Witness in Death Page 4

  He retrieved his coat and hers, and his equilibrium. “I believe you’re going to be too busy to do background runs on the way home.”

  “Doing what?”

  He held her coat up before she could take it and shrug into it herself. Rolling her eyes, she turned, stuck her arms in the sleeves. Then let out a choked sound when he whispered a particularly imaginative suggestion in her ear.

  “You can’t do that in the back of a limo.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Twenty.”

  He took her hand to lead her out. “Done.”

  She lost, but it was money well spent.

  • • •

  “If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.”

  Well, it is done, done well and done quickly. And I dare quote from the Scottish play as I sit alone. A murderer. Or, as Christine Vole was in our clever play, am I but an executioner?

  It’s foolish of me to record my thoughts. But those thoughts are so loud, so huge, so brilliantly colored I wonder the world can’t see them bursting out of my head. I think this speaking aloud where no one can hear might quiet them. Those thoughts must be silenced, must be buried. This is a precarious time. I must steel my nerve.

  The risks were weighed before the deed was done, but how was I to know, how could I have imagined what it would be like to see him dead and bleeding center stage? So still. He lay so still in the white wash of lights.

  It’s best not to think of it.

  It’s time now to think of myself. To be cautious, to be clever. To be calm. There were no mistakes made. There must be none now. I will keep my thoughts quiet, tucked deep inside my heart.

  Though they want to scream out in jubilation.

  Richard Draco is dead.

  *** CHAPTER THREE ***

  Given the state of the equipment at her disposal at Cop Central, Eve saved herself considerable frustration and ran her initial background checks at home. Roarke loved his toys, and the computer and communications systems in her home office made the junk at Central look like something out of the second millennium.

  Which it very nearly was.

  Pacing her office with her second cup of coffee, she listened while her computer listed the official details of Areena Mansfield’s life.

  Areena Mansfield, born Jane Stoops, eight November, 2018, Wichita, Kansas. Parents, Adalaide Munch and Joseph Stoops, cohabitation union dissolved 2027. One sibling, male, Donald Stoops, bom twelve August, 2022.

  She let it run through education data for form—all standard stuff as far as Eve could tell right through her enrollment in New York’s Institute of Dramatic Arts at the age of fifteen.

  Got the hell out of Kansas first chance, Eve mused, and couldn’t blame her. What did people do out there with all that wheat and corn, anyway?

  Areena’s professional credits started young. Teen model, a scatter of plays, a brief stint in Hollywood before a return to live theater.

  “Yeah, yeah, blah blah.” Eve wandered back to her machine. “Computer, search and list any criminal record, all arrests.”

  Working…

  The computer hummed with quiet efficiency. Comparing it to the useless pile of chips she was cursed with at Central made her sneer.

  “Gotta marry a billionaire to get a decent tool these days.”

  Search complete…

  Possession of illegals, New Los Angeles, 2040.

  “Now we’re talking.” Intrigued, Eve sat behind the desk. “Keep going.”

  Plea bargain resulted in probation with standard obligatory rehabilitation. Obligation satisfied at Keith Richards Memorial Rehabilitation Center, New Los Angeles.

  Consumption of illegals with secondary charges of indecent exposure, New York City, 2044. Second rehabilitation ordered and satisfied, New Life Clinic, New York City.

  No further criminal activities noted in subject file.

  “That’s good enough. What was her drug of choice?”

  Working…File indicates Ecstasy / Zoner combination in both counts.

  “That’ll get you off, won’t it?”

  Please rephrase query.

  “Never mind. Search and list cohabitation and/or marriage data.”

  Working…Formal cohabitation license issued in New Los Angeles for Areena Mansfield and Broderic Peters from June 2048 to April 2049, union mutually dissolved. Marriage license issued in London, England, for Areena Mansfield and Lawrence Baristol September 2053. Divorce petitioned, Mansfield v. Baristol January 2057, unopposed and granted. No children resulted from marriage or cohabitation unions.

  “Okay. Search and list any professional credits in productions that involved Richard Draco.”

  Working…Off-Broadway production of drama Broken Wings, from May through October 2038. Subject and Draco, Richard, in secondary roles through run of play. Small-screen video production, Die for Love, starring subject and Draco, Richard, taped New Los Angeles, 2040. Video production, New York, Check Mate, starring subject and Draco, February 2044. London Arts production of drama, Twice Owned, starring subject and Draco, Richard, from February 2054 through June of that year.

  “Interesting timing,” Eve murmured, reaching over idly to scratch the ears of the plump cat that leaped onto her desk. As Galahad made himself comfortable directly in front of the computer screen, Eve watched Roarke stroll in through the door connecting their personal offices.

  “You didn’t mention Areena had an illegals habit.”

  “Had being the operative word. Is it relevant?”

  “Everything’s relevant. Are you sure her affection for illegals is past tense?”

  “To my knowledge, she’s been clean more than a dozen years.” When he sat on the edge of the desk, Galahad slithered over to bump his head against Roarke’s long-fingered hand. “Don’t you believe in rehabilitation, Lieutenant?”

  “I married you, didn’t I?”

  Because it made him grin, she angled her head. “You also didn’t mention that she and Draco were in some productions together over the years.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “The timing of two of their acting connections coincide down the line with her illegals convictions.”

  “Ah. Hmmm.” Roarke sent Galahad into feline ecstasy with one slim finger over fur.

  “How tight were they, Roarke?”

  “They may have been involved. Gossip ran that way during their last project together in London. I didn’t meet Areena until a few years ago when she was married and living in London. And I never saw her and Richard together until we were casting this play.” He lifted a shoulder, helped himself to what was left of Eve’s coffee.

  “When I do my run on the victim, am I going to find illegals charges?”

  “Probably. If Areena was still using, she was discreet and professional. No missed rehearsals, no temperamental scenes. I wouldn’t use the term discreet in the same sentence with Draco, but he did his job. And if they were involved in a romantic or sexual fashion, they kept it behind locked doors.”

  “Nobody’s ever discreet enough. If they were banging each other, someone knew. And if they were rolling around sweaty together or popping illegals, it adds some angles.”

  “Do you want me to find out?”

  She got to her feet, leaned forward until her nose bumped his. “No. Now, if there’s any part of that you didn’t understand, let me repeat. No. Got it?”

  “I believe I do. I have a meeting in San Francisco in a few hours. Summerset knows how to reach me if you need to.”

  Her scowl at the mention of Roarke’s tight-assed aide de camp was instant and heartfelt. “I won’t need to.”

  “I should be home before nine.” He rose, sliding his hands up the sides of her body, then down again to her hips. “I’ll call if I’ll be any later.”

  She understood he was reassuring her she wouldn’t be alone at night—alone where the nightmares chased her. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I like
to.”

  He bent his head to give her a light kiss, but she changed the tone, the texture, by pulling him close, her mouth hot and greedy. Her hands were fisted in his hair, and her blood was up before she released him.

  There was satisfaction in seeing his eyes had darkened and his breath quickened. “Well. What was that for?”

  “I like to,” she said and picked up her empty coffee cup. “See you.” She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen for a refill.

  • • •

  Eve screened her calls on her home unit, her palm unit, her vehicle, and her equipment in her office at Central. If her math held, she’d received twenty-three calls from reporters, which ran the gamut from charm, pleas, vague threats, and minor bribes, since midnight. Six of them, at varying locations and with increasing levels of frustration and urgency, were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

  They might have been friends, which never failed to surprise Eve, but for both of them business was business. Nadine wanted an exclusive one-on-one with the primary investigator in the death of Richard Draco. Eve just wanted his killer.

  She dumped each and every one of the calls from the media, signaled Peabody to stand by, and played the terse message from her commanding officer.

  That one was simple enough. His office. Now.

  It was still shy of eight A.M.

  Commander Whitney didn’t keep her waiting. His aide gestured Eve straight into his office where Whitney sat behind his desk, juggling his own communications.

  His big hands tapped the surface of his desk impatiently, one lifting to jab a finger at a chair as she entered. He continued to man his tele-link, his broad, dark face betraying nothing, his voice calm and brisk.

  “We’ll brief the press at two. No, sir, it cannot be done any sooner. I’m well aware Richard Draco was a prominent celebrity and the media is demanding details. We’ll accommodate them at two. The primary will be prepared. Her report is on my desk,” he said, lifting a brow at Eve.

  She rose quickly, set a disc at his fingertips.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve analyzed the situation.” For the first time since Eve entered, irritation rippled over Whitney’s face. “Mayor Bianci, whether or not Draco was a luminary of the arts, he’s dead. I have a homicide, and the investigation will be pursued with all energy and dispatch. That is correct. Two o’clock,” he repeated, then ended the transmission and pulled off his privacy headphones.

  “Politics.” It was all he said.

  He leaned back, rubbed at a line of tension at the base of his neck. “I read the prelim report you filed last night. We have a situation.”

  “Yes, sir. The situation should be in autopsy right about now.”

  His lips stretched in what was almost a smile. “You’re not much of a theater buff, are you, Dallas?”

  “I get my quota of entertainment on the street.”

  “‘All the world’s a stage,’” Whitney murmured. “By now you’re aware that the victim was a celebrity of considerable note. His death in such a public, and shall we say, dramatic venue, is news. Major news. The story’s already hit on and off planet. Draco to Mansfield to Roarke to you.”

  “Roarke isn’t involved.” Even as she said it, a dozen curses ran through her head.

  “He owns the theater, he was the primary backer for the play, and from the information that’s come to me already, he was personally responsible for wooing both Draco and Mansfield into the production. Is that accurate, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Commander Whitney, if every crime that took place in a property Roarke owns or has interest in was connected to him, he’d be tied to every cop and perpetrator on planet, and half of them off.”

  This time Whitney did smile. “That’s quite a thought. However.” The smile vanished. “In this case his connection and yours is considerably more tangible. You’re among the witnesses. I prefer to look at that as an advantage in this instance. The fact that you were on-scene and were able to contain it quickly keeps this from being more unwieldy than it is. The media’s going to be a problem.”

  “Respectfully, sir, the media is always a problem.”

  He said nothing for a moment. “I take it you’ve seen some of the early headlines.”

  She had. Running right after the flash of “Draco Dies for Art” had been annoying little tidbits such as: “Murder Most Foul! Renowned actor Richard Draco was brutally stabbed and killed last night, the murder committed under the nose of top NYPSD homicide detective, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”

  So much, she thought, for plugging media leaks.

  “At least they didn’t refer to me as Roarke’s wife until the third paragraph.”

  “They’ll use him and you to keep the story hot.”

  She knew it. Detested it. “I’ve worked under media heat before, Commander.”

  “True enough.” As his ‘link beeped, he pushed its All Hold button and silenced it. “Dallas, this isn’t an ordinary murder or even an extraordinary one. It’s, as my grandchildren say, got juice, and you’re part of it. You’ll need to prepare carefully for the press conference at two. Believe me, the actors involved will play to the cameras. They won’t be able to help themselves, and as they do, the story adds layers.”

  He leaned back, tapping his thigh. “I’m also aware you’re not particularly interested in the public and media end of this. You’ll have to consider that end, in this case, part of the job. Don’t grant interviews or discuss any area of the case with any reporter prior to the press conference.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I want this to move fast. I’ve already requested the ME put a rush on the autopsy. The lab’s on alert. We go by the book here, but turn those pages quickly. Has Areena Mansfield requested her lawyer or representative?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I don’t expect that to last long. She was shaken, but my impression is she’ll want a rep once her mind clears. Her dresser confirms she was in the dressing room with Areena at every costume change. I don’t put complete faith in her statement. The woman worships Mansfield. Meanwhile, I’m running background checks on all members of cast and crew. It’s going to take some time. There are a lot of players here. Interviews are starting this morning.”

  “Are the estimates of three thousand witnesses in the ballpark?”

  Just thinking about it made Eve’s head throb. “I’m afraid they are, Commander. Obviously, we couldn’t hold the audience members in the theater for long. We did a person-by-person ID for name and residence as each was released. Some statements were taken because, basically, some people couldn’t shut up. Most of those, which I’ve reviewed, were disjointed and essentially useless.”

  “Divvy up the audience witnesses in the squad. I’ll pull in some detectives from other areas. Let’s run some eliminations to get those numbers down.”

  “I’ll start that today, Commander.”

  “Delegate it,” he ordered. “You can’t be spared for drone work. Tag Feeney for the backgrounds on cast and theater personnel. I want this to close. He’s to prioritize the backgrounds over his current caseload.”

  He’ll moan over that one, Eve thought, but she was pleased to be able to pass that part of the load over to the e-detective. “I’ll communicate that to him, Commander, and send him the list.”

  “Copies to my attention. After the press conference, I’ll need you to clear any and all media interviews with me before confirmation. Dallas, you can expect to see yourself and your husband on-screen, in print, and blasted out of the goddamn tourist trams until this matter is satisfactorily closed. If you require a larger team, let me know.”

  “I’ll start with what I have. Thank you, Commander.”

  “Be here, this office, at thirteen-thirty, for pre-media briefing.”

  It was dismissal, and acknowledging it, Eve headed out of the office and down the glide. Before she reached her level, she pulled out her communicator and contact
ed Feeney in the Electronic Detective Division.

  “Hey, Dallas. Heard you caught a hell of a show last night.”

  “The reviews were a killer. Okay, got that out of my system. I’ve got direct orders from the commander. I’ll be shooting you a full list of cast and crew from the play, and additional theater personnel. I need full backgrounds, with correlation runs. Any and all connections of any and all individuals with Richard Draco and/or Areena Mansfield.”

  “Love to lend a hand, Dallas, but I’m up to my nostrils here.”

  “Direct from the commander,” she repeated. “He tagged you, pal, not me.”

  “Well, hell.” Feeney’s already hangdog face filled the screen with sorrow. She watched him drag a hand through his wiry rust-colored hair. “How many backgrounds we talking?”

  “Including non-speaking roles, walk-on, tech and talent crew, concessions, maintenance, and so on? Four hundred, give or take.”

  “Jesus, Dallas.”

  “I’ve done Mansfield, but you could go deeper.” Instead of sympathy, she felt amusement that lightened her step as she passed through the bullpen and gave Peabody the come-ahead sign. “Whitney wants it prioritized and rushed. Media conference at fourteen hundred. I need all I can get by then. You’re authorized to put as many hands on the team as you need.”

  “Isn’t that just dandy?”

  “Works for me. I’ll be in the field. Peabody’ll get you the list ASAP. Look for sex, Feeney.”

  “You get to be my age, you slow down on that some.”

  “Ha ha. Sex and illegals. I’ve got a tie already. Let’s see if it spreads out any. I’ll be in touch.”

  She pocketed her communicator, leading the way down to the lower level where her vehicle was parked. “Shoot the witness and suspect lists to Feeney. We’re dumping backgrounds on EDD.”

  “Good for us.” Peabody drew out her palm unit and began the transfer. “So…is he using McNab?”