Dark in Death (In Death 46)

Lola had two bumps—two arrests for protesting for animal rights. Currently, and for the past three years, she’d worked as one of the three rotating vets at Pet Care. Previously, she’d studied for her license and worked as a veterinary assistant at Pet Care.

So that showed either loyalty or an appreciation for routine.

Eve finished it out—financially the vet did better than the actress/waitress, but the vet sure wasn’t rolling in it—as Roarke came in.

He poured himself a mug of Eve’s coffee. “I sent the details on the ex to your file.”

“Give me a roundup.”

“His only bump—from your standpoint—along the way was a charge of drunk and disorderly. This after a bachelor party. He’s had a couple of high-profile romances since moving to Calgary—and also keeps a residence in New L.A. The romances might be quite sincere or the result of a publicity campaign. His star seems to be rising. He gets good reviews, gives clever interviews, and appears to have the respect of his current cast and crew.”

Roarke eased a hip onto a leg of her command center. “Not only hasn’t he traveled out of Canada in the last week or so, he was, at the time of your murder, in front of cameras, shooting a scene.”

“You didn’t get that from a run.”

“I didn’t, no. I got that when I noticed I’m acquainted with one of the producers on the series.”

“Aren’t you acquainted with everybody?”

“At times it seems as though. In any case,” he continued, “I tagged him up, chatted a bit. And was able to wind it around to how things were going on the set and so on.”

Eve nodded approval. “Better that way than direct. The ex is going to hear about it before much longer, but better to ease the info out without adding murder to it.”

“So I thought. When I asked, he mentioned they’d just wrapped a key scene only an hour before, one they’d worked on most of the day. I was treated to nearly a bloody play-by-play of the shoot, the setup, the technical challenges, and so on. And to the characters therein. Damien Forsythe’s character played an integral part in it.”

“He didn’t make sense anyway. We’ll cross him off. Thanks.”

With a shake of his head, Roarke drank more coffee. “You owe me thanks, as the man blathered on for twenty minutes.”

Eve shot a finger at him. “You asked for it.”

“I did. I can’t deny it. I’ll be a glutton for punishment and say give me someone else to run.”

Eve glanced down at her notes. “Annalisa Bacardo.”

On a frown, Roarke lowered his mug. “That name seems familiar.”

“You’re probably acquainted. She owns the restaurant where the vic worked. The singing waiter place.”

“Hmm, something. I can’t quite snag it up.” He rose, walked around to sit at her auxiliary unit. Seconds later, he leaned back. “Yes, of course.”

Eve picked up her coffee, smirked. “She’s a little old for you, ace.”

“Age means nothing to the heart.”

“Or the dick.”

“I’d be insulted for my dick if that weren’t completely true. However, in this case, I’ve never met the woman, much less had any part of my anatomy involved with her. I have heard of her.”

He swiveled his chair toward Eve, sat back a bit. “About thirty years ago, Annalisa Bacardo lit up Broadway. A genuine diva, multiple Tony Awards. Her name alone could make or break a play. Musicals were her forte, and she translated that talent to the screen a time or two, to exceptional reviews.”

“How come she’s not still lighting things up instead of running a restaurant?”

“She was involved personally and professionally with Justin Jackson, another towering talent. They didn’t always perform together, but when they did? Magic.” Roarke flicked his fingers in the air. “You can read about it if you like.”

“Just keep going.”

“They didn’t marry, but lived together, had a child together. A daughter,” he said, glancing at the screen to corroborate his memory. “When the child was about three, and Annalisa was in rehearsals for a new production, Justin walked the girl to the park. On the way, a car jumped the curb, struck both of them. Killed both of them.”