Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“He objected. He claimed I’d committed adultery, had been an abusive wife and mother. But he couldn’t prove any of it, as it simply wasn’t true. He threatened, and he made the next several months very hard. But I knew he didn’t want the girls, and I would not, I would not have them live under a man like Craig. I went to therapy, I wrote another book—and lived with the girls, with my mother.”

“What about the assault? Did he get dinged for it?”

“His lawyer suggested that the divorce would go smoother if I withdrew the charges. I wouldn’t. I’d had smooth, accepted smooth, and it made me a doormat. What would being a doormat, what would allowing myself to be physically attacked teach my daughters? He eventually pled it down, did community service, had to agree to rehab for domestic abuse, and two years’ probation.”

“A ding. Not enough of one, but a ding.”

“He remains bitter, and I think sincerely believes he was wronged, that he was an ideal husband to me. But he never laid a hand on me again. As I said, he remarried, h

e has the son he wanted, and—from what I can glean—a biddable wife.”

“Maybe tuning her up is part of the biddable.”

DeLano shut her eyes again. “I don’t know. I hope not, but I don’t know.”

“He resents your work—I bet part of the bitter is lodged in your success with that work.”

“Yes. And I’ll admit to feeling some ugly little satisfaction from that.”

“Using your work to kill could be some serious payback.”

“I can’t see it. Believe me, that’s not defending him. He’s a small man, Lieutenant. And a man who prides himself on image and status. If he wanted payback, if he needed it, he’d try to smear my reputation. But to do that would smear his own. So he leaves me and mine alone, and I do the same for him.”

“Okay.” Eve let it drop, fully intending to see for herself.

She opened the file, studied the crime scene photos of the street LC, the white scarf with the perfectly tied side bow around her neck.

“Who killed the LC in the book, and why?”

“I had a female killer, a fairly traditional wife and mother, I later realized I based in part on myself. She had a psychotic break when she realized her husband used LCs—very young LCs—and murdered three before they caught her. The white scarf and bow symbolized the sash and bow from her wedding gown.”

“A female serial. Any connection to the killer and motive from the second book?”

“None, except the characters of Dark and Hightower, and some of the other cast I developed in the first series. In that second case, the killer was male, paid to kill the actress by the lover of an actress up for the same part.”

“A pro?”

“No. A failing screenwriter trying to get backing for his script. A friend of the lover was a producer. The agreement is: Kill this woman and I’ll produce your script. The killer had no connection to the victim. They’d never met. The screenwriter and the producer have a falling out when the producer goes low budget and the screenwriter wants more. The producer kills the screenwriter.”

“How?”

“God, do you think … He sets it up to look like a suicide. Gets the screenwriter drunk—while agreeing to the high budget treatment. When he’s drunk enough, the producer hangs him, types a suicide note on the computer. It’s bungled, and Dark is already looking at the producer. More, the screenwriter left the outline of a new script on the same computer. One that mirrors the deal made, the killing done.”

“The third book. The main murder if there’s more than one.”

“I’m going to need stronger than water before this is over. Poisoning, in an edgy, popular club, a crowded dance club. Cyanide added to a pomtini.”

“A what?”

“A martini flavored with pomegranate. They’re popular. The victim is a minor celebrity. She was the girlfriend of a trash rock musician—that’s what launched her celebrity. Bad girl, wild child, lives on the edge, and often over it. She uses people as freely and carelessly as she uses illegals.”

“Nice. Okay, we’re going to want to see your reader communications. Start with the last year.”

“All right. I’ll have my mother put it together. She handles that end of things, and the social media.”

“You say you don’t date. Is there anyone you’ve brushed off in the last year or so?”

“I don’t really put myself in that situation.” With a half smile, DeLano lifted her shoulders. “I’m a forty-three-year-old single mother and introvert.”