by J. D. Robb
Eve turned the recorder on again when Marlo stepped in. She wore black yoga pants and a tank, and her face was bare of enhancements. “I guess I’m next.”
“I need to record this,” Eve began, and went through the same routine she had with Matthew while Marlo sat, eyes wide, hands clenched in her lap.
“Why were you and Matthew on the roof?”
She told the same story with little variation.
“It was such a beautiful night. A little chilly. Warmer inside the dome, but still a little cool. Then everything was so cold after Matthew pulled her out. I thought she’d start breathing again. She’d cough and spit out water. But she didn’t. He worked and worked to try to make her breathe again, but she didn’t.
“It was an accident, wasn’t it? I saw the broken glass. She must have slipped and fallen in. Hit her head? She’d been drinking all night.”
“We can’t say yet.”
“It had to be. Nobody here would … we’re not murderers.” Her eyes, the same color as Eve’s, came back to life, lit with passion.
“You were here for that scene she made at dinner, so there’s no point in pretending we were friends. She didn’t have friends. She had competitors, assets, possessions, but not friends. But nobody would kill her. We like drama, and we’re lying when we say otherwise. We feed on it. But not like this.”
“Do you have specific problems with her? Personally?”
“Oh, let me count.” She shoved at her hair in a way Eve found oddly familiar to her own impatient gesture. “She hated me.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Again, let me count. I’ve had an Oscar nomination. I didn’t win, but I’m an Academy Award–nominated actor—and that was a pisser for her. She let me know she knew I’d slept my way to that part. I’d dated the screenwriter—before he wrote it, before the casting, before any of it, but we had dated, and we’d stayed friends. She considered that whoring my way to an Oscar nod. I was hogging the screen time in this project, pushing Roundtree to diminish her role and so on and so on. She cornered me tonight, right before the gag reel. She wanted to know how I’d feel when the media got wind I was blowing Roundtree, Matthew, and Julian. She said Connie knew all about it, and Nadine would be leading off with a segment on how I sucked my way to every part on the next installment of Now.”
“How did you respond to that?”
“I told her to go fuck herself. That was the last thing I said to her. ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself, K.T., because nobody else wants to.’” She squeezed her eyes shut. “God.”
“If someone said that to me, I’d want to punch them—at minimum.”
“If I’d been in character, I might’ve punched her.” After letting out a breath, Marlo stared at Eve, eyes miserable. “Then I guess I’d feel worse than I do now.”
“Okay, that should do it for the moment. You can go home. Ask Connie to come in before you leave.”
“That’s it?”
“For right now.”
“Will you tell us when you know what happened?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch.”
Marlo got up, started for the door. “We are suspects, aren’t we?” she asked Eve.
“You researched the part. What do you think?”
“That you think K.T. was murdered, and one of us did it.” Marlo shuddered. “I keep waiting for someone to yell ‘Cut.’”
“She doesn’t like knowing the last thing she said to a dead woman was ugly,” Mira commented. “She didn’t like her, and quite a bit, but she also felt the victim was beneath her. She found her crude, pathetic, and as ugly as that last comment.”
“And a potential threat to her reputation.”
“You don’t believe Marlo’s having affairs with Roundtree, Julian, and Matthew?”
“Not with Julian or Roundtree, but she’s having one with Matthew.”
Surprised, Mira sat back. “Why do you think that? I didn’t get any sort of indication from either of them of that sort of interest.”
“No, they’re good. That’s going to be an issue here. Actors, and good ones. They’re keeping it quiet. But I have to figure two people aren’t leaving a party—the lights, the drinks, the laughs, to go dangle their feet in a lap pool on the roof unless they want a little alone time. And he’s out there waiting for her, when he could’ve gotten the hell out of here.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “I could be wrong. But he talks about how she helped him, how she cried; she talks about how he worked and worked to bring the vic back.”
“Because they’re in love,” Mira speculated. “And see each other as heroic.”
“Might be.” Eve reached for the recorder again as Connie came in.
“Before we begin, could I get either of you anything?”
“We’re good,” Eve told her.
“Could I ask if I can have more coffee served—maybe some food—to the others? It’s hard to wait out there.”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t I take care of that?” Mira rose, touched Connie’s arm before the hostess could protest. “Sit down, Connie.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Connie said to Eve.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I’ll keep it as brief as I can. I’m recording, and reading everyone their rights, just to keep it clean.”
The strain showed as Connie nodded her way through the procedure, as she linked and unlinked her fingers on the tabletop.
“Why don’t you tell me what went on between you and K.T. when you took her away from the table?”
“I told her, in very clear terms, that she’d watch her mouth and behavior in my home. If she spoke that way again to any one of my guests, I would have her taken out, and she’d never be welcome back.”
Connie looked away, firmed her lips. “But that wasn’t enough.”
“What else?”
“She wouldn’t apologize, wouldn’t agree to apologize to you or the others, and that just tipped it out for me. So I tossed in, because I was very angry, very embarrassed, that I’d see to it she never worked with my husband again, or with anyone else I have influence with. She should remember I have quite a lot of influence in the business.”
Shuddering a little, she dashed a tear away. “I would have done it, too. I meant to do it.”
“How did she take it?”
“Initially? Not very well. She went off, telling me she was sick of being told what she could say, what she could do. She had plenty to say, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. Then she told me Marlo was giving Mason blow jobs between scenes.”
“Did you believe her?”
“K.T.’s a talented actor, drunk or sober,” Connie began. “Sober, she’s tolerable as a human being, can even be amusing. Drunk, she’s vicious, unreasonable, and occasionally violent. Most of that’s been covered up by various agents, managers, publicists, producers, so the public doesn’t have the full picture, so to speak.”
“Was that an answer?”
“It was the first part of one. I didn’t believe her drunken insults, no, because my husband isn’t a cheat, or a man who looks for bjs on the set from an actress he’s directing. Added to that, Marlo thinks more of herself than to stoop that way. She thinks more of me, and Mason.
“The second part of the answer is Mason and I have been married a long time. And we have an understanding. If either of us falls out of love, we’re to be honest about it. If either of us just needs a break from the other, we take one. If either of us cheats—it’s done. No second chance.”
“Sounds like a good policy.”
“It’s worked very well for us.”
“What was K.T.’s problem with Marlo, because it’s obvious she had one.”
“All too obvious after that ugly remark at dinner. The bottom line?” Connie said, dry-eyed again. “K.T. was jealous of Marlo, disliked her for many reasons. Her looks, her talent, her charm, her popularity with not only fans but other industry profe
ssionals. I think K.T. took a slap at you because you’re who Marlo is during this project. So what she feels for Marlo, she feels—felt—for you. I can’t get my tenses straight.”
She paused, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Past, present. It gets mixed up. I don’t know how to deal with this.”
“You’re doing fine.” Eve wound her through the evening as Mira came back in.
“God. Thank you,” Connie said as Mira set a cup of coffee in front of her.
“Your husband added a splash of brandy.”
“He knows me.”
“Do you remember seeing K.T. leave the theater?” Eve asked her. “Or anyone else leave during the screen show?”
“I’d seen the gag reel, so I slipped out during the opening credits, went in to talk to the caterers. I was in the kitchen for a little while.” As she sipped the coffee, Connie creased her forehead. “I came in toward the end, slipped over to the buffet to make sure we had enough out for post-screening. I didn’t see anyone go in or come out as I did.”
“What about when the lights came up? Was everyone there?”
“K.T. wasn’t. I know that because I’d been keeping an eye on her. She’d been drinking too much, and I didn’t want another scene. I’d planned on getting her out, into a car, and gone, but she wasn’t in the theater.”
“Was anyone else missing?”
“I’m not sure. My focus was on her because of what happened earlier, and the way she’d been stewing. I wasn’t going to risk another scene. I started to go out, see if she’d gone home or was still in the house, but Valerie waylaid me. She wanted a list of the desserts for a story she wanted to pitch on the evening. Then Nadine came up, and we started talking. I let it go.”
Eve caught sight of Roarke, gave him a subtle signal to come in.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s okay. We’re good here for now, Connie. I’ll send for someone else in just a minute.”
“Your sweepers and the morgue team arrived,” Roarke told Eve when he was alone with her and Mira. “They went up to the roof.”
“Let’s move this along. Tell Peabody I want her to take Roundtree, Dennis Mira, and the publicist, in any order, in some other location. That leaves me with Andrea Smythe and the asshole producer and Nadine. We’ll take Julian together last. When we’re nearly there,” she said to Mira, “you could get some Sober-Up in him for me. No point in talking to a drunk.”
“She was a cunt.” Eyes alert, Andrea chugged down coffee. “It’s a term I use for particularly nasty people of either sex, and she was a world-class cunt. I disliked her in the part because I found the character of Peabody so appealing. Water was never wet enough for K.T.”
She paused a moment, smiled. “And that was a very poor choice of words, considering.” She threw back her head and laughed. “I don’t give a rat’s warty ass she’s dead. It only means she’s a dead cunt.”
“That’s a strong opinion.”
“And the only kind worth having. I threatened to shove a stick up her twat and light it on fire just yesterday. Maybe the day before. I lose track as there was rarely a day that went by she didn’t make me want to strangle her with my bare hands after I’d beaten her in the face with a rusty shovel.”
Andrea drank some coffee, smiled over the rim. “She tended to stay out of my way.”
“I bet.”
“I don’t mind being a suspect when the corpse is a shit-for-brains fuckwit, but if I’d killed her it would’ve been bloody and loud. And I’d have enjoyed it too much to keep it to myself.”
For the moment at least, Eve believed her. And cut her loose.
The minute Joel Steinburger strode in, he grabbed for the controls.
“We have to get a few things straight.”
“Do we?”
“Nothing can be released to the media until I, Valerie, or one of my people vets it. This feed has to be carefully massaged. I need my ’link. I can’t be out of contact with my people at a time like this. In addition, I need everyone here—that includes the staff, the police, all the guests—to sign a nondisclosure agreement. We can’t have some server running to the tabloids selling some twisted version of tonight, or some underpaid cop trying to line his pockets with a ’link vid of K.T. lying up there dead. I’m told you plan to have her taken to the morgue. We can’t have that.”
“We can’t?”
“I can arrange for a private facility, a private examiner. Jesus Christ, do you know how much one of those Internet hounds would pay for a picture of K.T. Harris, naked on some slab in the morgue?”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I need—”
“What you need has to wait because you have the right to remain silent. And I suggest you fucking do so until I finish Mirandizing you.”
“What are you talking about?” He looked genuinely shocked. “What is she talking about?” he demanded of Mira.
“Joel,” Mira began as Eve continued to recite. “Take a breath. Take a moment. Lieutenant Dallas has to do her job.”
“I have to do mine! Everybody involved in this production requires I give this incident all my attention, and make certain it’s handled properly.”
“Do you understand your rights and obligations?” Eve asked him.
“You’re not going to treat me like a criminal.” He folded his arms. “I want my lawyers.”
“Fine. Contact them. We’ll go down to Central and wait for them to get there. No problem.”
“You can’t—”
“Yes, I can.” Eve slapped her badge on the table. “I’m in charge here. This and the dead woman on the roof put me in charge. You can give me a statement here or we can go to Central and wait for your lawyers. That part’s up to you.”
“You’re going to watch your tone or I’ll be speaking with your superiors.”
“Whitney, Commander Jack. Have at it.”
Steinburger let out a long breath. The color that had flooded his face cooled a little. “I want you to understand, this is my project, these are my people. I’m just trying to protect my project, my people.”
“And I’m trying to find out how a woman we all had dinner with a few hours ago ended up facedown in the lap pool. I win. Here or there, Joel. Your choice.”
“Fine. Fine. What do you want? None of us did anything to K.T. It’s obvious she had an accident. I don’t want the media snickering about her being drunk. I don’t want Roundtree and Connie suffering because she got drunk and careless in their home.”
“Were you on the roof tonight?”
“No.”
“Did you have any problems with the deceased?”
“No.”
“Now that’s got to be a lie. Are you the only person in this house who didn’t have one?”
He held up his hands, let out a long sigh. “I’m not saying she wasn’t difficult. She was an artist. Actors are children on some level, often on more than one level. K.T. could be somewhat of a problem child. I’m very good at managing people, dealing with the creative temperament and problem children or I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
“I hear she was a mean drunk.”
He sighed again. “That’s the kind of gossip I want to prevent. She didn’t handle drink well, and she had a temper. She wasn’t a very happy woman, but she could and did do fine work. I don’t want her smeared.”
“Did you and she have any altercations?”
“I wouldn’t call them altercations. She wasn’t happy, as I said, she had complaints about the script, the direction, her costars. I’m used to actors coming to me with complaints.”
“How did you handle them?”
“I smoothed them over when possible, was firm when it wasn’t. K.T. understood if she didn’t cooperate it wouldn’t go well for her career. She was good, very good, but not indispensable. I understand she blew off some steam tonight, and it was rude. It was inappropriate.”
He lifted his hands with a rise of shoulders in a what-can-you-do gesture. �
��I intended to discuss it with her tomorrow, and urge her to go into rehab, to take some anger management sessions. Otherwise …”
“Otherwise?”
The shrugging indulgence shifted smoothly to cold calculation. “There are plenty of hungry actors waiting for a break. I have another project green lit, and she wanted it. I wanted her for it. But, as I said, she wasn’t indispensable, and I would have made that clear.”
Eve released him, glanced at Mira.
“A position of power and politics,” Mira said. “One he uses and enjoys. He understood her value as a commodity, and would have no problem replacing her—or threatening to—if that commodity devalued.”
“Yeah. Plus, he’s pushy and excitable. You have to wonder what any one of these people would do if the vic had something that threatened their career—which equals ego and bank account—or this specific project. So far it’s clear nobody liked her, and none of them bothered to pretend otherwise.”
“She was particularly unlikable.”
“No argument. Being unlikable isn’t enough to earn you a slab in the morgue.”
“Did she have family?”
“I haven’t checked yet. We’ll run that down, notify next of kin.”
“Always difficult. Would you like me to start detoxifying Julian?”
Eve had to smile at the term. “Yeah. I’ll talk to Nadine while he sobers up. I appreciate the help. I imagine you and Mr. Mira would like to get the hell out of here.”
“Actually, he’s finding it all very interesting. So am I.”
“His socks don’t match.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mr. Mira’s socks don’t match.”
“Damn it.” Mira let out an exasperated laugh. “I know he doesn’t pay attention, but that got by me.”
“It’s …” Eve searched for the word. “Sweet” was the best she could think of, and it made Mira smile.
“His mind’s always on something else. He’d live in a ratty cardigan, and he’s always worrying holes in the pockets of his pants. He can never seem to find his wallet or anything in the refrigerator. And just when you think he’s not paying any attention to what you’re saying or doing, he comes up with exactly the right answer or solution.”