“Because?”
“He’s a fine actor. Was,” she corrected, swallowed hard before she drew one last time on her cigarette. “He wasn’t a particularly fine human being. Oh, that sounds vicious, horrible.” Her hand lifted to her throat again, fingers restless against flesh. “I feel vicious and horrible saying it, but I—I want to be as honest as I can. I’m afraid. I’m terrified you’ll think that I meant this to happen.”
“At the moment, I don’t think anything. I want you to tell me about Richard Draco.”
“All right. All right.” She drew in a breath, sucked on the cigarette as if it were a straw. “Others will say it in any case. Richard was very self-interested and egocentric, as many…most of us are in this business. I didn’t hold it against him. And I jumped at the chance to work with him in this play.”
“Are you aware of anyone else who, believing him not a particularly fine human being, might have held that against him?”
“I imagine Richard insulted or offended everyone attached to this production at one time or another.” She pressed a fingertip to the inside corner of her eye, as if to relieve some pressure. “Certainly there were bruised feelings, complaints, mutters, and grudges. That’s theater.”
• • •
The theater, as far as Eve was concerned, was a screwy business. People wept copiously, gave rambling monologues when any half-wit lawyer would have advised them to say yes, no, and shut the hell up. They expounded, they expanded, and a great many of them managed to turn the death of an associate into a drama where they themselves held a starring role. “Ninety percent bullshit, Peabody.”
“I guess.” Peabody crossed the backstage area, trying to look everywhere at once. “But it’s kind of cool. All those lights, and the holoboard, and there’re some really mag costumes if you’re into antique. Don’t you think it’d be amazing to be standing out front and having all those people watching you?”
“Creepy. We’re going to have to let some of these people go before they start whining about their civil rights.”
“I hate when that happens.”
Eve smirked, scanned her memo pad. “So far, we’re getting an interesting picture of the victim. Nobody really wants to say so, but he was well disliked. Even when they don’t want to say so, they do anyway, while they dab tears from their eyes. I’m going to look around back here. Go ahead and have the uniforms cut these people loose. Make sure we have all pertinent data on them, that they’re issued the standard warning. Set up interviews for tomorrow.”
“At Central or in the field?”
“Let’s keep it light and go to them. For now. After you’ve set them up, you’re relieved. Meet me at Central at oh eight hundred.”
Peabody shifted her feet. “Are you going home?”
“Eventually.”
“I can hang until you do.”
“No point in it. We’ll do better with a fresh start tomorrow. Just scramble the interviews in. I want to talk to as many people as possible as soon as possible. And I want a follow-up with Areena Mansfield.”
“Yes, sir. Great dress,” she added as she tucked her memo log away. “You’re going to have to get the blood and sweeper gunk off the skirt before it sets in.”
Eve looked down, scowled at the elegant black column. “Damn it. I hate not being dressed for the job.” She turned, strode deeper backstage, where a uniform stood by a huge, locked cabinet.
“Key.” She held out a hand while the uniform took out a key in an evidence bag. “Anybody try to get in this thing?”
“The prop master came back—old guy, pretty shaky. But he didn’t give me any hassle.”
“Fine. Go out front and tell the sweepers they’ll be cleared to run this area in about ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone, Eve unlocked the cabinet and pulled the double doors open. She frowned, noting the box of cigars, the old-fashioned telephone, and a few other items neatly arranged in an area marked Sir Wilfred’s Office.
Another section held props that had been used in the bar scene. The courtroom section was empty. Apparently, the prop master was very careful about replacing and arranging his props, and did so directly after the scene where they were needed was wrapped.
Someone that meticulous wouldn’t have mistaken a kitchen knife for a dummy.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
Eve glanced back and saw the young brunette from the last act moving from the shadows of the wings into the lights of backstage. She’d changed from her costume and wore a simple black jumpsuit. Her hair had been combed out of its tight waves and fell straight and richly brown down the center of her back.
“I hope I’m not disturbing your work.” She had the faintest accent, soft and southern, and an easy smile on her face as she walked closer. “I was hoping to have a word with you. Your aide told me I was free to go, for the moment.”