“Like a season buy—so many tickets purchased in advance—and a sign-up for tickets to ones slated to show.”
“Like season tickets for baseball. Shit.” She double-timed it back to her comp to run a search. Roarke beat her to it.
“Rylan belonged to the theater’s Golden Ticket rewards program.”
“Show-off.”
“We do what we do. Buy a package of twenty-five tickets per year, get one free, an automatic ten percent discount at concessions, a monthly newsletter, an assortment of benefits,” Roarke added.
“They probably split it, Rylan and Kawaski. I can verify that, but that’s what they did. So, the killer maybe buys the same package—I’m going to want to see the subscription list. Sees her there often enough to focus in on her. Maybe he makes a pass she deflects. But …” Tapping her fist on the workstation, she shook her head. “It wasn’t sexual. The killing wasn’t sexual so that doesn’t hold for me. The on-screen killing, that’s sexual. Killer spies on victim through peephole, enters when vic’s naked and vulnerable in the shower. Knife penetrates. A lot.”
“The on-screen murder provides the sexual component?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ll talk with Mira. To me, this was quick, nasty business. In the dark. The vic’s facing away, not toward. She’s fully dressed. The killer penetrates, yeah, but it’s one jab. On-screen it’s …”
Eve made a decent mimic of the shower scene’s repeated shriek while she mimed jabbing repeatedly with a knife.
“Murder usually makes sense,” she continued, “even if it turns out to be crazy, shit-house-rat sense. So far I’ve got a victim with no known enemies or bitter, even mildly annoyed exes, no big potful of money or influence, no apparent knowledge of some dastardly deed or connection thereto. No sexual component. But at the same time, the killer knew her or took the time, made the effort to learn her routine and habits, as well as the routine and habits of her roommate.
“She stands for something, someone,” Eve finished. “It’s all that makes crazy, shit-house-rat sense.”
“Then it seems to me you’ve shaken out quite a bit in a few hours.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m off base and the killer jerked off while anticipating the shower scene and the murder, then shot his wad of sexual component in his boxers when he jabbed the sharp into the base of Rylan’s skull.”
“That’s a visual I’d just as soon not have playing in my head.”
“Or”—Eve rose, circled the board again—“she’s up for a part. She’s beaten out others for parts before.”
“And lost out to others, I assume.”
“Yeah, but we’ll stick with beating out. It’s a circle, a community—though some likely come in, others likely give up—but you’d get to know each other. If you’re up for the same part, odds are you’ve been up against each other before. Her coworkers at the restaurant didn’t ring for me, at all, but they’ve been up for the same part over the years. Maybe someone had enough, or someone went desperate. Have to have this one or I’m finished. Have to have it or I can’t pay the rent, whatever. Have to have it. Not so much time or effort needed to learn the victim’s routine and habits, to get information on the roommate. You’re in the same club already.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait and see who got the part?”
Eyes on the board, on Chanel Rylan, Eve fisted her hands on her hips. “Desperate makes for crazy, shit-house-rat sense.”
“It’s impossible to disagree.”
“So I talk to her agent. I talk to whoever’s in charge of the auditions. And we see where there’s overlap. It wasn’t sex, a twisted version of love; it wasn’t rage; it wasn’t for financial gain, revenge, or, as far as it shows, to preserve a secret. It sure as hell wasn’t random. That leaves jealousy as the most likely motive.”
“What part was she up for?” Roarke wondered.
“Some new play. Second lead. Not even the headliner.”
Roarke rose, drew her in against him. “You’ll just keep circling the board and the same thought pattern. You can’t talk to anyone else until tomorrow, dig into it until. Let’s shut it down for the night.”
“Everyone I talked to who knew her liked her. But they’re actors, so they all know how to put on a show.”
He tapped a finger to the dent in her chin. “You’re a cop, and you excel at seeing through a show.”
“Yeah, and what I saw came off as real. People liked her. Still, somebody killed her—specifically—and more, did it in a way that involved unnecessary risks. Something’s missing.”
“If there is, you’ll find it. But not tonight.”
“No, not tonight.” She drew back to shut down, and abruptly remembered. “We’re Summerset-free.”
“And, since I’m sure you’re interested, he’s very much enjoying his winter break.”
“Yeah, great. We have to have sex.”
“Well now, if you insist.”
When he reached for her, she gave him a light shove back. “Not so fast, pal. I’ve got logistics to consider.”
“It’s all right. I remember how it’s done very well, and can walk you through it.”
“We’ll see who walks who where. I’ve got it. Count to thirty.”
He let out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“You want sex or not?”
Arching his eyebrows, his gaze locked on hers, he said, “One.”
She gave him a hot, noisy kiss, then jogged out of the room.
He counted it off as he shut down her machine, the fireplace, the lights, strolled into his own office to do the same.
When he hit thirty, he stepped into the hall, spotted one of her boots.
“Ha.” He walked to it, picked it up, continued in that direction. He found the second boot after a turn to the right.
Amused, he picked that up as well. “So she’s after a game.”
He’d play. He could, of course, simply ask the house system where she was, or call up the monitors and see for himself.
But that would be cheating.
He followed the trail, found her jacket on a doorknob. Though he recognized a ploy, he also understood the double bluff, so opened the door, ordered the lights.
No, they wouldn’t be making good use of the big gel bed in that particular guest room.
He put her jacket and the boots on a bench in the hall, continued on.
When he’d worked with architects and engineers on the design of the house, when he’d watched it built layer by layer, he hadn’t imagined himself wandering through it some night, following the trail of his wife’s stripped-off clothing.
And there a sock.
He paused to study a painting he’d stolen, oh, six or seven years before. A lonely hooded figure crossing a windswept moor under brooding skies. He’d taken it for his own collection, as it had pulled at him, that resolve, the loneliness, while his primary target of a small, exquisite Corot he’d sold for a very tidy fee.
Then he’d met his cop, his mate, the love of his life, and he’d arranged for the painting of the lonely figure to be “found” and returned to its owner.
Then he’d bought it, legitimately.
He’d done the same with the other bits and bites he’d still had inside the plump pies baked on the shady side of the line. Divested of them, given up those dark little thrills.
A small price to pay, he thought as he moved on, found the second sock, for the woman now leading him through the maze of his own home.
She never failed to fascinate, frustrate, and fulfill.
Doubling back, was she, he mused, spotting some loose credits she’d likely pulled out of her pocket. And he spotted a door open an inch or so, to lure him.
Sliding the credits into his own pocket, he moved on, as he knew the room to be linen storage for that section of the house.
Then doubled back himself, as he wouldn’t put it past her to decide they’d have sex in a bloody linen closet.
Apparently not, he thought, when all he found inside were linens.
The game took on fresh interest when he found her trousers tossed over the banister of a stairway leading up to the next floor.
Intrigued, he started up, mentally going over the floor plan.
Ballroom level. Sitting rooms, baths, a staging area for catering, storage, a small, efficient kitchen and butler’s pantry—again for catering—another separate area for any staff hired for a party to break or gather, another storage area, a game room.
The ballroom, of course.
He found her shirt hanging over the door of one of the sitting rooms, considered, and decided that after the hunt, a sitting room ranked very low on the scale.
Then turned the other way.
He found her pocket debris—the lockpicks he’d given her, her pocketknife, her communicator, her ’link, even her badge—all together on the hunt table outside the wide doorway, and stepped inside the ballroom.
She sat in the shadowy light, perched on the arm of one of the sofas.
“I wasn’t wearing enough to cover the house,” she said. “Next time I’ll have to gear up.”
“You managed to cover considerable ground, nonetheless. Lights on, ten percent.”
The grand chandeliers overhead flickered on, soft, quiet light.
She wore her white support tank, her simple white panties. And her weapon harness. Long, long legs, tousled hair, a smug, smug smile. Was it a wonder he went hard as rock instantly?
“I’ve never been up here when there hasn’t been a party or the prep for one. How come you have furniture in here when nothing’s going on?”
“Something’s about to.”
She grinned at him. “That’s a point, a good point.”
“And so you come to the only area of the house without an actual bed.”