Witness in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “I didn’t ask.” Eve slid her gaze toward Peabody, then shook her head and coded open the locks on her vehicle.

  “You want to know, don’t you?”

  Eve strapped in, started the car. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “About me and McNab.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there is no you and McNab. It does not exist in my world. My aide is not having some weird-ass sexual fling with the fashion plate from EDD.”

  “It is weird,” Peabody admitted, then let out a long sigh.

  “We’re not talking about it. Give me the first address.”

  “Kenneth Stiles, aka Sir Wilfred, 828 Park Avenue. And it’s really good sex.”

  “Peabody.”

  “You were wondering.”

  “I was not.” But she winced as a distressingly clear image of Peabody and McNab popped gleefully into her head. “Keep your mind on the job.”

  “I have lots of compartments in my mind.” With a happy sigh, Peabody settled back. “Room for everything.”

  “Then make room for Kenneth Stiles and give me a rundown.”

  “Yes, sir.” Obediently, Peabody took out her PPC. “Stiles, Kenneth, age fifty-six, a rare New York City native. Born and bred in midtown. Parents were entertainers. No criminal record. Educated by private tutor through secondary level with additional classes in drama, stage design, costuming, and elocution.”

  “Whoopee. So we’ve got a serious thespian on our hands.”

  “First performance at age two. Guy’s won a pot load of awards. Always live stage. No video. An artist, is my guess. Probably temperamental and emotional.”

  “Won’t this be fun. Has he worked with Draco before?”

  “Several times. A couple of times with Mansfield. Last time in London. He’s unmarried at the moment. Had two spouses and one formal cohabitation partner. All female.”

  Eve scanned for a parking place, rejected the idea, and pulled up to the front of the post-Urban War building on Park. Before she’d climbed out, the uniformed doorman was at her side.

  “I’m sorry, madam, this is a non-parking zone.”

  “And this is a badge.” She held up her shield. “Kenneth Stiles?”

  “Mr. Stiles occupies the apartment on the fiftieth floor. Five thousand. The deskman will clear you. Madam—”

  “Does this say madam?” Eve asked and waited for the doorman’s eyes to skim down, read her badge.

  “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, might I arrange to have your vehicle garaged during your visit? A valet will return it when you’re ready to leave.”

  “That’s a nice offer, but if I gave you the ignition code, I’d have to arrest myself. It stays right here.”

  Eve kept her badge out and walked into the building, leaving the doorman staring sadly at her pea-green police issue.

  It was hard to blame him. The lobby area was lush and elegant, with gleaming brass and spearing white flowers. Huge squares of polished black tiles covered the floor. Behind a long white counter, a tall, slim woman sat gracefully on a stool and beamed welcoming smiles.

  “Good morning. How may I direct you?”

  “Kenneth Stiles.” Eve laid her badge on the counter beside a brass pot teeming with flowers.

  “Is Mr. Stiles expecting you, Lieutenant Dallas?”

  “He’d better be.”

  “Just one moment please.” She swiveled to a ‘link, her smile never dimming, her voice maintaining that same smooth and pleasant tone of an expensive and well-programmed droid. “Good morning, Mr. Stiles. I have a Lieutenant Dallas and companion at the lobby desk. May I clear them?” She waited a beat. “Thank you. Have a lovely day.”

  Turning from the ‘link, she gestured toward the east bank of elevators. “The far right car is cleared for you, Lieutenant. Enjoy your day.”

  “You bet. I used to wonder why Roarke didn’t use more droids,” she said to Peabody as they crossed the black tiles. “Then I run into one like that, and I understand. That much politeness is just fucking creepy.”

  The ride up to the fiftieth floor was rapid enough to have Eve’s stomach jump and her ears pop. She’d never understand why people equated height with luxury.

  Another droid was waiting for them when the doors slid open. One of Stiles’s serving units, Eve concluded, done up in such stark and formal attire he made the dreaded Summerset look like a sidewalk sleeper. His steel gray hair was slicked back and matched with a heavy mustache that dominated his thin, bony face. The black of his slacks and long jacket was offset with snow-white gloves.

  He bowed, then spoke in a fruity voice with a rolling English accent. “Lieutenant Dallas and Officer, Mr. Stiles is expecting you. This way, please.”

  He led them down the hall to double doors that opened into the corner apartment. The first thing Eve saw when she entered was the sweeping window wall that opened onto New York’s bustling sky traffic. She wished Stiles had drawn the privacy screen.

  The room itself was wild with color, rubies and emeralds and sapphires tangled together in the pattern on the wide U-shaped conversation pit. Centered in it was a white marble pool where fat goldfish swam in bored circles among lily pads.

  A strong scent of citrus spread out from the tidy forest of dwarf orange and lemon trees, heavy with fruit. The floor was a violent geometric pattern of color that on closer look shifted into an erotic orgy of naked bodies in inventive forms of copulation.

  Eve strode across blue breasts and green cocks to where Stiles lounged—posed, she thought—in a saffron ankle-duster.

  “Some place.”

  He smiled, a surprisingly sweet expression on his craggy face. “Why live without drama? May I offer you anything before we begin, Lieutenant?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “That will be all, Walter.” He dismissed the droid with a wave of his hand, then gestured Eve to sit. “I realize this is routine for you, Lieutenant Dallas, but it’s new and, I confess, exciting territory to me.”

  “Having an associate murdered in front of you is exciting?”

  “After the initial shock, yes. It’s human nature to find murder exciting and fascinating, don’t you think? Else why does it play so well through the ages?” His eyes were deep, dark brown, and very shrewd.

  “I could have taken any number of tacks with this interview. I’m a very skilled actor. I could be prostrate, nervous, frightened, confused, sorrowful. I chose honesty.”

  She thought of Carly Landsdowne. “It seems to be going around. Record on, Peabody,” she said, and sat.

  And sank into the clouds of cushions. Biting off an oath, Eve shoved herself up, sat on the edge of the couch. Balanced, she read off the pertinent data and issued the standard warning.

  “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter, Mr. Stiles?”

  “I do indeed.” That sweet smile spread over his face again. “Might I say you read your lines with authority and panache, Lieutenant.”

  “Gee, thanks. Now, what was your relationship with Richard Draco?”

  “Professional associates. Over the years, we worked together from time to time, most recently in the play that had its unusual opening night yesterday.”

  Oh yeah, Eve thought. He’s enjoying this. Milking this. “And your personal relationship?”

  “I don’t know as we had one, in the way I assume you mean. Actors often…” He made a vague gesture with his hand and set the multicolored stone cuff bracelet on his wrist to winking cheerfully. “Gravitate toward each other, you might say: ‘Like minds, like egos.’ We marry each other with a kind of distressing regularity. It rarely lasts, as do the temporary friendships and other intimacies between players on the same stage.”

  “Still, you knew him for a number of years.”

  “Knew him, certainly, but we were never chums, let’s say. In point of fact…” He paused again, his eyes glittering as happily as his bracelet. “I despised him. Loathed him. Found him a particularly vile form of l
ife.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “For any number of very particular reasons.” Stiles leaned forward, as if imparting confidences. “He was selfish, egocentric, rude, arrogant. All of those traits I could forgive, even appreciate as we who act require a certain sheen of vanity to do what we do. But under Richard’s sheen was a sheer nastiness of spirit. He was a user, Lieutenant, one who not so quietly rejoiced at crushing hearts and souls. I’m not the least bit sorry he’s dead, though I regret the method of his oh-so-timely demise.”

  “Why?”

  “The play was brilliant, and my part one I relished. This incident will postpone if not cancel the rest of the run. It’s very inconvenient.”

  “It’s going to get a lot of publicity. That won’t hurt you.”

  Stiles ran a fingertip down his chin. “Naturally not.”

  “And when the play resumes, it’ll pack the house, night after night.”

  “There is that.”

  “So his death, in so dramatic and public a way is, on some levels, an advantage.”

  “Clever,” he murmured, eyeing her more closely now. “That’s cleverly thought out. We have a play within a play here, Lieutenant, and you’re writing it well.”

  “You had access to the prop knife. And enough time to make the switch.”

  “I suppose I did. What a thought.” He blinked several times as if processing new data. “I’m a suspect. How entertaining! I had seen myself as a witness. Well, well. Yes, I suppose I had opportunity, but no real motive.”

  “You’ve stated, on record, you hated Richard Draco.”

  “Oh, my dear Lieutenant, if I arranged the death of every person I disliked, the stage would be littered with bodies. But the fact is, however much I detested Richard on a personal level, I admired his talent. He was an exceptional artist, and that is the only reason I agreed to work with him again. The world might have rid itself of a nasty, small-minded man, but the theater has lost one of its brightest lights.”

  “And you, one of your toughest competitors.”

  Stiles’s eyebrows lifted. “No indeed. Richard and I were much different types. I don’t recall that we ever competed for the same role.”

  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 soupcon 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.”

  *** CHAPTER FOUR ***

  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 the 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 jetes. 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.”