“Ah, Jesus.”
“She hasn’t performed since, that I know of. I didn’t realize she owned Broadway Babies.” Curious, he did another search. “She owns it under the name Lost Angels.”
“She said the staff were her children,” Eve remembered, “her family, and I guess they are. I’ve confirmed she was in the restaurant at the time of the murder, but this gives me a better sense of her.”
Sitting back, Eve scanned the screen, picked up her coffee. Then with a hiss, swiveled to face Roarke. “I’m getting nothing from any connections, from anybody who’d be connected to a connection. Target specific.”
Eve pushed up and away to pace, to think on her feet. “All current evidence points there, and target specific generally equals personal. But it doesn’t feel personal. Not in method, not in background of vic. So, potentially, the victim represents a type, or
was a surrogate. Mira territory.”
She paused by the board. “I need to talk to her. The vid. Was that just luck of the draw, or also specific? The research into the victim could have started back when the schedule of vids was announced. The vid becomes the trigger, but then, if so, how does the killer latch onto Rylan in the first place?”
Roarke waited a beat to determine if she had asked the question to herself or to him. Decided it was both. “I imagine there’s a subscription service.”
“A what?”
“Like a season buy—so many tickets purchased in advance—and a sign-up for tickets to ones slated to show.”
“Like season tickets for baseball. Shit.” She double-timed it back to her comp to run a search. Roarke beat her to it.
“Rylan belonged to the theater’s Golden Ticket rewards program.”
“Show-off.”
“We do what we do. Buy a package of twenty-five tickets per year, get one free, an automatic ten percent discount at concessions, a monthly newsletter, an assortment of benefits,” Roarke added.
“They probably split it, Rylan and Kawaski. I can verify that, but that’s what they did. So, the killer maybe buys the same package—I’m going to want to see the subscription list. Sees her there often enough to focus in on her. Maybe he makes a pass she deflects. But …” Tapping her fist on the workstation, she shook her head. “It wasn’t sexual. The killing wasn’t sexual so that doesn’t hold for me. The on-screen killing, that’s sexual. Killer spies on victim through peephole, enters when vic’s naked and vulnerable in the shower. Knife penetrates. A lot.”
“The on-screen murder provides the sexual component?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ll talk with Mira. To me, this was quick, nasty business. In the dark. The vic’s facing away, not toward. She’s fully dressed. The killer penetrates, yeah, but it’s one jab. On-screen it’s …”
Eve made a decent mimic of the shower scene’s repeated shriek while she mimed jabbing repeatedly with a knife.
“Murder usually makes sense,” she continued, “even if it turns out to be crazy, shit-house-rat sense. So far I’ve got a victim with no known enemies or bitter, even mildly annoyed exes, no big potful of money or influence, no apparent knowledge of some dastardly deed or connection thereto. No sexual component. But at the same time, the killer knew her or took the time, made the effort to learn her routine and habits, as well as the routine and habits of her roommate.
“She stands for something, someone,” Eve finished. “It’s all that makes crazy, shit-house-rat sense.”
“Then it seems to me you’ve shaken out quite a bit in a few hours.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m off base and the killer jerked off while anticipating the shower scene and the murder, then shot his wad of sexual component in his boxers when he jabbed the sharp into the base of Rylan’s skull.”
“That’s a visual I’d just as soon not have playing in my head.”
“Or”—Eve rose, circled the board again—“she’s up for a part. She’s beaten out others for parts before.”
“And lost out to others, I assume.”
“Yeah, but we’ll stick with beating out. It’s a circle, a community—though some likely come in, others likely give up—but you’d get to know each other. If you’re up for the same part, odds are you’ve been up against each other before. Her coworkers at the restaurant didn’t ring for me, at all, but they’ve been up for the same part over the years. Maybe someone had enough, or someone went desperate. Have to have this one or I’m finished. Have to have it or I can’t pay the rent, whatever. Have to have it. Not so much time or effort needed to learn the victim’s routine and habits, to get information on the roommate. You’re in the same club already.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait and see who got the part?”
Eyes on the board, on Chanel Rylan, Eve fisted her hands on her hips. “Desperate makes for crazy, shit-house-rat sense.”
“It’s impossible to disagree.”
“So I talk to her agent. I talk to whoever’s in charge of the auditions. And we see where there’s overlap. It wasn’t sex, a twisted version of love; it wasn’t rage; it wasn’t for financial gain, revenge, or, as far as it shows, to preserve a secret. It sure as hell wasn’t random. That leaves jealousy as the most likely motive.”