He nodded as he ate. “And again, but?”
“There had to be countless, less risky ways to kill her. She’s a night creature, right? Either coming out of the theater after a performance at night, or from the restaurant. Walking home from the restaurant after shift, from the theater after a show. Grab her, stab her, and book it. But this was dramatic, right? And really risky. And it depended on everything falling into place.”
“Which it seems to have done.”
“Yeah.” She stabbed at another meatball. “But. What if somebody decides to sit beside the killer? What if the friend decides to ignore the call, even for a few minutes? What if somebody else walks out at the same time as the killer? If you’re going to plan as well as he or she did, those are risks that have to be weighed in. So why go to all that trouble, take all that time to find that moment, when there are easier ways?”
“The killer enjoys or craves the risk and the drama?”
“Maybe, yeah, and I’ve got to tug on that. And maybe the method, the precision of it, the moment of it, were all as specific as the victim. Maybe, shit, maybe they had sex during that scene sometime in the past. And it meant more to him or her than it did to the victim. Maybe he’d seen her in that theater before, and something she said, did, the way she looked triggered something.”
“How long before the showing are the layout of vids announced?”
Sitting back for a moment, she picked up her wine, lifted the glass toward him. “That’s a good question, Mister Civilian. Three months. They set the classic vids up three months ahead, advertise them in-theater and online. And before you ask, the victim and her friend had a routine, and going to that vid, on that night fell right into it. Plus both of them blasted it on their social media feeds. ‘Going to Psycho with my bestie.’ ‘Girls’ night at the Bates Motel.’ I’ll never understand why people do that stupid shit, but they do.”
Eve paused, ate a little more. “She’s coming across as a decent human being, one who enjoyed her life, her work, had a nice circle of casual friends—and that bestie. He ended that, and so far, while the method says she was a target, nothing’s popping to show why.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I’m not sure there’s much at this stage with this one.”
“Throw me a bone.”
She sat back with her wine again, studied him as she sipped. “You could just go back to your book.”
“Or?”
On a half laugh she sipped again. “Okay, or. You could run the background on the ex, check any travel over the last couple days. Eliminate him or nudge him onto the list. Damien Forsythe, currently living and working in the Calgary area of Canada. He’s a regular on some series. The Enduring.”
“That’s simple enough. What’s on your agenda?”
“A deeper look into the vic. So far she’s not telling me much. Some basic checking on her friend, the pet clinic and staff, a few runs on staff at the restaurant, and the play, the other contenders, she was auditioning for.”
“That’s quite a bit.”
“Mostly just routine.”
“Well then, I’ll see to my assignment.” Rising, he looked back at the board. “Sometimes there’s just no logical reason.”
“But there’s always a reason.”
3
With a pot of black coffee, Eve settled into the work. Routine, yes, and some of it tedious. But routine mattered, demanded structure and direction, and tedium could lead to rewards.
Not so much this time, she thought as she worked her way through the life of Chanel Rylan.
Nothing stood out, nothing rang a bell. Other than a handful of traffic violations, including a minor accident, no injuries, prior to moving to New York, she had no bumps.
Slightly above average student—with stellar marks in drama, theater, dance, music. Starring roles in school plays, some community theater.
No medical issues that showed up on a standard run. No pregnancies, no rehab.
Financially, Eve mused, she’d done okay, and obviously wasn’t in it for the dough. Her outlay for clothes, rent, the voice, acting, and dancing lessons she continued ate up most of her income.
Eve shifted to Lola Kawaski.
Lola had two bumps—two arrests for protesting for animal rights. Currently, and for the past three years, she’d worked as one of the three rotating vets at Pet Care. Previously, she’d studied for her license and worked as a veterinary assistant at Pet Care.
So that showed either loyalty or an appreciation for routine.
Eve finished it out—financially the vet did better than the actress/waitress, but the vet sure wasn’t rolling in it—as Roarke came in.
He poured himself a mug of Eve’s coffee. “I sent the details on the ex to your file.”
“Give me a roundup.”
“His only bump—from your standpoint—along the way was a charge of drunk and disorderly. This after a bachelor party. He’s had a couple of high-profile romances since moving to Calgary—and also keeps a residence in New L.A. The romances might be quite sincere or the result of a publicity campaign. His star seems to be rising. He gets good reviews, gives clever interviews, and appears to have the respect of his current cast and crew.”
Roarke eased a hip onto a leg of her command center. “Not only hasn’t he traveled out of Canada in the last week or so, he was, at the time of your murder, in front of cameras, shooting a scene.”
“You didn’t get that from a run.”
“I didn’t, no. I got that when I noticed I’m acquainted with one of the producers on the series.”
“Aren’t you acquainted with everybody?”
“At times it seems as though. In any case,” he continued, “I tagged him up, chatted a bit. And was able to wind it around to how things were going on the set and so on.”
Eve nodded approval. “Better that way than direct. The ex is going to hear about it before much longer, but better to ease the info out without adding murder to it.”
“So I thought. When I asked, he mentioned they’d just wrapped a key scene only an hour before, one they’d worked on most of the day. I was treated to nearly a bloody play-by-play of the shoot, the setup, the technical challenges, and so on. And to the characters therein. Damien Forsythe’s character played an integral part in it.”
“He didn’t make sense anyway. We’ll cross him off. Thanks.”
With a shake of his head, Roarke drank more coffee. “You owe me thanks, as the man blathered on for twenty minutes.”
Eve shot a finger at him. “You asked for it.”
“I did. I can’t deny it. I’ll be a glutton for punishment and say give me someone else to run.”
Eve glanced down at her notes. “Annalisa Bacardo.”
On a frown, Roarke lowered his mug. “That name seems familiar.”
“You’re probably acquainted. She owns the restaurant where the vic worked. The singing waiter place.”
“Hmm, something. I can’t quite snag it up.” He rose, walked around to sit at her auxiliary unit. Seconds later, he leaned back. “Yes, of course.”
Eve picked up her coffee, smirked. “She’s a little old for you, ace.”
“Age means nothing to the heart.”
“Or the dick.”
“I’d be insulted for my dick if that weren’t completely true. However, in this case, I’ve never met the woman, much less had any part of my anatomy involved with her. I have heard of her.”
He swiveled his chair toward Eve, sat back a bit. “About thirty years ago, Annalisa Bacardo lit up Broadway. A genuine diva, multiple Tony Awards. Her name alone could make or break a play. Musicals were her forte, and she translated that talent to the screen a time or two, to exceptional reviews.”
“How come she’s not still lighting things up instead of running a restaurant?”
“She was involved personally and professionally with Justin Jackson, another towering talent. They didn’t always perform together, but when they did? Magic.” Roarke flicked his fingers in the air. “You can read about it if you like.”
“Just keep going.”
“They didn’t marry, but lived together, had a child together. A daughter,” he said, glancing at the screen to corroborate his memory. “When the child was about three, and Annalisa was in rehearsals for a new production, Justin walked the girl to the park. On the way, a car jumped the curb, struck both of them. Killed both of them.”
“Ah, Jesus.”
“She hasn’t performed since, that I know of. I didn’t realize she owned Broadway Babies.” Curious, he did another search. “She owns it under the name Lost Angels.”
“She said the staff were her children,” Eve remembered, “her family, and I guess they are. I’ve confirmed she was in the restaurant at the time of the murder, but this gives me a better sense of her.”
Sitting back, Eve scanned the screen, picked up her coffee. Then with a hiss, swiveled to face Roarke. “I’m getting nothing from any connections, from anybody who’d be connected to a connection. Target specific.”
Eve pushed up and away to pace, to think on her feet. “All current evidence points there, and target specific generally equals personal. But it doesn’t feel personal. Not in method, not in background of vic. So, potentially, the victim represents a type, or was a surrogate. Mira territory.”
She paused by the board. “I need to talk to her. The vid. Was that just luck of the draw, or also specific? The research into the victim could have started back when the schedule of vids was announced. The vid becomes the trigger, but then, if so, how does the killer latch onto Rylan in the first place?”
Roarke waited a beat to determine if she had asked the question to herself or to him. Decided it was both. “I imagine there’s a subscription service.”
“A what?”