by J. D. Robb
“Other than him getting a woody over an actress who’s someone else’s wife, any more buzz?”
“Neither of them remember anything unusual about that night. The wife admits she gets hit on pretty regularly, just part of the package, but doesn’t recall anything that night, or anything period that’s gone beyond her expected hitting on. Oh, and some mildly creepy and suggestive fan mail. They asked if we can take a look at that.”
“Take a closer look at her, send me what you get.”
In her office, Eve updated her book, her board, wrote detailed reports on the interviews. Then meticulously wrote up the report on the double homicide.
Rather than take the time to return to Mira’s office, she wrote out an e-mail, read it, fiddled with it, sent it.
It would be harder for Mira to argue the need for Roarke’s visit if Eve didn’t give her a way to argue.
She flicked over to an incoming, read Peabody’s quick, additional run of one Delilah Esterby.
Eve remembered the name, the face—husband of ten months (only dating at the time of the gala), Aidan Malloy, of the really, seriously rich Malloys.
Both stupidly good-looking, ages twenty-seven and twenty-six, respectively. Young, rich, beautiful, and living in a classy house on the Upper West.
Fit like a glove.
Eve opened the vid attachment to the report, lifted her eyebrows as she watched a montage of Delilah’s ads.
Selling with sex, she thought. Wear this, buy that, use this, and every man—or woman—alive will want to bang you the way they want to bang me.
Considering, Eve studied her board, all the other victims. Stunners, with faces and bodies gifted from gods.
But this one added straight-out fuck-me sex to the mix.
So why hadn’t he gone there? Why pick the soft, the submissive, the busy professional, or the happily devoted wife and daughter instead of the bombshell who made her living selling sex?
Fitting another piece into the twisted puzzle of the killer’s mind, Eve replayed the video as Peabody came in.
“Makes me want to run out and buy that entire line of bath and body products,” Peabody said.
“Why?”
“Well, ah—”
“Serious question.”
“Because it makes me think—absolutely illogically and unrealistically—that I’d end up looking like that, sounding like that, and being just, I don’t know, aware how iced and powerful I am.”
“And that’s why she’s not on a slab in the morgue.”
“What? I don’t follow.”
“She intimidates him.” Eve rose, paced the stingy confines of her office. “She’s saying wouldn’t you like to have a taste of this, and you know I’d let you. She’s overt, available, and, yeah, totally confident in her sexuality and appeal.”
“So … she’s too much for him?”
“He goes for the soft, the vulnerable, the … more subtle. He may be working his way to her level, but he couldn’t start there. What’s the point—for him—to rape a woman who’s inviting him to have a bang?”
“Well, but she’s not. Not really.”
“No, she’s not, but that’s the image. That’s what he sees. She comes off strong and fearless. Yeah, she—types like this—intimidate him. I want to see those creepy fan contacts. Maybe he approached that way. Maybe he dipped a toe in the pool that way, but she doesn’t fit his … mold.”
She turned back from the board. “We’re going to go through the list again when we have interviews with all. Look at them from the angle of the more vulnerable, the more subtle, the more … traditional,” she ended, finally finding the word that had eluded her. “The vics, they all run on that track, in most ways,” Eve continued. “Married, and they all took their husband’s name.”
“I never thought about that,” Peabody admitted, frowning at the board. “Never noticed.”
“Only one of them had a career outside volunteer work, charity work, that kind of thing. Why does that break the pattern, why is that?”
Eve paused, stared at Lori Brinkman’s photo. “Is it that her job’s acceptable? The human rights lawyer who writes on the side? Or is that just something he discounted?”
Something there, she thought, and she needed to pull it out.
“It’s not coloring, body type, even age,” she concluded. “It’s looks, yeah, but also, maybe, his perception. And his perception of the woman or couple they’re substituting for. I want to get this to Mira, see it from her take.”
“The bartender came in, no fuss. Carmichael’s with him in Interview A.”
“All right, I’ll take that. You get this to Mira. You understand where I’m heading?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll put it together.”
Eve took the slim file they’d put together on Wright, walked to Interview A.
She stepped in, nodded to Carmichael. “Thank you, Officer.”
When he stepped out, Eve engaged the recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Wright, Anson, for the purpose of routine questioning, ongoing investigation.”
She read in the case files of all the attacks as she sat across from him.
He sipped from a tube of some sort of health drink that had broccoli and carrots dancing over it.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Wright.”
“No problem. Word came down straight from Jacko: Anybody who works for him gives total co-op to the police. This is about the Strazzas, right?”
“Before we can talk about that, I’m going to Mirandize you.”
He said, “Whoa,” and looked a little excited.
“It’s procedure,” Eve continued. “Before we talk about an ongoing investigation. So. You have the right to remain silent…”
Gaze riveted on her face, he appeared to cling to every word until she’d finished. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yeah, sure. You gave that a crisp reading.”
“All right. How do you know the Strazzas?”
“They came into Jacko’s a few times when I was on the bar, and I tended bar at their house a couple times for parties.”
“You didn’t work the dinner party on Saturday night?”
“No. Last time was … yeah, they had a party in December, big holiday bash.”
“You weren’t on shift at the bar at Jacko’s Saturday night, either. Can you tell me where you were?”
“Sure. I worked the lunch shift that day, got home by five. Easy by five. I had a big audition on Monday, so I stayed home, rehearsing, getting into character, did a purge, and—”
“A purge of what?”
“Of my body.” He waggled the tube. “My character’s a health nut. Abso obsessed, starts a commune—really more like a cult—so they grow all their own food, close themselves off from society because, you know, germs.”
“Okay. You stayed at home Saturday night.”
“Right through until I left for the audition yesterday morning. It was a callback, and I think I nailed it.”
“Was anyone with you over the weekend?”
“No way. I did the total blackout because I had to saturate in the solitude. See, the scene for the callback’s a monologue, and it’s—”
“So no one was with you,” Eve interrupted. “No one came by, contacted you?”
“I put the word out: DND—Do Not Disturb. Let me tell you, the last thing you want is someone banging on the door or buzzing your ’link when you’re, you know, purging.”
“No one can verify your whereabouts from five Saturday evening until Monday morning?”
“Well, like I said, I had to—”
“Saturate in the solitude and purge.”
A little dimple flirted in his left cheek when he smiled at her. “You got it. My character’s a true believer, and he’s on a mission, you get me? It gradually drives him over the edge. It’s a journey, an evolution leading to a kind of metamorphosis. It takes a lot out of you.”
So, Eve though
t, does a purge.
“Tell me about your relationship with Daphne Strazza.”
“Mrs. Strazza?” Shifting, he laid his forearms on the table. “I hope she’s doing okay now. Gula said she was really hurt bad. She’s okay—Mrs. Strazza, I mean. Good to work for. Good tips.”
“A beautiful woman.”
“And then some.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Never could figure why she’d hooked up with a guy like…” His face sobered quickly. “That’s a crap thing to say about a dead guy. I just mean she looked like somebody who could have anybody. And he was, like, your dad old. Plus, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality, you dig?”
“You didn’t like Dr. Strazza?”
“Hey, a gig’s a gig, and like I said, she tipped good.”
Eve leaned back. “Do you do a lot of private gigs like that? Big house parties, that kind of thing?”
“Sure. I’m a hell of a bartender. It’s a kind of theater, too, right?” He edged closer to make his point. “You’ve got to figure out your audience, play the role. It’s not my mission in life, right, but it pays the bills, and gives me a lot of grist for the old mill. You gotta observe life, you know it? Listen to people, cue in. For the day job, and for the art.”
“When you’re going into one of these big houses, working the bar for all those rich people, I guess you cue in there, picture yourself living that way, maybe as master of the house, having that beautiful woman in bed.”
“Sure. You gotta put yourself into it. But, say, if I had a gig like that tonight? While I’m immersing in Joe Boyd—my character? I’d be more disdainful of that lifestyle, of all those people pumping alcohol and rich, processed food into their systems. In my head,” he added. “I wouldn’t let the disdain show because, hey, tips.”
“Did you ever do a gig for Neville Patrick?”
“You mean On Screen’s honcho? I got some juice through On Screen, a solid shot in Triple Threat. Nailed that death scene, too. A couple of other, smaller bits. Theater’s my first love, but the screen gets you more exposure.”
“I guess you’ve met Neville’s wife, Rosa.”
“Never actually met her or the main man.”
“Lori and Ira Brinkman?”
“Ah…” He sucked thoughtfully on his juice. “I don’t think so.”
“Miko and Xavier Carver?”
He shook his head. “Don’t hear the bell ring. Man, are they suspects?”
“Toya L’Page and Gray Burroughs?”
“I don’t— Wait.” He closed his eyes, brow furrowed. Then he shrugged, opened his eyes. “Nope.”
“Where were you last night, Anson?”
“Home, man. Barely made it home, had to hoof it for five blocks in the frigging blizzard.”
“You didn’t go to a friend’s, have a friend over?”
“A couple pals had a blizzard party, but I couldn’t get there. Wanted the girl I’m sort of seeing to head over, but she was holed up, too. It was, like, whiteout time.”
“Did you talk to them, to anybody, say, after midnight?”
“Went to bed about then, I think. I’m hoping my agent tags me soon saying I got this part. I should know by the end of the week. They said end of the week. It’s a long time to wait.”
“Tell me where you were July twenty-second of last year.”
He let out a quick laugh, which ended in a puzzled smile. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“I guess not, and, man, I’m so stealing that approach if I ever play a cop. But I don’t know the answer.”
“Don’t you keep a calendar? For work shifts, for dates, for auditions?”
“Sure. But that was last year. You gotta wipe the slate, get down on the now.”
“How about November twenty-eight?”
“Who keeps track? I was in workshops for three weeks running in September, then the backing fell out. I remember that. Man, I was this close. Second lead.”
He brooded into the distance.
“Do you do your own makeup, Anson?”
“For theater, sure.” He gave a little sigh, likely over being this close, then seemed to cue back into the moment. “It’s part of the immersion. Screen’s different. You need to put yourself into the hands of the artists there.”
“I bet you’re good at it. Doing your own.”
“Took some courses to hone the skills. A lot’s just practice, experimentation.”
“And doing the makeup, that helps you, what, become the character?”
“That’s exactly right.” Earnest, he leaned forward. “I’m already immersed, right? Then, once I’m in makeup and costume, I am the character. The character is me. No separation. It’s exhausting, but it’s the only way.”
“Have you ever played any violent characters?”
“Oh, man, that’s part of the fun. You get to cut those inner demons loose, baby. Joe Boyd, as he descends into madness, he kills a member of the commune he thinks is infecting the crops. Accidentally, but that act pushes him over the edge. He sets fire to the storehouse after that, blames the guy he’s killed. Then—”
“I get it. How do you immerse yourself for the violence?”
“You have to believe it. I mean the staging’s all set, and the cues, the lines, all of that’s around it, but inside, you have to believe you’re going to shove this guy over a cliff to his death.”
“And tap into your own inner demons.”
“We all got ’em, right?”
“How about horror? Ever done a vampire, a ghoul, an actual demon?”
“I was a zombie, an extra on Planet Plague—that got me the audition for the spot on Triple Threat. Man, I would totally kill for a continuing role on Planet Plague.” He caught himself. “Not kill-kill, you get me?”
“Right.” She tried another avenue. “When you’re bartending, I imagine you talk to a lot of people.”
“It’s part of it. You’ve got to talk, but even more, to listen.”
“Do people ever ask you about your outside jobs, the fancy parties?”
He frowned. “The customers? How would they know about them?”
“At the theater, or if you get a screen part, maybe you’d mention the parties you’ve been to. Do a little name-dropping, or talk about what you’ve … observed?”
“I guess. Maybe.”
“And maybe if you’ve got one coming up, you chat about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Anybody specific you might chat with about it?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, it’s just the day job.”
She worked him another half hour, then cut him loose. She stayed in Interview A, brooding into the distance.
Peabody poked her head in. “How’d it go?”
“Either Wright’s an oblivious moron or a hell of an actor.”
“He gets solid reviews.”
Eve frowned, turned her head. “Does he?”
“I did a search on that, and more than one said he was the best thing in some crap play. Authentic’s what comes across.”
“He’s got no alibi for any of the attacks. Claims he doesn’t remember and has no record of his whereabouts on the nights of the first two, and claims he was home alone for the last two.”
She rose, scowled at the two-way glass. “He’s white, and L’Page thinks the guy who pushed at her at the gala was white. He’s the right height. But, Jesus, he doesn’t ring. Not for the killer, not for somebody who’d pass information to someone, except in rambling conversation—but that’s a factor. He connects to the Patricks through On Screen, and he’s worked in the Strazza home, but he doesn’t ring. Yet.”
“Baxter and Trueheart just logged in. Olsen and Tredway are coming in.”
“Let’s try for a conference room.”
Something had to shake loose, she thought. But right now the big-ass tree she beat her head against seemed immovable.
“I figured that, so I grabbed Room B.”
“Good. We’ll
set it up now.”
Maybe the act of creating a new board, arranging photos, evidence, reports would help shake the damn tree.
17
As Eve finished setting up the board, Peabody stepped out of the conference room. She came back with a couple of pita pockets that smelled iffy at best.
“I’m fading,” Peabody confessed. “I need something more than half an energy bar. You do, too.”
Eve eyed the offered pocket cynically. “What’s in it?”
“Veggie ham, nondairy American cheese, and shredded spinach. Everything else in Vending looked worse. At least it’s sort of hot.”
“Why is there always spinach?” Eve wondered, tried a bite. “It’s terrible.”
Peabody sampled. “Yeah, but still, sort of hot. I’ve lost six pounds.”
“Depend on Vending, you’ll whither away to nothing.”
“That’ll never happen, but I’ve lost six and kept it off for eighteen days and counting.”
“I thought you weren’t going to obsess about the numbers?”
“I like obsessing about the good numbers, and my currently loose pants. It motivates. If I’m not motivated, I’ll eat a bunch of brownies.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Mmm, brownies. Then I obsess about packing on enough to crush McNab’s skinny ass whenever I’m on top.”
Eve slapped two fingers to the corner of her twitching eye, noted Peabody’s innocent smile. “That was on purpose.”
“Just breaking the tension.” Peabody took another bite of the pocket. “But now I so really want a brownie.”
Shaking her head, Eve decided if she had to eat a revolting fake sandwich, she might as well top it off with the terrible cop coffee in the conference room AutoChef.
She was scowling over the first sip when Baxter and Trueheart came in.
“What is that smell?” Baxter demanded.
“Vending lunch,” Peabody told him.
“There ought to be a law.” He walked to the board, stood, hands dipped into his pockets, studying. “L’Page and Burroughs—possible targets?”
Eve forced down more coffee. “That’s right.”
“We’ve got two of those.”
“Put them up.”
Trueheart stepped up to do so while Baxter took a harder look at the most recent crime scene shots.
“Having a real party now. Escalating from target to target, but killing Strazza’s opened up a whole new world for him. He killed the male first?”