“So you’ve kept in touch?” Eve prompted.
“Actually, no. We had lunch a couple of times, then, well, she could never make it. Then Neville and I got engaged, and there were wedding plans, and finding a home. We lost contact.”
“Happens,” Eve said. “You haven’t seen or spoken to her in a while?”
“At least a year. Probably more. When the committee contacted me again for the annual event, I asked, and they told me she wasn’t involved any longer. It’s a shame. Some people have a knack for this kind of work. I thought she did.”
“Did she ever come here?”
“No.” Frowning, Rosa picked up her tea. Her hands had steadied. “We wouldn’t have had any reason to. We met at the hospital, or at my home or hers. And a couple of times in a restaurant. There were twenty or so of us involved in the project. We were cochairs that year, so we talked and met more often.”
“Can you give me the names of the others on that committee?”
“I’d need to check my book on it. I don’t remember everyone. It was two years ago, more. And I used to do a lot of this sort of work. I haven’t been as involved since…”
“Why?” Neville spoke up. “Why does this matter?”
“It’s been released to the media, and reported by same, so I’m able to tell you that Daphne Strazza and her husband were assaulted in their home Saturday night. We believe by the same individual who assaulted you and the Brinkmans.”
“Daphne?” Shock and sympathy echoed as Rosa clutched at Neville’s hand. “Like us?”
“Yes. She was more severely injured, physically, but is recovering. Her husband was killed during the assault.”
Color leached from Rosa’s face. “He’s dead?”
“This individual is escalating. Let me say that I believe, absolutely, he’s done with you. He has no reason to ever come back. And what you’ve been able to tell us here gives us that other piece. You’re going to have helped us find him.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t her husband who hurt her?”
Eve kept her eyes and voice cool even as the bell rang in her head. “What do you mean?”
Rosa picked up the neglected tea again. Her fingers trembled, that steadiness fleeting, but she drank. “I’ve worked with abused women. Not as a counselor, I’m not trained. But I’ve done work in shelters. I recognized signs. I know I’m not a therapist or a professional, but I know. If she wasn’t physically abused by her husband, she was emotionally abused. I know she was afraid of him. I saw it.”
You’re not the only one, Eve thought.
“We have no evidence supporting the suggestion Dr. Strazza assaulted or raped his wife on the night of this incident. I’m not doubting your instincts or observations, Mrs. Patrick. But Anthony Strazza was, as was Daphne, attacked by an intruder.”
For a moment, Rosa turned her face into Neville’s shoulder. Then she straightened her own, sat straight. “Can you tell me where she is?”
“I can’t release that information.”
Rosa nodded. “Would you tell her if she wants to talk to me or see me, to contact me. It helps. Lori and I have been talking. Lori Brinkman. I know it can help.”
“I can do that. I will do that. She could use a strong shoulder.”
“I’m not strong.”
“You’re wrong,” Eve said as she rose. “You came here, you asked to help someone who needs help. You’re no weak sister, Mrs. Patrick, and he can’t make you one.”
* * *
When Eve and Peabody stepped out, Eve saw Kyle Knightly leaning against a doorway, talking to someone inside the office and clearly waiting for her to come out of Neville’s.
He shot a finger at whomever he spoke with, started toward her.
“I’m going to take this. Find wherever they do the makeup, the costumes, see what you can find out.”
“I got that. More fun than you’ll have,” Peabody added as she veered off.
Eve walked up to meet Kyle. “Mr. Knightly. Problem?”
“You could say that.” He looked down the long corridor toward Neville’s closed door. “Neville and Rosa are just starting to come out of this nightmare, and now you’re in there going at them. I don’t want to see them twisted up again.”
“Understandable.” She noted people wandering about, loitering—and obviously hoping for a tidbit. “Maybe we can talk about that, somewhere private.”
“Sure.”
He gestured, began to lead the way. Another open area with casually dressed people at comps or in huddles. A few called out his name, or hopped up to start toward him.
He signaled them off, addressed a few.
“I’ll be back around, Jen. I really need to see that report, Bry.”
They moved into a small reception area where a man in a turtleneck and jeans manned a workstation.
“Hey, Kyle,” he began. “Myra Addams from SAR wants a ’link meet about—”
“I need a few, Barry.”
With that he walked into his office, closed the door behind Eve.
Neville had the corner spot, but Kyle’s office boasted almost twice the space. Vid posters lined the walls, mementos and what she took for awards crowded shelves. His workstation, a wide semicircle of slate gray, faced the far wall and its enormous screen.
He gestured her to a chair, walked to a bar area, opened its cold box. “Got your Pepsi. Neville and I share an addiction. You want?”