She lifted her brows over cat-green eyes.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Blaine DeLano.”
“Thanks so much for making the time.”
The woman Eve judged as early forties rose, extended a hand.
About five-five, by Eve’s gauge, a good, probably gym-fit build in narrow black pants, a casual black sweater. She wore her hair short, a sleek cap of brown with hints of red around a quietly attractive face. Eyes, deeply brown, met and held Eve’s.
Her low-register voice held a smoothness along with the faint remnant of a Brooklyn upbringing.
“Have a seat,” Eve told her. “Peabody?”
“She went to grab us some water. No point being annoyed,” Nadine added, as she knew Eve well. “I think you’re going to want to hear what Blaine has to say.”
“If you know what she has to say, why are you here?”
“She came to me, I brought her to you. I’ve already agreed to be off the record because Blaine asked, so chill it down.”
“I should have come directly to you,” DeLano said quickly, “but I wanted the opinion of someone I trust and respect. And, frankly, I wanted the conduit. I’m aware you also trust and respect Nadine.”
“So far.”
Eve glanced over when Peabody came in with tubes of water. She sat, waited while DeLano cracked a tube.
“Okay, Ms. DeLano, what do you want to say?”
“I want to say—need to say—I think I might be responsible for Chanel Rylan’s murder.”
5
The woman seemed steady and sane enough, Eve thought, though distress eked through.
“If you’re going to confess to murder, I should read you your rights.”
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Nadine snapped.
“I have to be true to myself.”
DeLano let out a breathless half laugh. “I appreciate the mild kick in the ass. When I killed her in Dark Days, her name was Amelia Benson.”
“You’re talking about a book? About a fictional character.”
“Yes. Amelia Benson was a young actress who held a series of jobs, as her acting income didn’t pay the rent. She had ambitions, some talent, and considerable energy. Every week she went to a classic vid, to study, as she hoped, one day, to be a star of stage and screen.
“One rainy Wednesday, in a nearly empty theater while she watched Grace Kelly thwart an attempt on her life, Amelia’s ended. An ice pick through the base of the skull.”
It rang, Eve realized, loud and clear. “Why an ice pick?” Eve asked.
“Such a mean and common tool. And effective, I thought. Sharp.” DeLano spread her hands. “Small. Easy to come by. They found her body when they brought the houselights up after the credits. The killer, of course, had long since left the building.”
“Okay. And you believe this applies to Chanel Rylan’s murder.”
“I do. I’m sick because I do. The bulletin I heard this morning said an actress, a young actress, and the vid—a classic Hitchcock vid like the one my fictional victim watched. Dial M for Murder in my book, same director. And that she’d been stabbed during the vid—the shower scene, a compelling scene like the one I used for my book. The bulletin didn’t identify the weapon.”
“So you wrote a book with a murder victim, an actress who’s killed during a vid by stabbing, and you figure it’s connected to an actual case.”
“I do. I do, and, worse … I think it’s the second one.” Now DeLano gripped her hands together on the table, knuckles whitening. “I think it’s the second.”