The In Death Collection 06-10 (141 page)

Eve nodded. It would be easy enough to check that data. She shifted tactics. “What’s your relationship with Areena Mansfield?”

“She’s a friend, one I admire as a woman and as an associate.” He lowered his eyes, shook his head. “This business is very difficult for her. She’s a delicate creature under it all. I hope you’ll consider that.”

His eyes, darker now, with hints of anger in them, came back to Eve’s. “Someone used her horribly. I can tell you this, Lieutenant. If I had decided to kill Richard Draco, I would have found a way to do so that wouldn’t have involved a friend. There were two victims on stage last night, and my heart breaks for her.”

“An operator,” Eve murmured as they rode down to lobby level. “Slick, smart, and self-satisfied. Of all the actors, he’s the one with the most experience. He knows the theater in and out.”

“If he’s really a friend of Mansfield’s, would he have set it up so she killed Draco? Planted the weapon in her dressing room?”

“Why not?” Eve strode out of the building, flipped the doorman a sneer. “It’s theatrical, and if you wind it all around, the plant was so obvious it looks like a plant. So. . .” She climbed behind the wheel, drummed her fingers on it, and frowned. “Whoever planted it wanted us to find it, wanted us to know it was put there to toss suspicion on Mansfield. Otherwise, it’s just stupid, and
whoever set the murder up isn’t. I want to know who worked backstage who wanted to be on it. Let’s see how many frustrated actors were doing tech duty on this thing.”

Eve pulled away from the curb. “Toss that ball to Feeney,” she ordered Peabody, and used her car ’link to contact the morgue.

Morse, the chief medical examiner, came on-screen. His luxurious hair was slicked back to show off a duo of gold and silver hoops in his right ear. “I was expecting you, Dallas. You cops are damned demanding.”

“We get our rocks off hassling dead doctors. What have you got on Draco?”

“He’s most sincerely dead.” Morse smiled thinly. “Single stab wound to the heart did the job quickly and neatly. No other wounds or injuries. He’s had some excellent body sculpting work over the years, and a recent tummy toner. A superior practitioner, in my opinion, as the laser marks are microscopic. His liver shows some rehabilitation. I’d say your guy was a serious drinker and had at least one treatment to revitalize. He did, however, have a lovely little mix of illegals in his system at time of death. Exotica and Zing, with a soupçon of Zeus. He chased that with a double shot of unblended scotch.”

“Hell of a combo.”

“You bet. This guy was a serious abuser, who continued to pay to have his body put back in shape. This kind of cycle eventually takes its toll, but even at this rate, he likely had another twenty good years in him.”

“Not anymore. Thanks, Morse.”

“Any chance of getting me seats when this play goes back on? You got the connections,” he added with a wink.

She sighed a little. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The trip from Stiles’s rarified uptown air to Alphabet City’s aroma of overturned recyclers and unwashed sidewalk sleepers was more than a matter of blocks. They left the lofty buildings with their uniformed doormen, the pristine glide-carts and serene air traffic for prefab, soot-scarred complexes, blatting maxibuses, and sly-eyed street thieves.

Eve immediately felt more at home.

Michael Proctor lived on the fourth floor of one of the units tossed up haphazardly after the devastation of the Urban Wars. At election time, city officials made lofty speeches about revitalizing the area, made stirring promises to fight the good fight against neglect, crime, and the general decay of that ailing sector of the city.

After the elections, the entire matter went back in the sewer to rot and ripen for another term.

Still, people had to live somewhere. Eve imagined a struggling actor who managed bit parts and understudy roles couldn’t afford to pay much for housing.

Eve’s initial background check revealed that Michael Proctor was currently six weeks behind on his rent and had applied for Universal Housing Assistance.

Which meant desperation, she mused. Most applicants to UHA became so strangled, so smothered in red tape reeled out by the sticky fingers of bureaucrats, they stumbled off into the night and were pitifully grateful to find a bed in one of the shelters.

She imagined that stepping into Draco’s bloody shoes would considerably up Proctor’s salary. Money was an old motive, as tried as it was true.

Eve considered double-parking on Seventh, then, spotting a parking slot on the second level street side, went into a fast vertical lift that had Peabody yelping, and shot forward to squeeze in between a rusted sedan and a battered air bike.

“Nice job.” Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.

Eve flipped on the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to street level. “This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco’s death. He’s got a good shot at the starring role—if only temporarily. That gives him an ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his record, but every criminal has to start somewhere.”

“I love your optimistic view of humanity, sir.”

“Yeah, I’m a people-lover all right.” She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed his wide canvas shoulder bag. “Hey!” She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched his shoulders and sulked. “You set up that game on this corner, I’m going to be insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see your ugly face.”

“I’m just trying to make a living.”

“Make it two blocks over.”

“Shit.” He shifted his bag, then scooted off, heading west through the billowing steam from a glide-cart.

Peabody sniffed hopefully. “Those soy dogs smell fresh.”

“They haven’t been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold.”

“I can’t. It has a mind of its own.” Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody followed Eve into the grimy building.

At one time the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on outer doors had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful red ink, was M. Proctor.

Eve glanced at the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate. She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.

Someone was crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring sounds of an arena football game and someone’s foul cursing at a botched play. She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.

On level three there was classical music, something she’d heard Roarke play. Accompanying it were rhythmic thumps.

“A dancer,” Peabody said. “I’ve got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in Denver. Somebody’s doing jetés. I used to want to be one.”

“A dancer?” Eve glanced back. Peabody’s cheeks were pretty and pink from the climb.

“Yeah, well, when I was a kid. But I don’t have the build. Dancers are built more like you. I went to the ballet with Charles a couple of weeks back. All the ballerinas were tall and skinny. Makes me sick.”

“Hmmm.” It was the safest response when Peabody mentioned her connection to the licensed companion, Charles Monroe.

“I’m built more like an opera singer. Sturdy,” Peabody added with a grimace.

“You into opera now?”

“I’ve been a few times. It’s okay.” She blew out a relieved breath when they reached the fourth floor and
tried not to be irritated that Eve wasn’t winded. “Charles goes for that culture stuff.”

“Must keep you busy, juggling him and McNab.”

Peabody grinned. “I thought there was no me and McNab in your reality.”

“Shut up, Peabody.” Annoyed, Eve rapped on Proctor’s door. “Was that a snort?”

“No, sir.” Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. “Absolutely not. I think my stomach’s growling.”

“Shut that up, too.” She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and the peephole. The building didn’t run to soundproofing.

A series of clicks and jangles followed. She counted five manual locks being disengaged before the door opened.

The face that poked into the crack was a study of God’s generosity. Or a really good face sculptor. Pale gold skin stretched taut and smooth over long cheekbones and a heroic, square jaw that boasted a pinpoint dimple. The mouth was full and firm, the nose narrow and straight, and the eyes the true green of organic emeralds.

Michael Proctor framed this gift with a silky flow of rich brown hair worn with a few tumbling, boyish curls. As his eyes darted from Eve to Peabody and back, he streamed long fingers through the mass of it, slicking it back before he tried out a hesitant smile.

“Um . . . Lieutenant Houston.”

“Dallas.”

“Right. I knew it was somewhere in Texas.” Nerves had his voice jumping over the words, but he stepped back, widening the opening. “I’m still pretty shaken up. I keep thinking it’s all some kind of mistake.”

“If it is, it’s a permanent one.” Eve scanned what there was of the apartment. The single room held a ratty sleep chair Proctor hadn’t bothered to make up for the day, a skinny table that held a low-end tele-link/computer
combo, a pole lamp with a torn shade, and a three-drawer wall chest.

For some, she supposed, acting wasn’t lucrative.

“Um . . . let me get . . . um.” Coloring slightly, he opened the long closet, fumbled inside, and eventually came out with a small folding chair. “Sorry. I don’t do much more than sleep here, so it’s not company friendly.”

“Don’t think of us as company. Record on, Peabody. You can sit, Mr. Proctor, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“I’m . . .” His fingers danced with each other, tips to tips. “I’m fine. I don’t really know how to do this. I never worked in any police dramas. I tend to be cast in period pieces or romantic comedies.”

“Good thing I’ve worked in a number of police dramas,” Eve said mildly. “You just answer the questions, and we’ll be fine.”

“Okay. All right.” After glancing around the room as if he’d never seen it before, he finally sat on the chair. Crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Smiled hopefully.

He looked, Eve thought, like some schoolboy called down to the principal’s office for a minor infraction.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Proctor, Michael, in subject’s residence. Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide.”

Watching Proctor, she recited the revised Miranda. As he listened, he tapped his fingers on his knees and succeeded in looking as guilty as a man with six ounces of Zeus in each pocket.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Yes, I think. Do I need a lawyer?” He looked up at Eve like a puppy, one hoping not to be whacked on the nose for spotting the carpet. “I’ve got a representative, a theatrical rep. Maybe I should call her?”

“That’s up to you.” And would waste time and complicate matters. “You can request one at any time during
the interview. If you prefer, we can move the process down to Central.”

“Well now. Gosh.” He blew out a breath, glanced toward his link. “I don’t guess I’ll bother her now. She’s pretty busy.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened last night.”

“You mean . . .” He shuddered visibly. “I was in the wings. Stage left. It was brilliant, just brilliant. I remember thinking that if the play had a long run, I’d get a chance to be Vole. Draco was bound to miss a performance or two along the way . . .”

He trailed off, looked stunned, then appalled. “I don’t mean to say . . . I never wished for anything bad to happen to him. It was more thinking that he’d catch a cold or something, or maybe just need a night off. Like that.”

“Sure. And what did you see from the wings, stage left, in the last scene?”

“He was perfect,” Proctor murmured, those deep green eyes going dreamy. “Arrogant, careless, smooth. The way he celebrated his acquittal even as he cast Christine off like a leftover bone. His pleasure in winning, in circumventing the system, fooling everyone. Then the shock, the shock in his eyes, in his body, when she turned on him with the knife. I watched, knowing I could never reach that high. Never find so much in myself. I didn’t realize, even after everyone broke character, it didn’t sink in.”

He lifted his hands, let them fall. “I’m not sure it has yet.”

“When did you realize that Draco wasn’t acting?”

“I think—I think when Areena screamed. At least, I knew then that something was horribly wrong. Then everything happened so quickly. People were running to him, and shouting. They brought the curtain down, very fast,” he remembered. “And he was still lying there.”

Hard to jump up and take your bows with eight inches of steel in your heart,
Eve thought. “What was your
personal relationship with Richard Draco?”

“I don’t suppose we had one.”

“You had no personal conversations with him, no interactions?”

“Well, um. . .” The fingers started dancing again. “Sure, we spoke a couple of times. I’m afraid I irritated him.”

“In what way?”

“You see, Lieutenant, I watch. People,” he added with another of those shaky smiles. “To develop character types, to learn. I guess my watching him put Draco off, and he told me to keep out of his sight or . . . or he’d, hmmm, he’d see to it that the only acting job I got was in sex holograms. I apologized right away.”

“And?”

“He threw a paperweight at me. The prop paperweight on Sir Wilfred’s desk.” Proctor winced. “He missed. I’m sure he meant to.”

“That must have pissed you off.”

“No, not really. I was embarrassed to have annoyed him during rehearsal. He had to take the rest of the day off to calm down.”

“A guy threatens your livelihood, throws a paperweight at you, and you don’t get pissed off?”

“It was Draco.” Proctor’s tone was reverent. “He’s—he was—one of the finest actors of the century. The pinnacle. His temperament is part—was part—of making him what he was.”

“You admired him.”

“Oh yes. I’ve studied his work as long as I can remember. I have discs and recordings of every one of his plays. When I had a chance to understudy Vole, I jumped at it. I think it’s the turning point in my career.” His eyes were shining now. “All my life I dreamed of walking the same stage as Richard Draco, and there I was.”

“But you wouldn’t walk that stage unless something happened to him.”

“Not exactly.” In his enthusiasm, Proctor leaned forward. The cheap chair creaked ominously. “But I had to rehearse the same lines, the same blocking, know the same cues. It was almost like
being
him. In a way. You know.”

“Now, you’ll have a shot at stepping onto his—what do you call it—his mark, won’t you?”

“Yes.” Proctor’s smile was brilliant, and quickly gone. “I know how awful, how selfish and cold that must sound. I don’t mean it that way.”

“You’re having some financial difficulties, Mr. Proctor.”

He flushed, winced, tried that smile again. “Yes, ah, well . . . One doesn’t go into the theater for money but for love.”

“But money comes in handy for things like eating and keeping a roof over your head. You’re behind on your rent.”

“A little.”

“The understudy job pays enough to keep you current with your rent. You gamble, Mr. Proctor?”

“Oh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Just careless with money?”

“I don’t think so. I invest, you see. In myself. Acting and voice lessons, body maintenance, enhancement treatments. They don’t come cheap, especially in the city. I suppose all that seems frivolous to you, Lieutenant, but it’s part of my craft. Tools of the trade. I was considering a part-time job to help defray the expenses.”

“No need to consider that now, is there? With Draco out of the way.”

“I suppose not.” He paused, considering it. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the time. It’ll be easier to—” He broke off, sucked in a breath. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s just that following your line of thinking, it takes some strain off my mind. I’m used to doing without money, Lieutenant. Whatever else, the theater’s lost one of its finest, and one of my personal
idols. But I guess I’d feel better if I said—if I was honest and said—that there’s a part of me that’s thrilled to think that I’ll play Vole. Even temporarily.”