Something there, she thought, and she needed to pull it out.
“It’s not coloring, body type, even age,” she concluded. “It’s looks, yeah, but also, maybe, his perception. And his perception of the woman or couple they’re substituting for. I want to get this to Mira, see it from her take.”
“The bartender came in, no fuss. Carmichael’s with him in Interview A.”
“All right, I’ll take that. You get this to Mira. You understand where I’m heading?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll put it together.”
Eve took the slim file they’d put together on Wright, walked to Interview A.
She stepped in, nodded to Carmichael. “Thank you, Officer.”
When he stepped out, Eve engaged the recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Wright, Anson, for the purpose of routine questioning, ongoing investigation.”
She read in the case files of all the attacks as she sat across from him.
He sipped from a tube of some sort of health drink that had broccoli and carrots dancing over it.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Wright.”
“No problem. Word came down straight from Jacko: Anybody who works for him gives total co-op to the police. This is about the Strazzas, right?”
“Before we can talk about that, I’m going to Mirandize you.”
He said, “Whoa,” and looked a little excited.
“It’s procedure,” Eve continued. “Before we talk about an ongoing investigation. So. You have the right to remain silent…”
Gaze riveted on her face, he appeared to cling to every word until she’d finished. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yeah, sure. You gave that a crisp reading.”
“All right. How do you know the Strazzas?”
“They came into Jacko’s a few times when I was on the bar, and I tended bar at their house a couple times for parties.”
“You didn’t work the dinner party on Saturday night?”
“No. Last time was … yeah, they had a party in December, big holiday bash.”
“You weren’t on shift at the bar at Jacko’s Saturday night, either. Can you tell me where you were?”
“Sure. I worked the lunch shift that day, got home by five. Easy by five. I had a big audition on Monday, so I stayed home, rehearsing, getting into character, did a purge, and—”
“A purge of what?”
“Of my body.” He waggled the tube. “My character’s a health nut. Abso obsessed, starts a commune—really more like a cult—so they grow all their own food, close themselves off from society because, you know, germs.”
“Okay. You stayed at home Saturday night.”
“Right through until I left for the audition yesterday morning. It was a callback, and I think I nailed it.”
“Was anyone with you over the weekend?”
“No way. I did the total blackout because I had to saturate in the solitude. See, the scene for the callback’s a monologue, and it’s—”
“So no one was with you,” Eve interrupted. “No one came by, contacted you?”
“I put the word out: DND—Do Not Disturb. Let me tell you, the last thing you want is someone banging on the door or buzzing your ’link when you’re, you know, purging.”
“No one can verify your whereabouts from five Saturday evening until Monday morning?”
“Well, like I said, I had to—”
“Saturate in the solitude and purge.”
A little dimple flirted in his left cheek when he smiled at her. “You got it. My character’s a true believer, and he’s on a mission, you get me? It gradually drives him over the edge. It’s a journey, an evolution leading to a kind of metamorphosis. It takes a lot out of you.”
So, Eve thought, does a purge.
“Tell me about your relationship with Daphne Strazza.”
“Mrs. Strazza?” Shifting, he laid his forearms on the table. “I hope she’s doing okay now. Gula said she was really hurt bad. She’s okay—Mrs. Strazza, I mean. Good to work for. Good tips.”
“A beautiful woman.”
“And then some.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Never could figure why she’d hooked up with a guy like…” His face sobered quickly. “That’s a crap thing to say about a dead guy. I just mean she looked like somebody who could have anybody. And he was, like, your dad old. Plus, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality, you dig?”
“You didn’t like Dr. Strazza?”
“Hey, a gig’s a gig, and like I said, she tipped good.”
Eve leaned back. “Do you do a lot of private gigs like that? Big house parties, that kind of thing?”
“Sure. I’m a hell of a bartender. It’s a kind of theater, too, right?” He edged closer to make his point. “You’ve got to figure out your audience, play the role. It’s not my mission in life, right, but it pays the bills, and gives me a lot of grist for the old mill. You gotta observe life, you know it? Listen to people, cue in. For the day job, and for the art.”
“When you’re going into one of these big houses, working the bar for all those rich people, I guess you cue in there, picture yourself living that way, maybe as master of the house, having that beautiful woman in bed.”
“Sure. You gotta put yourself into it. But, say, if I had a gig like that tonight? While I’m immersing in Joe Boyd—my character? I’d be more disdainful of that lifestyle, of all those people pumping alcohol and rich, processed food into their systems. In my head,” he added. “I wouldn’t let the disdain show because, hey, tips.”