Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

Eve kept her eyes and voice cool even as the bell rang in her head. “What do you mean?”

Rosa picked up the neglected tea again. Her fingers trembled, that steadiness fleeting, but she drank. “I’ve worked with abused women. Not as a counselor, I’m not trained. But I’ve done work in shelters. I recognized signs. I know I’m not a therapist or a professional, but I know. If she wasn’t physically abused by her husband, she was emotionally abused. I know she was afraid of him. I saw it.”

You’re not the only one, Eve thought.

“We have no evidence supporting the suggestion Dr. Strazza assaulted or raped his wife on the night of this incident. I’m not doubting your instincts or observations, Mrs. Patrick. But Anthony Strazza was, as was Daphne, attacked by an intruder.”

For a moment, Rosa turned her face into Neville’s shoulder. Then she straightened her own, sat straight. “Can you tell me where she is?”

“I can’t release that information.”

Rosa nodded. “Would you tell her if she wants to talk to me or see me, to contact me. It helps. Lori and I have been talking. Lori Brinkman. I know it can help.”

“I can do that. I will do that. She could use a strong shoulder.”

“I’m not strong.”

“You’re wrong,” Eve said as she rose. “You came here, you asked to help someone who needs help. You’re no weak sister, Mrs. Patrick, and he can’t make you one.”

* * *

When Eve and Peabody stepped out, Eve saw Kyle Knightly leaning against a doorway, talking to someone inside the office and clearly waiting for her to come out of Neville’s.

He shot a finger at whomever he spoke with, started toward her.

“I’m going to take this. Find wherever they do the makeup, the costumes, see what you can find out.”

“I got that. More fun than you’ll have,” Peabody added as she veered off.

Eve walked up to meet Kyle. “Mr. Knightly. Problem?”

“You could say that.” He looked down the long corridor toward Neville’s closed door. “Neville and Rosa are just starting to come out of this nightmare, and now you’re in there going at them. I don’t want to see them twisted up again.”

“Understandable.” She noted people wandering about, loitering—and obviously hoping for a tidbit. “Maybe we can talk about that, somewhere private.”

“Sure.”

He gestured, began to lead the way. Another open area with casually dressed people at comps or in huddles. A few called out his name, or hopped up to start toward him.

He signaled them off, addressed a few.

“I’ll be back around, Jen. I really need to see that report, Bry.”

They moved into a small reception area where a man in a turtleneck and jeans manned a workstation.

“Hey, Kyle,” he began. “Myra Addams from SAR wants a ’link meet about—”

“I need a few, Barry.”

With that he walked into his office, closed the door behind Eve.

Neville had the corner spot, but Kyle’s office boasted almost twice the space. Vid posters lined the walls, mementos and what she took for awards crowded shelves. His workstation, a wide semicircle of slate gray, faced the far wall and its enormous screen.

He gestured her to a chair, walked to a bar area, opened its cold box. “Got your Pepsi. Neville and I share an addiction. You want?”

“Sure.”

“Need a glass?”