“Timing,” Eve repeated. “He had it worked out.”
“And he knew her,” Peabody put in.
“Yeah, knew her, chose her, stalked her, studied her. The question is why. The vic was an actress who supplemented that income working at someplace called Broadway Babies.”
“I love that place! We love that place.”
McNab grinned at Peabody. “Dorky fun.”
“I like dorky fun. Jeez, she might’ve waited on us.”
“The friend says the vic was up for a part. Maybe somebody didn’t want her to get it. Killed in a theater.” Eve shrugged. “It could play. No current relationship, no recent breakups, but maybe she brushed off somebody who didn’t like being brushed. She was a switch-hitter, so we look at both teams.”
“It feels a little impersonal for relationship revenge,” Peabody pointed out.
“Agreed, but we look so we can close that line off. Plus there’s enough personal in it for that look. This night, this theater, the bogus dog emergency. McNab, copy the security feed to my home unit. I want to take a look. And why don’t you give whoever’s in charge here the bad news that this theater will be sealed off and shut down until further notice.”
“No prob.”
“I got one more.”
“I’m here to serve, LT.”
“The animal clinic. Pet Care on Seventh. Hit that on your way home, will you? See if you can tap where that emergency call came from. If you need to take the e-toys in, tag me, and I’ll get the clearance.”
“All over it and back again.”
“Peabody, since you like the Babies place, let’s go swing by there, see what we see.”
“Yay!”
Eve saw her partner and the e-ace bump wiggling fingers—their strange little gesture of affection—before McNab pulled a bright purple earflap hat over his head and long blond ponytail.
Since they didn’t mortify her by locking lips, she ignored it.
Outside, she and Peabody hiked the two blocks to the overpriced underground lot through the unrelenting insanity of Times Square.
They wound through the drunks, the revelers, the gawking tourists, the hustlers, and the street-level licensed companions while lights flashed and mega screens hawked designer fashion worn by pouty and sexually ambiguous models.
Eve caught the eye of a street thief, watched him wisely turn on his heel and head fast in the opposite direction. His coat—likely with several of the loot pockets already holding wallets and wrist units—flapped around his legs.
Eve skirted around construction barriers. If it wasn’t drunks, thieves, and tourists, it was some guy in a hard hat jacking a hole in the street.
She went into the relative quiet of the lot, opted to take the stairs down.
“Are we going to do notification after the restaurant?”
“I did it.” Boots clanged on the metal steps. “Just the parents, and they live in Wisconsin.”
Shocked faces, glazed eyes, choked voices.
“I talked to a couple people who work the concession. They knew her. Not personally,” Peabody added. “But they knew her face, said she was always friendly. She sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to one of them a couple months ago. Small popcorn, medium Diet Coke, and for a comedy, she added gummy bears.”
“Creature of habit,” Eve said when they reached the car. “It makes it easy to stalk and study and plan. We need to run the staff. Even the ones not on tonight. People who saw her regularly, got to know her habits.”
“How’d he make the tag to the vet place, make it so close to the murder?”
“A good question, and one I hope McNab finds the answer to.”
“A partner? A partner makes the tag.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s more logistical than the killer making it: Have to do it outside the theater—then come in again, sit down again, kill her, get up, walk out again. More likely someone notices that. The in, sit, stand, out, in, and all that.”
Eve didn’t disagree—up and down, in and out brought attention. But she wanted verification.
She parked again, a half block from where her navigation system put the restaurant. This time she copped a street-level spot. In a loading zone, but flipping on her On Duty light covered that.
“I know I told you what a mag time we had in Mexico, and thanked you about a zillion times.”
“So don’t do it again.”
“What I didn’t say,” Peabody continued, “mostly because I wanted to see if the results stuck, was how McNab conked on the shuttle on the way to the villa. Just dropped out, and he extremely loves flying. And after we got there and basked, had a couple of birdbath margaritas, took a swim, he conked again—even before we continued to bask with sex—and slept dead out for twelve solid.”
“Like you said, he needed a break.”
“And he got one. You and Roarke made it so he got one. I’d’ve been okay if he’d slept the entire time we were there, but the twelve solid really helped. So we had lots of sex.”
“This is how you say thank you?”
“We had lots and lots of sex,” Peabody said, unabashed. “Lots of drinks, lots of sitting around doing nothing, lots of everything that wasn’t work. And it’s stuck. He’s got his bounce back.”
“McNab always bounces.”
“But it’s the real deal again. The natural bounce. It’s a load off, Dallas. I just wanted to say.”
“Good. Good,” she repeated when she reached for the door of the restaurant.
She opened it to a blast of voices raised in song, and the smell of Italian cooking that made her stomach yearn.
Eve stepped to the hostess podium, where the woman behind it beamed a smile, held up a finger, then joined her rather stupendous soprano on the chorus.
People at tables, in booths stopped twirling pasta, stabbing meatballs, forking up chicken piccata to applaud.
The music dropped away into the clatter of dishes, the hum and buzz of conversation. And the waitstaff, all clad in sleek black, continued to serve and clear as if belting out some Broadway standard just came with the field greens salad.
“Welcome to Broadway Babies. Do you have a reservation?”
“I have this.” Eve palmed her badge, tipped it up.
“Oh! Oh dear, is there a problem, Officer?”
“Lieutenant. I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“Of course. That would be Annalisa. If you’d wait here, I’ll get her.”
As she scurried away, the party at a long table in the center of the room burst into mad laughter all at once. As if taking his cue, one of the bartenders began to sing as he poured wine.
Across the room, a waitress did a hands-on-hips dance toward him, made it a duet.
“I love this place! It’s just so much fun.”
Fun, Eve thought, if your idea of same equaled waitstaff singing and dancing around your table while you were trying to eat. Or, Jesus, actually pulling you up from your seat, spinning you around while singing in your face.
Then again, the man currently being spun and sung to and, good God, the woman the bartender grabbed up—after actually leaping over the damn bar—both appeared to enjoy it all just fine.
It took all kinds.
The hostess hurried back, accompanied by a woman with whipped-cream-white hair, tiger-gold eyes, and a statuesque body tucked into a bold blue dress.
“Good evening, I’m Annalisa Bacardo,” she said, with the faintest accent that went with the scents of Italian food. “How can I help?”
“Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”
“Of course.” The polite smile never wavered. “I would like to ask what we might be discussing.”
“Chanel Rylan.”
“Chanel?” The smile only widened. “Surely Chanel couldn’t be in any trouble with the police. She’s …” Something in Eve’s flat, direct gaze caused the smile to fade. “Yes, of course. If you’ll come with me.”
Annalisa led them back, through the swinging kitchen doors, into the heat and chaos of the heart of a busy restaurant.
“My office is through here—I need to be close. Giavanni!” She called out, then rattled off a spate of Italian before she opened a door, waved Eve and Peabody through.
The office largely consisted of a desk, a couple of chairs, and walls covered with photos.
“Our staff, over the years—twenty-two years—performing all over the world. Off-planet as well. Here, Chanel.”
She tapped a photo of the doomed actress, spotlighted, arms outstretched, face lifted.
“What’s happened to her? She’s been hurt?”
“I’m sorry to inform you Chanel Rylan was killed tonight.”
“But no.” Going as pale as her hair, Annalisa braced a hand on the desk, slowly lowered into a folding chair. “No, she’s … An accident?”
“No, not an accident.”
“I … A moment, please.” She clasped her hands in her lap, shut her eyes. “I’m rude,” she managed. “Please sit down. Please sit.”
“Could I get you some water, Ms. Bacardo?”
“Annalisa,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “I’m Annalisa. There is wine over there. I would very much thank you for bringing me a glass of wine.”
She sat in silence until Peabody touched her hand, put a glass of wine in it.
“Thank you.” She sipped, sipped again. “They’re my children, my family. Some will only perform here, in this happy place. Some will go on to more, to much more. They’re my family. Please tell me what happened to her.”
“She was killed tonight at the Vid Galaxy, Times Square.”
“You have the murderer?”
“Not at this time.”
“You must.” Those tiger eyes went bright and hard. “You must find and punish who did this. She was sweet and smart and talented. She brought joy. Those who would kill one who brings joy have no place in the world. What can I do to help you put him away from the world?”