by J. D. Robb
“Don’t you feel this unusual connection may bias you or affect your work?”
“Why would it?”
“Here, I can help.” He pressed his palms together, gestured them forward like in prayer. “If you follow up that natural question with the statement that if you believed the investigation would in any way be affected by the fact the actors in The Icove Agenda are portraying you, your associates, you would not head the investigation.”
“Because I’m standing for K.T. Harris now,” Eve finished. “And identifying the individual who caused her death, bringing that individual to justice is what I’m sworn to do as an officer of the NYPSD. Period. Now fuck off so I can do my job.”
“Perfect. If you’d just think that last part rather than verbalizing it, perfect.” He gave her his big, white-toothed smile. “I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re considered such a difficult assignment by my colleagues.”
“Because most of them are assholes. So far, you’re not.”
“Hopefully that will continue. Now, Detective Peabody, let’s go over potential questions and responses.”
“I have to talk to the media?”
She didn’t squeak it, but came dangerously close.
“Harris played you, you were present at the dinner party, there when Harris was killed. You are second lead on the investigation. It’s best to handle this through this media conference rather than piecemeal.”
Eve watched him coach Peabody. He seemed satisfied with her responses as well, tweaking them here and there, helping her stay brief and on point.
“You’ll be fine,” he decreed. “Let me say the media will continue to squeeze every ounce of juice out of this story, then find a way to make more. Lieutenant, I understand your husband will have his own media team, and that someone in his position knows how to handle the media. But, in this case, I’d like to coordinate with his people.”
“That’s up to him.”
“Yes, but if I tell you my intentions up front, I won’t be an asshole.”
She let out a half laugh. “I’ll get word to him that you’re not one.”
“Appreciated. I’ll be with you both prior to the conference, and through it. If you need anything from me beforehand, I’ll make myself available.” Kyung got to his feet. “Commander Whitney, I’ll get to work.”
“Thank you for your time.” He sat another moment after Kyung went out. “Who are you bringing in for follow-ups?”
“Andrea Smythe, Julian Cross, Matthew Zank. To start, sir,” Eve told him.
He nodded. “Let’s keep it as quiet as possible. Arrange for them to come in through the secured garage. I’ll clear it. Have someone who won’t be starstruck escort them to Interview.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you leaning toward one of them?”
“Not at this time.” Knowing he expected at least a general oral report, she itched to stand. But it seemed awkward. “We’re going to look for any connection between the vic and any of the household staff, the catering crew. But none of the cast members or crew who attended had any liking for the vic, and in general the opposite. That’s often enough motive for murder, particularly when the death appears, as this one, to have been the result of an argument or confrontation. A shove, a fall, a drag and roll into the pool. Alcohol may have been a factor. There was a lot of it. The vic made herself disagreeable, difficult. She caused delays and friction on set, made demands.”
Eve nodded toward the board. “She was, at various times, intimate with both Zank and Cross. Both men volunteered this information. Zank also stated that the victim continued to pursue him after he’d ended the relationship, was violent and obsessively jealous.”
“And Zank’s the one who claims to have found her, pulled her out.”
“Yes, sir, along with Marlo Durn. I believe Zank and Durn are currently engaged in a personal, sexual relationship. If the vic was aware of this, it would have added yet more friction. At TOD, the guests were gathered in Roundtree’s home theater watching what they call a gag reel. We know Harris left the theater during the show as TOD confirms she died during its run. We can’t, as yet, pinpoint who else left the area, joined her on the roof. We do know there was time to leave, get to the roof, kill Harris, and return before the end of the reel.”
She paused a moment. “We’ll dig into backgrounds, prior conflicts, any violent behavior. The initial shove, or fall, that feels impulsive, a moment of temper. But dumping an unconscious woman in the water, that’s a deliberate act, as is walking away while that woman drowns. It may or may not have been calculated, Commander, but it’s cold.”
“And the probability one of the staff had a relationship with her that turned murderous?”
“Very low. It’s going to be one of the cast or crew, one of the people who worked with her, one of the people she pushed, insulted, threatened.”
“Who pushed back.” He got to his feet. “Celebrity murders,” he muttered. “They’ll probably make another goddamn vid.” At Eve’s stunned, slightly horrified expression, he smiled. “You could make book on it,” he said. “Keep me updated. And don’t be late for the media conference.”
“Shit,” Eve said when he’d gone out. “Shit. He could be right.”
“Who’d play me in this one? I mean, it’s really wild, isn’t it? Somebody playing me investigating the murder of somebody who was playing me. And then there’s—”
“Don’t. You’re giving me a headache. Get those runs done.” Eve rubbed the back of her neck as they headed back to the bullpen. Inside, she stopped, scanned the room, considered. “Uniform Carmichael.”
When his head popped around his cube, she gestured. “My office.”
She strode off, texting Roarke to expect a contact by Kyung, and that Kyung wasn’t an asshole.
“Sir?” Uniform Carmichael said, standing in her doorway.
“Are you a vid fan, Carmichael? Do you like watching, keeping up with the Hollywood gossip, reading up on the celebrities?”
“When I have time to watch any screen, I like sports. That’s real action.”
“Right. You’ll do.” She assigned him as escort, ordered him to keep a lid on it, dismissed him.
Happily she transferred all messages from reporters to Kyung, and got back to work.
She’d completed her initial report, including her own statement, had just started a deeper run on Harris when her ’link signaled an incoming text from Roarke.
Not an asshole. From you, glowing praise. Will deal with it.
Satisfied, she leaned back, studied the data on Harris.
Parents divorced, Eve noted, when she’d been thirteen. One sibling, a brother two years her senior. She’d grown up in Nebraska until the divorce. The mother, who’d sued for and had been granted sole custody due to domestic violence, relocated with her children in Iowa.
Eve couldn’t see much difference between Nebraska and Iowa. As far as she was concerned they were both big states with lots of fields, barns, and cows.
She dug a little deeper, scanned some of the police reports, court documents on the domestic violence, frowned over the photographs in evidence of Piper Van Horn—the mother—after her husband Wendall Harris had tuned her up. Also documented was a broken wrist, black eye, minor concussion on then fifteen-year-old Brice Harris—now Van Horn as he’d taken his mother’s name as she had after the divorce. Wendall had done a stint in an Omaha pen, completed anger management and substance abuse courses. Then, Eve saw as she poked a bit more, had died of injuries incurred in a bar fight when Brice had been twenty.
Interesting, Eve thought, that K.T.’d kept her father’s last name. Interesting she appeared to have inherited or chosen—who the hell knew—his bent for pissed-off violence enhanced by too much alcohol.
She scrolled through school records. Average student with some disciplinary issues. No extracurricular activities until the age of fourteen when she’d hooked up with the theater program at her school.
&nbs
p; “And look here,” Eve murmured. Harris had racked up a string of DUIs by the time she’d been twenty-two, and had her license revoked. Like father, daughter had completed a substance abuse program.
By eighteen, Harris had left Iowa for New LA. Had a couple brushes in addition to the DUIs for assault—charges dropped in both cases. Another for D&D—fine paid, rehab program completed.
Didn’t take, Eve thought, and remembered the face, the voice, the grief of Piper Van Horn when she’d contacted the woman to tell her K.T. was dead.
The mother grieved, she thought. Most of them did. Not all, but most. Her own hadn’t given the child she’d birthed, abused, and abandoned to a monster a second thought. Hadn’t even recognized her when they’d stood face-to-face.
Doesn’t apply, she reminded herself. Think of the victim. The more she understood the victim, the better chance she had of understanding the killer.
What she saw here was a woman who’d grown up with violence and anger, one who looked to have found escape or pleasure in acting, but who’d continued that anger/violence cycle to her own death.
Why? Eve wondered. And did why matter, really?
She swiveled around to her board. Had the victim known something about one or more of the cast and crew? Something she’d threatened the killer with, some sort of exposure—a career-damaging embarrassment?
Or had she just pushed somebody too hard for too long?
She swiveled back to read an incoming from the lab.
“Dallas?” Peabody stood in the doorway.
“Zoner mixed with the herbals—almost fifty-fifty.”
“Jeez, between that and the wine, she didn’t need the knock on the head to pass out.”
“Pretty sure bet once she went down, she didn’t get back up. Blood trace on the recovered pieces of burned rag. Vic’s blood. Only vic’s DNA on the butts recovered on scene. Drag marks on the heels consistent with skirting material and pattern.”
“That’s pretty quick work.”
“For a change. Let’s keep the zoner on the QT for now, see if anybody mentions that area of her habit.”
“Yes, sir. Carmichael’s bringing Andrea up.”
“Good.” Eve kept her eyes on the data. “Let’s give her a few minutes to settle in.”
One at a time, she told herself. They’d scrape away at some of that Hollywood polish and find out what was under it.
The more she learned about Harris, the less she liked her. But that didn’t make the dead less hers.
8
Dressed in traff ic-stopping red, her hair in glinting gold waves rather than Mira’s subtle sable, Andrea Smythe sat at the scarred table in Interview. She wore bold black hoops at her ears and a sparkle of black stones forming an elongated heart at the hollow of her throat.
She tipped her head with a smile when Eve and Peabody entered.
“It’s satisfying to know our set designer was so accurate. This looks very much like what we’re using.”
“Not much to design,” Eve commented. “Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering Interview with Smythe, Andrea, on the matter of Harris, K.T. Case number H-58091.”
“So formal.”
“It’s not black-tie, but we take murder pretty seriously around here. We appreciate you coming in.”
“It seemed the wise choice, given the circumstances.”
“You’ve already been informed of your rights and obligations. Do you need me to read them to you again?”
“No. I have an excellent memory.”
“That should help.” Both Eve and Peabody took their seats. “Do you have anything to add to your statements from last night? Any corrections or changes to same?”
“No.”
“Would you like anything before we get started?” Peabody asked her. “Coffee? A soft drink?”
Andrea smiled again. “You’re to put me at ease while your lieutenant keeps me on edge. It’s a good rhythm. I think Marlo and K.T. captured it well for the camera. Not perfectly, but very well. I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”
“This isn’t a scene,” Eve reminded her. “There’s no script. And the body is very real.”
“I’m aware. Should I have played the part?” Andrea lifted her shoulders. “Worn mourning black, put on my solemn face? I could call up a tear or two. But black’s not my best color, and it’s no secret K.T. and I weren’t close. I’m sorry she’s dead. I’m sorry, philosophically, that death is part of life, and I think—outside fiction—murder is a fucking coward’s game. A selfish, self-serving fucking coward’s game. Other than that, her death means little to me.”
“Inconvenient though, isn’t it? Given the shooting hasn’t wrapped?”
Andrea lifted her shoulders again, crossed her legs. “Her scenes were nearly done, and Roundtree will find a way to work around her. He’s a brilliant and innovative director.”
“And there’s the boost from the media buzz.”
“True enough. It’s the nature of the beast. The machine will make a great deal more out of K.T. dead than they did—or would have—out of her alive. Ironic, isn’t it? She’ll finally have all the fame and attention she craved. She only had to be murdered to get it. And that’s unnecessarily cold,” Andrea added with a sigh. “Even for her. I’m sorry I said that.”
“You’ve made it clear you didn’t like Harris, found her personally and professionally … difficult’s the word that keeps coming up. Is that accurate?”
“Bloody bull’s-eye.”
“You and she had the occasional confrontation?”
“Occasional. I doubt there was anyone working on the Icove project who escaped a confrontation with K.T. Again, the nature of the beast.”
“You’ve been forthcoming about the tone of your relationship with the victim, your feelings about and toward her. That’s why I have trouble understanding why you haven’t been forthcoming about the argument you had with her last night, shortly before she was murdered.”
“Did we argue last night?” Andrea spread her hands and smiled. “I couldn’t say. We exchanged unpleasant words so often, they blur.”
“I don’t think so. Not with that excellent memory of yours. I think an argument with her, on the night she was murdered, would stick with you.”
“She’d been deliberately rude at dinner, upset Connie. I told her she was a flaming git, deserved to be tossed out on her considerable ass. She’d been drinking enough to tell me to fuck off. That was about it, and hardly made any impact with me.”
“Again, I don’t think so. If it had been that simple you wouldn’t lie and evade. That tells me it was more—more personal, more intense. Word is she usually avoided you, but last night the two of you were seen having a heated discussion—one you failed to mention in your statement. One you’re lying about now. What did she have on you, Andi? What was she shoving in your face?”
Andrea looked Eve dead in the eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“See, that just makes me wonder more. What happens when I start wondering, Peabody?”
“When you start wondering, you start digging. When you dig, you tend to find things people want to stay buried. A lot of things,” Peabody added. “Sometimes they don’t have anything to do with the case, but once they’re uncovered, they have to be picked over.”
“Yeah, and when you start uncovering things, you have to ask more questions, talk to more people. And the media’s got its collective ear to the ground. In fact, I have a media conference this afternoon. Who knows what questions might come up?”
“Now who’s threatening whom?” Andrea demanded.
“It’s not a threat. It’s an outline. The more you try to cover up, the more I’ll dig. I’ll find out, and it’ll be messy.”
Leaning back, Eve rocked a little on the back legs of her chair. Andrea’s foot—shod in red with a slender black heel, had begun to jiggle.
“And then I’ll wonder if you didn’t take that argument up on the
roof for more privacy. Maybe it got more heated, maybe it got physical. You shove her. She hits her head. There’s blood. She’s unconscious. You’re so pissed. The bitch just wouldn’t quit. She got in your face. You’ve had enough. What’s one more shove, this time into the pool. She deserved it. She fucking asked for it.”
“No one deserves to be killed, and you’re a bleeding loon if you think I’m going to tumble for the hard sell. I didn’t kill her. I never went up to the roof last night. And I have nothing more to say to you.”
“That’s your right. We’ll dig, and we’ll find, because now I know whatever you and the vic got into last night mattered. It scares you.”
“She didn’t scare me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I do.” Eve leaned forward. “You think because you’re in the public eye, the media’s already broadcast everything there is to know or find out. Not even close. If you stole an ice pop when you were six, I’ll find out. If one of your husbands skimmed on his taxes, I’ll find out. If one of your kids cheated on a spelling test in grade school, I’ll find out.”
Andrea leaned forward in turn, and once again met Eve’s eyes dead on. But this time they held fury. “Leave my children out of this.”
There, Eve thought. Weak spot.
“You’ve got a son about the age of the victim.” She glanced at Peabody.
“Cyrus Drew Pilling, age twenty-six. Only child with second husband, Marshall Pilling. Married October of ’34, divorced January of ’36. No children with first husband, Beau Sampson, married June ’30, divorced April ’32. Twin girls with third and current husband, age eighteen. Married Jonah P. Kettlebrew, September ’40.”
“My family has nothing to do with this. I don’t appreciate these goddamn insinuations.”
“I bet your family’s visited the set. Maybe Harris made a play for your son—or your husband. Hell, maybe she wanted to try out a couple of girls. Maybe one or all of them caught the ball and ran with it. That’d be a pisser.”
“That’s a filthy thing to say, and about decent people. People you don’t even know.”