“Have a seat,” Eve told her. “Peabody?”
“She went to grab us some water. No point being annoyed,” Nadine added, as she knew Eve well. “I think you’re going to want to hear what Blaine has to say.”
“If you know what she has to say, why are you here?”
“She came to me, I brought her to you. I’ve already agreed to be off the record because Blaine asked, so chill it down.”
“I should have come directly to you,” DeLano said quickly, “but I wanted the opinion of someone I trust and respect. And, frankly, I wanted the conduit. I’m aware you also trust and respect Nadine.”
“So far.”
Eve glanced over when Peabody came in with tubes of water. She sat, waited while DeLano cracked a tube.
“Okay, Ms. DeLano, what do you want to say?”
“I want to say—need to say—I think I might be responsible for Chanel Rylan’s murder.”
5
The woman seemed steady and sane enough, Eve thought, though distress eked through.
“If you’re going to confess to murder, I should read you your rights.”
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Nadine snapped.
“I have to be true to myself.”
DeLano let out a breathless half laugh. “I appreciate the mild kick in the ass. When I killed her in Dark Days, her name was Amelia Benson.”
“You’re talking about a book? About a fictional character.”
“Yes. Amelia Benson was a young actress who held a series of jobs, as her acting income didn’t pay the rent. She had ambitions, some talent, and considerable energy. Every week she went to a classic vid, to study, as she hoped, one day, to be a star of stage and screen.
“One rainy Wednesday, in a nearly empty theater while she watched Grace Kelly thwart an attempt on her life, Amelia’s ended. An ice pick through the base of the skull.”
It rang, Eve realized, loud and clear. “Why an ice pick?” Eve asked.
“Such a mean and common tool. And effective, I thought. Sharp.” DeLano spread her hands. “Small. Easy to come by. They found her body when they brought the houselights up after the credits. The killer, of course, had long since left the building.”
“Okay. And you believe this applies to Chanel Rylan’s murder.”
“I do. I’m sick because I do. The bulletin I heard this morning said an actress, a young actress, and the vid—a classic Hitchcock vid like the one my fictional victim watched. Dial M for Murder in my book, same director. And that she’d been stabbed during the vid—the shower scene, a compelling scene like the one I used for my book. The bulletin didn’t identify the weapon.”
“So you wrote a book with a murder victim, an actress who’s killed during a vid by stabbing, and you figure it’s connected to an actual case.”
“I do. I do, and, worse … I think it’s the second one.” Now DeLano gripped her hands together on the table, knuckles whitening. “I think it’s the second.”
“Why?”
When DeLano brought her joined hands up to press between her breasts, Nadine started to speak.
“Let her tell it.”
Nadine hissed out a breath, but didn’t speak.
“This was easier in my head.”
“Drink some water, Ms. DeLano,” Peabody advised. “Take a breath.”
“Okay. Yes.” She obeyed, cleared her throat. “I think I’d have been struck by the similar elements. A young actress stabbed while watching a Hitchcock vid. If subsequent reports had termed the weapon an ice pick, I’d have been more than struck. I was only somewhat intrigued by what I now think was the first. About a month ago, a young street-level LC, only a few weeks into the job, was strangled in a flop many use for their work. Her body showed no sign of recent sexual activity, no other injuries. The killer used a white scarf.”
She paused, drank more water.
“In my book Dark Falls, a young street-level LC, only a few weeks into the job, was strangled in a flop many use for their work. Her body showed no signs of recent sexual activity, and wouldn’t, as this was her first client of the night. No other injuries. A sedative mixed with wine—a cheap Chianti—was discovered in her system during the autopsy. The killer used a white scarf, left in place and tied into a bow at the side of her neck.”
DeLano cleared her throat again. “At the time, as I said, I was mildly intrigued. The young licensed companion, no sex, the white scarf. But it’s a dangerous line of work, especially at that level. If you tell me the case is closed, that there was no bow, no sedative found, if you tell me Chanel Rylan was killed with a steak knife, I’ll mark this all up to coincidence and paranoia. I’d like to be able to do just that, more than I can tell you.”
Eve leaned back in the chair. “You write cop books?”
“Police thrillers, yes.”
“Maybe you know what cops say about coincidence.”
Deliberately DeLano picked up her water, drank. “There aren’t any. God.”
“Peabody, get the file on the LC. Jenkinson and Reineke caught it, but I don’t remember all the details.”
“Yes, sir.”
DeLano closed her eyes as Peabody left the room. “It was an ice pick, there was a bow. You don’t have to tell me for me to know it. I don’t know what to do, what to think.”
“How long ago did you write the LC one?”
“Dark Falls, the first book of the spin-off Dark series. Deann Dark, former police detective—still one in that book—who turns in her badge at the end of the book and turns to private investigation. Eight years ago. That was a spring release as part of the Hightower series. They were partners. The second, Dark Days, with the ice pick, came out that fall. I’ve done eleven Hightowers and eight Darks. Eight, and now two … I feel sick.”
“This isn’t your fault or your responsibility.” Nadine turned to Eve. “She could use hearing that from you.”
“I don’t know either way yet. Has anyone contacted you suggesting turning your fiction into reality?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I’ve had readers who want to give me plotlines or ideas, and murder techniques might come into it. I’ve had readers upset or disappointed—even angry—that a romantic relationship hasn’t developed between Deann and Hightower. I don’t know why anyone would do this, or pick my books specifically.”
“Anybody too obsessed or pissed?”
“Nothing raises a flag. These characters—Hightower and Dark—have been around for eleven years. They’ve gone through changes, growth, personal tragedies and triumphs. Not all readers want the changes, others want more. You can’t let that influence the story or the characters.”
Watching DeLano, Eve shifted angles. “How about personally obsessed or pissed? With you, not the characters or the books.”
DeLano swept her hands up over her face, into her hair. “I lead a quiet life, Lieutenant Dallas. A deliberately quiet and simple life. I have two teenage girls, and raising my girls, building my career takes about all I’ve got. I don’t even date. I tried it a couple times, at Heather’s and Piper’s urging. My girls,” she explained. “But I’m just not at a place in my life where I have the interest or the energy. I have friends, mostly other mothers or, like Nadine, someone in the business. I have my family, my mother, my girls. And I have my work. I stay home more than I go out.”
“You’re not married to or cohabbing with the father of your daughters? Or one of the fathers.”
“Just one, and no, I’m divorced.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
“But you have contact?”
“Not really, no. Craig rarely sees the girls. He’s not that interested. He’s remarried, and has a son, which is what he wanted.”
“Acrimonious divorce?”
DeLano offered a thin smile. “Is there any other kind?”
“There wouldn’t be in my world, but some people claim it.”
“I don’t. But if you think, after all these years, Craig would kill two women to make me suffer, I’d have to say that stretches credulity.”
“Was he or is he ever violent?”
“Once.” More nerves showed as DeLano shifted in the chair, linked her hands together, pulled them apart. “Do you really need this information?” She asked as Peabody came back in with a file.
“I don’t know what I need until I know.”
“Briefly then, I married Craig when I was twenty-four, and had my two girls before I was thirty. I was a teacher, and had been working on my doctorate, but when we married I gave that up, as Craig wanted me to stay at home, keep the home, and tend to the children.”
“He wanted?” Eve repeated.
“Yes. And while I was content being a professional mother, I did begin to feel the squeeze with the limitations of my social activities, my outlets. I accepted that Craig was a very old-fashioned, traditional man, and he provided for us. I accepted that he wanted a son and didn’t interact as much as I expected or would have liked with the girls. I accepted that he wanted things done a certain way, and his response when I didn’t reach that level was subtle insults, coldness. I accepted. You may not understand—”
“Just because I haven’t been there doesn’t mean I can’t understand.”
“All right.” Again DeLano linked her hands together, but this time it seemed like a reset rather than nerves.
“I had a lovely home, was expected to make myself and that home attractive, to be a charming hostess, to be a fully involved mother. I enjoyed all that, but I wanted something for myself. I started to write. I’d always had an interest, and I had the time when the girls napped or on the rare occasions I was allowed—though I didn’t see it then as being allowed—to let my mother take them for an afternoon. I told no one. It was just for me, and over the course of a year, I’d written a book.”