His eyes, darker now, with hints of anger in them, came back to Eve's. "Someone used her horribly. I can tell you this, Lieutenant. If I had decided to kill Richard Draco, I would have found a way to do so that wouldn't have involved a friend. There were two victims on stage last night, and my heart breaks for her."
"An operator," Eve murmured as they rode down to lobby level. "Slick, smart, and self-satisfied. Of all the actors, he's the one with the most experience. He knows the theater in and out."
"If he's really a friend of Mansfield 's, would he have set it up so she killed Draco? Planted the weapon in her dressing room?"
"Why not?" Eve strode out of the building, flipped the doorman a sneer. "It's theatrical, and if you wind it all around, the plant was so obvious it looks like a plant. So…" She climbed behind the wheel, drummed her fingers on it, and frowned. "Whoever planted it wanted us to find it, wanted us to know it was put there to toss suspicion on Mansfield. Otherwise, it's just stupid, and whoever set the murder up isn't. I want to know who worked backstage who wanted to be on it. Let's see how many frustrated actors were doing tech duty on this thing."
Eve pulled away from the curb. "Toss that ball to Feeney," she ordered Peabody, and used her car 'link to contact the morgue.
Morse, the chief medical examiner, came on-screen. His luxurious hair was slicked back to show off a duo of gold and silver hoops in his right ear. "I was expecting you, Dallas. You cops are damned demanding."
"We get our rocks off hassling dead doctors. What have you got on Draco?"
"He's most sincerely dead." Morse smiled thinly. "Single stab wound to the heart did the job quickly and neatly. No other wounds or injuries. He's had some excellent body sculpting work over the years, and a recent tummy toner. A superior practitioner, in my opinion, as the laser marks are microscopic. His liver shows some rehabilitation. I'd say your guy was a serious drinker and had at least one treatment to revitalize. He did, however, have a lovely little mix of illegals in his system at time of death. Exotica and Zing, with a soupcon of Zeus. He chased that with a double shot of unblended scotch."
"Hell of a combo."
"You bet. This guy was a serious abuser, who continued to pay to have his body put back in shape. This kind of cycle eventually takes its toll, but even at this rate, he likely had another twenty good years in him."
"Not anymore. Thanks, Morse."
"Any chance of getting me seats when this play goes back on? You got the connections," he added with a wink.
She sighed a little. "I'll see what I can do."
CHAPTER FOUR
The trip from Stiles's rarified uptown air to Alphabet City 's aroma of overturned recyclers and unwashed sidewalk sleepers was more than a matter of blocks. They left the lofty buildings with their uniformed doormen, the pristine glide-carts and serene air traffic for prefab, soot-scarred complexes, blatting maxibuses, and sly-eyed street thieves.
Eve immediately felt more at home.
Michael Proctor lived on the fourth floor of one of the units tossed up haphazardly after the devastation of the Urban Wars. At election time, city officials made lofty speeches about revitalizing the area, made stirring promises to fight the good fight against neglect, crime, and the general decay of that ailing sector of the city.
After the elections, the entire matter went back in the sewer to rot and ripen for another term.
Still, people had to live somewhere. Eve imagined a struggling actor who managed bit parts and understudy roles couldn't afford to pay much for housing.
Eve's initial background check revealed that Michael Proctor was currently six weeks behind on his rent and had applied for Universal Housing Assistance.
Which meant desperation, she mused. Most applicants to UHA became so strangled, so smothered in red tape reeled out by the sticky fingers of bureaucrats, they stumbled off into the night and were pitifully grateful to find a bed in one of the shelters.
She imagined that stepping into Draco's bloody shoes would considerably up Proctor's salary. Money was an old motive, as tried as it was true.
Eve considered double-parking on Seventh, then, spotting a parking slot on the second level street side, went into a fast vertical lift that had Peabody yelping, and shot forward to squeeze in between a rusted sedan and a battered air bike.
"Nice job." Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.
Eve flipped on the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to street level. "This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco's death. He's got a good shot at the starring role – if only temporarily. That gives him an ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his record, but every criminal has to start somewhere."
"I love your optimistic view of humanity, sir."
"Yeah, I'm a people-lover all right." She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed his wide canvas shoulder bag. "Hey!" She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched his shoulders and sulked. "You set up that game on this corner, I'm going to be insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I'll pretend I didn't see your ugly face."
"I'm just trying to make a living."
"Make it two blocks over."
"Shit." He shifted his bag, then scooted off, heading west through the billowing steam from a glide-cart.
Peabody sniffed hopefully. "Those soy dogs smell fresh."
"They haven't been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold."
"I can't. It has a mind of its own." Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody followed Eve into the grimy building.
At one time the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on the outer doors had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful red ink, was M. Proctor.
Eve glanced at the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate. She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.
Someone was crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring sounds of an arena football game and someone's foul cursing at a botched play. She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.
On level three there was classical music, something she'd heard Roarke play. Accompanying it were rhythmic thumps.
"A dancer," Peabody said. "I've got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in Denver. Somebody's doing jetes. I used to want to be one."
"A dancer?" Eve glanced back. Peabody 's cheeks were pretty and pink from the climb.
"Yeah, well, when I was a kid. But I don't have the build. Dancers are built more like you. I went to the ballet with Charles a couple of weeks back. All the ballerinas were tall and skinny. Makes me sick."
"Hmmm." It was the safest response when Peabody mentioned her connection to the licensed companion, Charles Monroe.
"I'm built more like an opera singer. Sturdy," Peabody added with a grimace.
"You into opera now?"
"I've been a few times. It's okay." She blew out a relieved breath when they reached the fourth floor and tried not to be irritated that Eve wasn't winded. "Charles goes for that culture stuff."
"Must keep you busy, juggling him and McNab."
Peabody grinned. "I thought there was no me and McNab in your reality."
"Shut up, Peabody." Annoyed, Eve rapped on Proctor's door. "Was that a snort?"
"No, sir." Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. "Absolutely not. I think my stomach's growling."
"Shut that up, too." She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and the peephole. The building didn't run to soundproofing.