She watched the amused pleasure in David’s eyes fade away. “Yes, of course. David Reingold. We’re running just a little behind.”
“Are you being arrested at last, David?” Still flying, Jessilyn Brooke beamed at him. “For being criminally talented.”
He shot her a quick smile, took Eve’s arm. “Give me a minute,” he said as he led her a few paces off. “We haven’t told Jessilyn yet, about Chanel. Mitzie and George agreed we should wait until after this callback, rather than have Jessilyn carry that through it, or postpone it. If you’d give me a few minutes to speak with her, tell her what happened.”
“I’ll take care of that.” Eve turned. “Miss Brooke, if you’d come with me.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Go ahead, Jess. I’ll be right here.”
“All right, David. You’re the boss. What’s this about?” she asked as she walked up to Eve. “Are you really the police?”
“Let’s sit back here.” Eve gestured to Peabody so her partner would take the group to the front while she took the actress to the back.
“Can we make it fast? I’m really on a high, and I need to contact my agent. My mother. My ex-boyfriend.”
Eve pointed to a chair in the last row, sat on the armrest of the one beside it so she could face the woman.
“Can you describe your relationship with Chanel Rylan?”
“Chanel?” Jessilyn glanced around the theater as if expecting to see her competitor. “Look, I know she got the callback, too, but … Is this some David way of telling me we’re sharing the part? That we’re going into rehearsals co-owning it?” Some of the shine faded, but Jessilyn shrugged. “I can live with that. I still got it. I nailed that number.”
“I take it you haven’t listened to or read any media this morning?”
“On the morning of the biggest callback of my career? You’re joking, right? I spent the morning sacrificing black-feathered chickens to the primeval theater gods. In my brain,” she added when Eve didn’t smile. “No chickens were actually harmed.”
“Miss Brooke, I’m sorry to inform you Chanel Rylan was killed last night.”
“That’s not funny.” All the shine dropped now, and angry insult took its place. “That’s an ugly thing to say. David!”
Eve continued to face Jessilyn, just held up a hand to stop David if he tried to come back.
“It’s not meant to be funny, and murder is usually ugly.”
“Stop it. Just stop it.”
“You and Chanel were competing for this part.”
“Stop it. I want you to stop this right now.”
Eve took out her badge. “Look at this. I’m with the NYPSD. I’m investigating the murder of Chanel Rylan. I need you to answer some questions.”
“This isn’t—I can’t—But …” She pressed a hand to her mouth, sucked air through her fingers. “They knew. They knew, and didn’t tell me. They … I get it.” Closing her eyes, she rocked in her chair. “I get it. The show must go on. I get it. Chanel gets it. We all get it. Oh God, what happened to her? What happened?”
“She was stabbed.”
Tears glimmered, shimmered, spilled. “A mugging?”
“If you’d answer the questions. Tell me where you were last night, from five to seven.”
“Where I … I’d kill her for a part? Is that what you think?”
“Can you tell me?”
“God. God. I … I went to my friend’s dance studio after work. Wait.”
As tears continued to leak, she pressed her fingers to her eyes, took several hitching breaths.
Lowering her hands, she gripped them tightly in her lap.
“I worked from eleven to six—I bartend at Sylvia’s. I went to Missy’s studio. I—I picked up some Chinese on the way, at ah, oh Jesus, at the Brass Gong. I waited until she’d finished her last class. She ran lines with me for today, and I rehearsed the number, she helped me with the dance. We went out for one drink after, then I went home to get a solid eight hours—to be fresh for today.”
She paused again, struggling. “To be fresh, to be my best because I was going up against Chanel. I was with Missy—and Hank came into the studio for about an hour. I was there from like, six-fifteen, six-thirty until ten, I guess. And we had a drink back at Sylvia’s before I went home.”
“All right. I’d like the contact information for your friends.”
“Chanel was my friend, too.” The words blurred on a sob. “Not like Missy and Hank, but a friend. We were up for this part, and we’ve been up against each other for others. Sometimes I got it, sometimes she got it. Sometimes we both washed out. I wanted this one bad, that’s no secret. It would’ve crushed me to lose out, but you get used to being crushed or you go back to Wisconsin and do community theater.
“Lola! Her roommate, her person is Lola, like Missy’s mine, and I can’t remember her last name. Does Lola know?”
“Yes. Did you socialize with Chanel?”
“Sure. Sure, we hung plenty.” She swiped at tears with her hands. “We’re theater people. You hang together or you hang separately. I’ve got better pipes, she has better pins. If one of us had a part, the other sometimes helped in practice—voice for me, dance for her. She dated my ex-boyfriend before he was my boyfriend.”
She stared up at the empty stage.
“When we got this callback, we made a pact. It wasn’t easy because we both really wanted it, but we made a pact. Whichever of us got it, the other would pitch in. I’d work with her on the songs, she’d work with me on the choreography.”
Eve guided her through a few more questions, took the contact information.
“Do you think I should get in touch with Lola? I don’t know if she’d want to talk to me. I got the part.”
“Would you have kept the pact?”
“Yeah, sure. Chanel would have kept it, too. It wasn’t our first pact.”
“That’s your answer, isn’t it?”
She bought Peabody a glide-cart lunch, indulged in her own loaded dog washed down with Pepsi. You might as well drink battery acid as cart coffee, in her opinion.
From there they headed back downtown to talk to the street hookers, the beat cops, the LC trainers and certifiers, the useless desk clerk at the flop. They spent two hours recrossing her detectives’ boot prints, and couldn’t shake out anything fresh.
Still Eve circled back again to the sad little room where Rosie Kent died.
A single bed with a lumpy mattress covered with questionable sheets. It wasn’t meant for sleeping, after all. A closet-size bathroom with a pitted wall-hung sink, a toilet no one in their right mind would plop their ass on, a spotty mirror.
Ceiling light in the bedroom, no lamp. A small table that wobbled, no dresser. Bare floors, a window that leaked in cold air and walls of sickly gray. A key-operated time clock hung beside the door. The LC keyed in the time allotted, and when it ran out, the clock buzzed.
The hall door locked from the inside, but could be bypassed with a standard master.
“They may have settled on the deal, the details, on the street, but it’s January, it’s cold. It’s time to party, so she says let’s go. Details are worked out as they head to the flop. How much time, the standard fee.
“With this settled, she logs in downstairs, takes the key. They walk up. She brings him/her in, locks the door, keys in the time. Puts the key on the table there. She’s new, maybe she gives him some sex talk, puts on some moves. It’s an adventure, and she’s in charge. She thinks she’s in charge.”
But she’s not, Eve thought. It’s a scene that’s played out countless times in this sad room. But this time, the killer had written a lethal ending.
“He’s brought a bottle with him, wants to have a drink, relax first. Fine with her, she gets paid whatever they do. Can’t drink out of the bottle, can’t drink from the same bottle or they’d both pass out. So he has to have a glass for her. At least one glass, maybe two. A case? A briefcase? A purse?”
Eve circled the room. “Go freshen up a little for me—that’s one way to get her into the bathroom so he can add the tranq to her glass. He’s got both glasses when she comes back, hands her the doctored one. Maybe he pretends he’s nervous, maybe he asks her to start to undress while they have the wine.”
Easy to imagine it, Eve mused, easy to see it. Unless you’re inside the scene, and think you’re in charge.
“She’s the center of attention. She likes it. Does her little striptease, tries to do the sexy while she drinks. It takes a few minutes for the tranq to start to kick in. A little dizzy, a little off. Sweepers didn’t find any wine spilled in here, so he doesn’t let her drop the glass. Maybe he gets a little more in her before he puts her down.”
“She’s new at it,” Peabody added. “Anyone experienced would have tried to bolt, would have struggled the minute she felt off. But there wasn’t any sign of a struggle.”
“No, she was easy pickings. He just led her to the bed. Time to lie down, sure, lie down, and let me do what I do. Take the rest of her clothes off, watch her go under. Get the sash out of that briefcase or purse or bag. Here’s the moment. Does he call her by the character’s name? I bet he does. She does, because whatever gender the killer is, for this scene it’s a woman who wraps the sash around Pryor’s neck. A woman who pulls it tight, tighter, watches the eyes flutter and roll, the struggle of the body for air, hears that last choked breath expel. A woman who tests the pulse to be sure the heart’s stopped beating, then ties the pretty bow, angles it.
“Then it’s just get the glasses, cap the bottle, fold the clothes neat just like in the book. Unlock the door, peek out to be sure no one’s around. Walk out, walk away.”