“They are as different as night and day,” Garrison said.
“Maybe in looks, but under the skin … there’s no mistaking the genetic link.”
Garrison frowned. None of the cops in the area were fond of Carlson’s tenacity. “You trying to piss me off?”
“Stay out of my love life, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Agreed.”
They strode up to the theater’s double red front doors. Brass knockers, tarnished by weather and neglect, hung in the center of each. To the right of the door was a list of the upcoming season’s plays, which was to kick off next week with The Taming of the Shrew. Spring brought two plays unfamiliar to him: a comedy, Noises Off, and the drama Terra Nova. A Christmas Carol was their December production.
“According to the theater’s website, the place used to be a warehouse when the city was a thriving port. The building was about to be condemned when a bunch of rich ladies bought the place in the thirties and founded the theater. It was their way of creating jobs and entertainment during the depression.”
Garrison pounded on the front door. “Well, let’s see what we can find out about Sierra Day.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, and seconds later it opened.
A short man with red-rimmed eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and wire-rimmed glasses glared up at them. He wore jeans, a Stones black T-shirt, and polished black cowboy boots. “You Kier?”
Malcolm nodded. “That’s right.You Terry Burgess?”
“Yeah.”
“This is my partner, Detective Deacon Garrison. Thanks for meeting with us.”
“Didn’t sound like I had a choice.” Burgess stepped aside so that they could enter the building.
The hallway was lined with hundreds of framed photos taken during countless plays. An overhead bulb didn’t spit out enough light to fully illuminate the hall, but Malcolm guessed that was intentional. In full light the place likely would show more age and wear. Stacked along the wall were dozens of brown boxes imprinted with the logo A&A PRINTING.
“You always get in early?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s late for me. I’ve been here for thirty-six hours straight.” Brittleness crackled in the guy’s tone.
Malcolm held on to his patience, as he remembered he was also sleep deprived. “That’s rough.”
Terry pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a very long night. My understudy for Sierra Day is a disaster, and at the rate she is going reviewers will hammer us when we open next week. Can we just talk about the missing persons report on Sierra?”
“You’ve already replaced her?”
“I waited two days, but I had to move forward. Too many people are working on this show, which is costing me a fortune.”
“Could she have just taken off?” Malcolm asked.
“Sierra is temperamental, a bitch, demanding, but she never misses play practice or photo calls. She’s too vain and too ambitious.”
“What about a man or drugs?” Garrison asked.
“Doubtful. I mean she’s been through her share of men. But nothing stood between her and the stage. She loved it. And she never did drugs.”
“Was she angry about something? Did you two have a fight?”
“Her last day here we got into it about the lighting. The new public relations manager commented that the lighting looked hot, and then Sierra got all worried that she’d start to sweat on stage, and her audience would see it.”
“It was a big fight?”
“We yelled. And we called each other a few choice names. But that’s how we do things. When I call her a bitch it’s only in the nicest way.”
“So she left angry,” Malcolm said. “She’s not hiding out somewhere and cooling her heels just to make you sweat?”
“She better not be. Or I just might strangle her with my own two hands.” Burgess delivered the line with enough flourish to undercut the words’ meaning. He sounded like an actor on stage.
Malcolm raised a brow. “Why’s that?”
“I chose this play for the season because she agreed to do it. Sierra was the perfect Katherine. She was made for the part, and I was hoping for great reviews. Now she’s gone.”
“Do you have a picture of Ms. Day?”
He nodded and reached into an A&A Printing box. “Just delivered. Now we’ll need to print a correction.” Inside were Playbills for The Taming of the Shrew. Burgess flipped to page three and showed them the picture of a bright-eyed blonde with a smile that would make any man stop and notice.
Malcolm didn’t know if this woman was his victim. But it sickened him to think someone so young and vibrant had been stripped of her identity.
“Have you found Sierra or not?” Terry asked.
“We’ve found a body,” Malcolm said, choosing his words carefully. “But we’ve not made an identification.”
Terry’s face paled. “You can’t compare the picture to the body?”
“Not in this case.” And without giving too many details he added, “The killer didn’t leave us much.”
Burgess looked sick. “How did she die?”
“Can’t say. Right now we are just trying to determine our victim’s identity. Sierra Day’s missing persons report matches what we know about our victim. Is there anyone who would want to hurt Sierra?”
“The better question is who didn’t.”
Malcolm raised a brow and pulled out a notebook. “Start at the top of the list.”
Terry glanced down at Malcolm’s pen poised to write on his notepad. “Hey, and when I said I could kill Sierra, I didn’t mean in the literal sense.”
“Duly noted,” Malcolm said. “Who hated Sierra?”
“Her soon-to-be ex-husband for one. His name is Brian Humphrey, and he acts in plays here from time to time. He was never as good an actor as Sierra, and I think that didn’t help their marriage. And then toss in the fact that Sierra is a bit of a whore, and well, you get my point.”
“Sierra slept around?”
“According to Brian she started an affair with another actor here two months after they got back from their honeymoon.”
Garrison raised a brow. “Two months. Who was the guy?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Brian. But I can tell you that Brian was one angry dude. He came by the theater several times during rehearsal, and he and Sierra got into some knock-down, drag out fights. The last time she slapped him.”
“When was that?” Kier asked.
“Three weeks, give or take.”
“What can you tell me about Sierra?”
“She was stunning and very talented. She could slip into a role like you or I put on a coat. She had the it factor.”
“Did she know she was good?”
“Oh, yes, she did. She was a smart one. She knew she had the talent to go far. And she wasn’t afraid to do whatev
er she needed to get what she wanted.”
“Can you explain that?”
“Two years ago she was the understudy in a play. The night of opening, the lead actress, who was healthy as a horse, got sick as a dog. Threw up so much she had to be taken to the hospital for IVs. Sierra stepped into her place. The lead recovered, but it was two weeks before she could work again. By then Sierra had gotten all the opening-night reviews and notices. That gig quickly led to another bigger role. She had her sights on Broadway and Hollywood.”
“Who was the actress who got sick?” Malcolm asked.
“Zoe Morgan.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Works at the ballet now. I don’t know where she lives.” Burgess sighed. “Box-office sales were strong because of Sierra. She was a local favorite. I hate to think of the refunds we’ll have to process when word leaks out she won’t be in the play.”
“You said she had her sights on Hollywood and Broadway?”
“This was her last season with us. She planned to leave at Christmas after her surgery.”
“Surgery?”
“She was planning on getting a boob job.”
Malcolm shook his head. “She told you this?”
“Oh, yes. She was quite open about her plans. She understood the bigger the boobs the better the roles down the line. She was pushing along her divorce so that she could get her financial settlement. Needed the money for the surgical work.” He scratched the back of his head. “She was on the phone with her attorney last week, yelling for a court date.”
“Who was her attorney?” Garrison asked.
“I’ll never forget the name. I heard Sierra yell it out enough. Angie Carlson.”
Eva’s sister. The Barracuda.
Garrison stiffened.
Malcolm muttered an oath. “Figures.”
“You know the woman?” Terry prompted.
“Yeah.” Last spring she defended local plastic surgeon James Dixon, who’d been accused of attempted murder of a prostitute. Malcolm and the other cops in homicide suspected that James might be linked to the disappearance of several other prostitutes, but they’d not been able to prove it. DNA had linked him to some of the women, but at the time each had vanished, he’d had an alibi.