway. One you shove up it every time Subject Monroe, Charles, is mentioned. You want to be filled in, you want to be briefed? Fine. Here it is."

She had to take another deep breath to insure her tone was professional. "On the evening of March twenty-six, at or about nineteen-thirty, I, accompanied by Roarke, had occasion to visit Areena Mansfield's penthouse suite at The Palace Hotel, this city. Upon entering said premises, investigation officer found subject Mansfield in the company of one Charles Monroe, licensed companion. It was ascertained and confirmed that LC Monroe was there in a professional capacity and had no links to the deceased or the current investigation. His presence, and the salient details pertaining to it, were noted in the report of the interview and marked Level Five in a stupid, ill-conceived attempt by the investigating officer to spare her fat-headed aide any unnecessary embarrassment."

Eve stomped back to her desk, snatched up her coffee, gulped some down. "Record that," she snapped.

Peabody's lip trembled. She sat. She sniffled.

"Oh, no." In genuine panic, Eve stabbed out a finger. "No, you don't. No crying. We're on duty. There is no crying on duty."

"I'm sorry." Knowing she was close to blubbering, Peabody fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose lavishly. "I'm just so mad, so embarrassed. He told you we've never had sex."

"Jesus, Peabody, do you think I put that in the report?"

"No. I don't know. No." She sniffled again. "But you know. I've been seeing him for weeks and weeks, and we've never… We never even got close to it."

"Well, he explained that when – " At Peabody's howl of horror, Eve winced. Wrong thing to say. Very wrong. But what the hell was the right thing? "Look, he's a nice guy. I didn't give him enough credit. He likes you."

"Then why hasn't he ever jumped me?" Peabody lifted drenched eyes.

"Um… sex isn't everything?" Eve hazarded.

"Oh sure, easy for you to say. You're married to the mongo sex god of the century."

"Jesus, Peabody."

"You are. He's gorgeous, he's built, he's smart and sexy and… and dangerous. And he loves you. No, he adores you. He'd jump in front of a speeding maxibus for you."

"They don't go very fast," Eve murmured and was relieved when Peabody gave a watery laugh.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Eve glanced toward the connecting doors, felt a hard, almost painful tug. "Yeah, I know. It's, ah, it's not that Charles isn't attracted to you. It's that…" Where the hell was Mira when she needed her? "That he respects you. That's it."

Peabody crumpled her handkerchief and moped. "I've had too much respect, if you ask me. I know I'm not beautiful or anything."

"You look good."

"I'm not really sexy."

"Sure you are." At her wit's end, Eve came around the desk, patted Peabody's head.

"If you were a guy, or into same-sex relationships, would you want to have sex with me?"

"Absolutely. I'd jump you in a heartbeat."

"Really?" Brightening at the idea, Peabody wiped her eyes. "Well, McNab can't keep his hands off me."

"Oh man. Peabody, please."

"I don't want him to know. I don't want McNab to know that Charles and I haven't been hitting the sheets."

"He'll never hear it from me. I can guarantee it."

"Okay. Sorry, Dallas. After Charles told me, and I went back to work to take my mind off it, and found those sealed files… It kept me up most of the night. I mean, if he didn't say anything relevant, I couldn't figure out why you had two reports and a video disc sealed."

Eve blew out a breath. Interpersonal relationships were tough, she thought. And tricky. "One of the reports and the disc don't involve Charles." Damn it, Peabody was right about one thing, covering them up hampered the investigation. "They involve Nadine."

"Oh. I thought something was up there."

"Look, she had a thing with Draco years ago. She came to me about it. He used her, dumped her, in his usual pattern. When Roarke and I went through his penthouse, we found those personal discs. The one I sealed – "

"Oh. He recorded sex with Nadine. Scum." Peabody sighed. "She's not a suspect, at least not one we're looking at, so you wanted to spare her the embarrassment. Dallas, I'm sorry. All around sorry."

"Okay, let's forget it. Go wash your face or something so McNab doesn't think I've been slapping you around."

"Right. Boy, I feel like an idiot."

"Good, that bucks me right up. Now, go pull yourself together so I can pry McNab out of whatever corner he's hiding in, and we can get to work."

"Yes, sir."

By the time they were assembled in her office, Feeney had arrived. He'd reviewed the video of the play himself, had enlarged, re-focused, enhanced, and worked his e-magic so that the team was able to confirm the time frame of the switch.

The two courtroom scenes were side by side on a split screen, with Feeney in front, showing the minute difference in the shape of the knife, its angle of placement from one to the other.

"Whoever did the switch copped a knife that so closely resembled the dummy nobody would have noticed it without picking it up and giving it a good looking over."

"The prop master?" McNab asked.

"He'd have no reason to do more than check to see that the knife was still on its mark. The courtroom set stayed – what do you call it – dressed throughout the performance. He'd have noticed if the knife was missing," Feeney added. "According to his statement, he checked the set immediately after the scene change and immediately before it changed again. He had no reason to check otherwise."

"That gives the perpetrator approximately five minutes." Eve tapped her fingers on her mug. "However, we narrow that if we follow the line that Quim saw something or someone suspicious, as it appears he did during the scene break. Under three minutes to get the dummy knife hidden and be back wherever he needed to be. Onstage or in the wings."

"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.