“Record on,” she said. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”
The camera panned down, drew back until it held on Marlo and the body in a high-backed desk chair.
“Victim is identified as Wilford B. Icove.”
When she started to crouch down, the body let out an explosive sneeze.
“Bless you,” Marlo said without missing a beat. She looked up as people off camera laughed. “The vic appears to be allergic to death.”
It was silly, Eve thought, but helped her relax again. The screen rolled with gags, flubs, intense moments broken by screwups. Andi, as Mira, blew a line and laughed out a stream of bawdy and inventive curses. Marlo and the actress playing Nadine broke off in mid-dialogue to grab each other in a steamy kiss.
That bit of business got a round of applause from the audience.
Matthew tumbling out of his chair as the comp he worked on as McNab collapsed. Julian mangling a line, switching his accent to Brooklyn.
The audience in the theater responded with laughter, applause, catcalls.
“How do they get anything done if they screw up so much?” Eve wondered.
“That’s why they call it ‘take two,’” Roarke told her.
It looked like plenty of take twos, and threes, and more to Eve. But everybody appeared to have a good time doing it—again and again.
The gag reel ended with the camera once again on Marlo, this time in the long black coat, weapon drawn, a breeze ruffling the short cap of hair. “I’m a cop,” she said, eyes fixed and fierce. And when she flipped back the coat to holster her weapon, she missed, with the stunner bouncing on the ground at her feet.
“Aw, fuck. Not again.”
Roundtree ordered the lights on and stood grinning and stroking his goatee as the applause rolled.
“It wasn’t an easy edit, with the amount of screwups I had to wade through.” He dropped down beside Eve, commanded her attention. “You have to have some fun with it.”
“I’d say you did.”
“I’ll add and edit more. This’ll go on the home disc extras. People love seeing actors screw up, blow lines, fall on their asses.”
“I have to admit, I did.”
“We’re going to have individual interviews with the main cast. I’m not going to push you—that’s Joel’s territory—but I want to add my bit here. It would enhance the home package considerably if you’d do an interview. Both of you, even better.
“I’m willing to stay in New York after we wrap if that’s what it takes, or to come back whenever you can work it in. Think about it. You lived this. I’m going to promise you we’re doing it justice, and I don’t break a promise. But you lived it. Everybody who sees this vid is going to want to hear what you have to say.”
“It’s closed for me.”
“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, and those bright blue eyes were razor-sharp. “I’ve got that much about you. The Icoves were the villains of the piece; the Avrils and the others the victims. And still, victim murdered villain, and you had to pursue that. The victims who survived are out there. There won’t be any more because of what you did, and that’s important. Immensely. But while you ended it, you couldn’t close it. So.” He gave her hand a rough pat. “Think about it.”
“He’s good,” Eve muttered when he pushed up and walked away to sit with Andi.
“And he’s right about it not being closed.”
“When I agreed to cooperate—to a degree—with Nadine on the book I knew it would widen that crack. Part of me wanted to seal it shut, but you can’t. The rest of me thinks it’s good that people know who the real victims were—are—in this. How do I talk about that? It’s not my job to decide guilt and innocence.”
“Not legally, no. But it’s your job to know. And you do.”
Eve huffed out a breath, turned her head to meet Roarke’s eyes. “You’re saying I should do it?”
“I’m saying if you decide to, and have control over what you say, how you say it, it may help you close that internal crack on this for you. It’s not just the publicity from the book that’s kept it in your mind, Eve. You think of it—of them. So do I.”
“Hell. I’ll think about it. Can we get out of here yet?”
“I’d say we could start easing that way.”
Easing was right. Saying good night meant more conversations. She watched, with envy, Mavis and Leonardo escape—the baby as the excuse—even as she and Roarke got snagged again.
Eve calculated another solid twenty minutes before they finally made it to the main floor where Julian sprawled on one of the sofas in the living area.
“I was afraid of that.” Connie sighed. “He was well on his way to a good drunk by the end of dinner.”
“He hit the wine pretty hard,” Eve confirmed.
“He was embarrassed by K.T. at dinner. Julian tends to drown embarrassment and upset. I’d apologize for her behavior again, but, well, she is what she is.”
“No problem,” Eve assured her.
“We can see that he gets home safely,” Roarke told her.
“Thanks.” Connie gave the sleeping Julian a look of motherly indulgence. “But I think we’ll just leave him there to sleep it off. No point dragging him out to his hotel. Just let me get your fabulous coat.”
“And the resemblance continues to diverge,” Eve said quietly. “You can hold your liquor better, and I’ve yet to see you curl up hugging a pillow like it’s a teddy bear.”
“And hopefully never will.”
“I absolutely love this,” Connie said as she came back carrying Eve’s coat.
Just as Eve saw the first real glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, Matthew Zank, dripping wet, came bolting out of the elevator. Marlo, pale as wax, stumbled out in his wake.
“On the roof. On the roof. It’s K.T. It’s—she’s on the roof.”
“I think she’s dead.” Marlo sat down on the floor, eyes fixed on Eve. “She’s dead. She’s dead up there. You have to come.”
“Stay down here.” She rounded on Connie. “Don’t let anyone leave until I check this out.”
“I—no—it must be a mistake,” Connie began.
“Maybe. Just keep everybody here.”
With Roarke, she stepped into the elevator. “Are you fucking kidding me?” was her first comment.
“Roof level,” Roarke ordered. “Maybe she passed out drunk like Julian.”
“Let’s hope, because it annoys the shit out of me to investigate a death at a dinner party where I’m a guest.”
“It doesn’t happen often.”
“Once is plenty.”
They stepped out into a lounge—another fire simmering, low sofas plumped with pillows, a mirrored bar with an open bottle of wine sitting on it.
The glass doors to the roof terrace whispered open at their approach. When they stepped across the terrace, through another set of auto-doors, the scent of night and flowers filled the lap pool dome.
She felt a flutter of breeze, glanced up.
“Dome’s open a little,” she noted, and wondered if it had been that way all evening.
Drenched, K.T. lay faceup beside the sparkling blue water of the lap pool. The staring eyes were Peabody-brown, and gave Eve a hard moment.
She crouched to check for a pulse. “Shit. Not only dead, but going cold. He pulled her out. Or he pushed her in, drowned her, then pulled her out. Either way, he moved the damn body. Shit!”
“She looks too much like our girl at the moment.”
“But she’s not. You’d better go get our girl, and a field kit if you’ve got one.”
“In the limo.”
“Good. Tell McNab to secure the house—nobody leaves—and to find out if there’s any security running up here. Don’t let anybody but Peabody come up.”
“All right.” He looked at the body a moment longer. “A bad end to the evening.”
“It sure was for her.”
As Roarke went down, Eve took her communicator out of her stupid little purse and called in a suspicious death. Then fixed her recorder on the narrow strap of her party dress.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on record,” she began.
Broken glass, she noted, and a puddle of red wine, likely from the bottle open on the bar inside.