She looked like a woman in mourning, Eve thought. Beautiful, tragic, resigned. She’d pulled her hair back so what were likely wild and wonderful ebony curls were restrained by a clip at the nape of her neck.
She wore black—a simple sweater and pants, with the pants tucked into knee-boots. Her eyes, a molten brown, showed signs of recent tears however clever the enhancements.
Neville hurried to her, gathered her in with an almost painful tenderness. Eve saw Rosa nod as he whispered to her.
“I’m all right. I wanted to come.”
Before she drew away, someone called her name, came to the door.
“Rosa! Hey.” Then he stopped, zeroed in on Eve. “Cops?”
As he spoke, the man touched a hand briefly to Rosa’s shoulder, then flanked her. “Why are the Icove cops here?” he demanded, shaking his head at Neville’s blank look. “Dallas and Peabody, Nev. The Icove cops.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I was distracted, didn’t put it together. My partner, Kyle Knightly. There’s been another, Kyle.”
“Another … goddamn it. Sorry, sorry, Rosie.” Kyle shoved at his dark blond hair, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not right now. We’ll talk later, all right?”
“Sure. I’ll be in my corner. I’m always in yours.”
With a last resentful look for Eve, he stepped out, shut the door.
“Let’s sit down, Rosa. I’ll get you some tea.”
“Tea would be good. I’d like some tea.” Rosa sat, rubbed her wedding ring. “I don’t want to say it all again. I don’t want to say again what he did.”
“Okay. I’d like to ask you if, looking back now, there was anyone who made you feel uncomfortable. Anyone who said or did anything, however minor, you felt inappropriate?”
“No. I answered that before. It wasn’t someone I knew.” She said it quickly, almost desperately. “It was a stranger.”
“Mrs. Patrick, there are similarities in all three attacks. Not only what was done, but who it was done to. We believe there’s a reason for that.”
“The second couple, they—they were older than we are, and married longer. And they didn’t live in our neighborhood or…”
“Mrs. Patrick.” Peabody interrupted gently. “We see a pattern, and that’s a good thing. That’s something we can use to identify him, to stop him, to put him away where he can’t hurt anyone else. If we can help you see the pattern we do, you might think of something that gives us another piece.”
“I didn’t know him. His face was white, like the dead, and his eyes were black, and the light in the room was dim and gray.”
She took the tea Neville brought her, but the cup rattled in the saucer, and she set it down.
“We’re not going to ask you about the specifics of the attack,” Eve told her. “The pattern, as my partner pointed out, is important. It’s what we want you to think about. It may be someone you met in passing, or your husband met, someone who did some work for you, or was involved with one of your projects, your charities. As far as we can ascertain, you were the first couple attacked. We need to figure out why. Why you were first, how you were targeted.”
“Sometimes a man might flirt a little, but nothing like you mean. It’s like—you know, Neville—Boris always asks when I’m going to leave you and run away with him. Boris is gay. He’s just being charming. And Micah, he’s one of the show runners for At Sea, he used to say we should be each other’s hall pass. That means…”
“I know,” Eve said.
“He doesn’t say it now, after this.” Pausing, she pressed her lips together, hard. “People act differently now. But Micah, I mean to say, has been with Kate for ten years. They have two children. He’s just flirting. Or was.”
“I love that show.” Peabody smiled. “At Sea. It always makes me laugh, and sometimes a laugh is the best part of a day. Does he work here, in the building?”
“He’s been with At Sea since the beginning. He works here and at home.”
“What about people who perform, who do makeup, costumes?”
“I know everyone who works in the studio.” Neville sat beside Rosa. “Rosa knows most.”
“Anyone you’ve had to let go in the last year?”
“No one. There are some who come on, of course, for a specific production, and that’s a limited time frame. We’re relatively small, privately owned. It’s almost a family at the core.”
“Mrs. Patrick, you’ve used Jacko’s Catering, correct?”
“On Screen’s used them, and I recommended them to a friend who was in charge of that area for a fund-raiser. She used them personally after that.”
“How long ago did you recommend them?”
“Last year, I think … Yes, it would’ve been around this time last year for a fund-raiser we were doing in March. She had food and beverage, I was flowers and decor. They were very good, and she used them for a dinner party later. We—I—we haven’t done much socializing since the summer, so I can’t say if she’s used them again.”
“How about Loan Star Rentals?”
“Several committees I’ve been on use Loan Star. They’re reliable and have a diverse catalog. I don’t understand.”
“It’s details, that’s all,” Eve said easily. “Every detail can matter. Could I have the name of the friend who worked with Jacko’s?”
“Marlene Dressler.”
“Did you have much interaction with the staff of either company?”
“Some, but Marlene’s so efficient. And the rental company, I wouldn’t have been in charge there, either. I’d have helped with the setup if I was around. You think someone from one of those vendors—”
“We’re going to look at everything, everyone. St. Andrew’s Hospital.”
“I chaired a committee for two of their fund-raisers, and have served on the committee for others.”
“Who did you work with, from the hospital?”
“Oh, the first was more than two years ago.” As she rubbed her temple, Rosa looked a little lost. “At least two. I don’t— Wait, I do remember. It was for the pediatric wing. I worked with Daphne Strazza. Her husband’s a surgeon there. I liked her so much.”
“So you’ve kept in touch?” Eve prompted.
“Actually, no. We had lunch a couple of times, then, well, she could never make it. Then Neville and I got engaged, and there were wedding plans, and finding a home. We lost contact.”
“Happens,” Eve said. “You haven’t seen or spoken to her in a while?”
“At least a year. Probably more. When the committee contacted me again for the annual event, I asked, and they told me she wasn’t involved any longer. It’s a shame. Some people have a knack for this kind of work. I thought she did.”
“Did she ever come here?”
“No.” Frowning, Rosa picked up her tea. Her hands had steadied. “We wouldn’t have had any reason to. We met at the hospital, or at my home or hers. And a couple of times in a restaurant. There were twenty or so of us involved in the project. We were cochairs that year, so we talked and met more often.”
“Can you give me the names of the others on that committee?”
“I’d need to check my book on it. I don’t remember everyone. It was two years ago, more. And I used to do a lot of this sort of work. I haven’t been as involved since…”
“Why?” Neville spoke up. “Why does this matter?”
“It’s been released to the media, and reported by same, so I’m able to tell you that Daphne Strazza and her husband were assaulted in their home Saturday night. We believe by the same individual who assaulted you and the Brinkmans.”
“Daphne?” Shock and sympathy echoed as Rosa clutched at Neville’s hand. “Like us?”
“Yes. She was more severely injured, physically, but is recovering. Her husband was killed during the assault.”
Color leached from Rosa’s face. “He’s dead?”
“This individual is escalating. Let me say that I believe, absolutely, he’s done with you. He has no reason to ever come back. And what you’ve been able to tell us here gives us that other piece. You’re going to have helped us find him.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t her husband who hurt her?”
Eve kept her eyes and voice cool even as the bell rang in her head. “What do you mean?”
Rosa picked up the neglected tea again. Her fingers trembled, that steadiness fleeting, but she drank. “I’ve worked with abused women. Not as a counselor, I’m not trained. But I’ve done work in shelters. I recognized signs. I know I’m not a therapist or a professional, but I know. If she wasn’t physically abused by her husband, she was emotionally abused. I know she was afraid of him. I saw it.”
You’re not the only one, Eve thought.
“We have no evidence supporting the suggestion Dr. Strazza assaulted or raped his wife on the night of this incident. I’m not doubting your instincts or observations, Mrs. Patrick. But Anthony Strazza was, as was Daphne, attacked by an intruder.”
For a moment, Rosa turned her face into Neville’s shoulder. Then she straightened her own, sat straight. “Can you tell me where she is?”
“I can’t release that information.”
Rosa nodded. “Would you tell her if she wants to talk to me or see me, to contact me. It helps. Lori and I have been talking. Lori Brinkman. I know it can help.”
“I can do that. I will do that. She could use a strong shoulder.”
“I’m not strong.”
“You’re wrong,” Eve said as she rose. “You came here, you asked to help someone who needs help. You’re no weak sister, Mrs. Patrick, and he can’t make you one.”
* * *
When Eve and Peabody stepped out, Eve saw Kyle Knightly leaning against a doorway, talking to someone inside the office and clearly waiting for her to come out of Neville’s.
He shot a finger at whomever he spoke with, started toward her.
“I’m going to take this. Find wherever they do the makeup, the costumes, see what you can find out.”
“I got that. More fun than you’ll have,” Peabody added as she veered off.
Eve walked up to meet Kyle. “Mr. Knightly. Problem?”
“You could say that.” He looked down the long corridor toward Neville’s closed door. “Neville and Rosa are just starting to come out of this nightmare, and now you’re in there going at them. I don’t want to see them twisted up again.”
“Understandable.” She noted people wandering about, loitering—and obviously hoping for a tidbit. “Maybe we can talk about that, somewhere private.”
“Sure.”
He gestured, began to lead the way. Another open area with casually dressed people at comps or in huddles. A few called out his name, or hopped up to start toward him.
He signaled them off, addressed a few.
“I’ll be back around, Jen. I really need to see that report, Bry.”
They moved into a small reception area where a man in a turtleneck and jeans manned a workstation.
“Hey, Kyle,” he began. “Myra Addams from SAR wants a ’link meet about—”
“I need a few, Barry.”
With that he walked into his office, closed the door behind Eve.
Neville had the corner spot, but Kyle’s office boasted almost twice the space. Vid posters lined the walls, mementos and what she took for awards crowded shelves. His workstation, a wide semicircle of slate gray, faced the far wall and its enormous screen.
He gestured her to a chair, walked to a bar area, opened its cold box. “Got your Pepsi. Neville and I share an addiction. You want?”
“Sure.”
“Need a glass?”
“Tube’s fine.”
He brought two over, dropped into the facing chair in the sitting area, cracked both. “I get you’re doing your job.” He handed her one of the tubes.
“I get you’re protective of your partner and his wife. I take it you go back.”
“All the way back. Neville and I are cousins. Our mothers are sisters.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. His mom did the exchange-student thing, fell for London, and up and moved there when she was like eighteen. Went to college—well, university, got married. Neville’s dad lost his first wife—car wreck. Anyway, we’d go over and visit them, they’d come here. I spent some summers there. Nev and I, we loved the vids. His dad’s a director so we’d get to go on set. Anyway, we started planning when we were kids how we’d start up our own production company, our own studio.”
“And now you have.”
“We made it happen.” Kyle leaned forward. “I’m saying this, laying it out so you’ll understand. Nev’s not just my partner, he’s my family. My best friend. What happened to him and Rosa…”
He sat back again, gulped from his tube, stared hard at the wall. “If I caught the bastard who did this—”
“That’s my job.”
“Yeah?” His eyes locked on hers. “It’s been seven months. I haven’t seen you getting the job done.”
“You will,” she said simply. “Your cousin suggested I ask you about a couple of vendors you’ve used professionally. Jacko’s Catering, Lone Star Rentals.”
“You having a party? Sorry,” he said quickly, and rubbed his temple. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’m just pissed off. Rosie looks so damn fragile.”
“You’re close to Rosa, too?”
“She’s family. Hell, I was with Nev the first time he laid eyes on her. I told him then and there to make a move, but she was with somebody else, and Nev’s no poacher. Worked out, though. Anyway.” He shook his head. “We’ve used Jacko’s—office parties, a couple of private screenings. Same with Loan Star. What’s that have to do with what happened to my family?”
“Dotting i’s. Have you used either personally?”
“Rented from Loan Star once … maybe twice? I used Jacko’s once. Basically, I don’t do a lot of entertaining at home. I’m more the wine-and-dine guy—pick a restaurant or club that fits the guest, pull out the stops.”
“I’m sure it’s in the file, but could you tell me where you were when your cousin and his wife were attacked?”
“Yeah, the other cops checked it out so I don’t have to look it up.” His jaw tightened, then he visibly relaxed it. “I know you have to ask, but it’s still insulting. I had a dinner meeting—a director we wanted to pull onto a project, his wife, the female lead we’d signed, the male lead and his date. It went from about seven-thirty until about ten. Got the director,” he added with a smile. “I went home, settled in with a stack of potential project reports.”
“Did you see or speak to anyone?”
“Nobody but the house droid. I had it bring me warm cookies and a vanilla shake about midnight. It’s a weakness. I’d already gone to bed when I got the tag from Detective Olsen. It was about three A.M. I went straight to the hospital.”
He pushed up, walked to his windows, circled the room. “Sorry, it still gets me right in the gut. Seeing them that way. Nothing like that, nothing has ever happened to somebody I love. We make vids with some nasty shit, but that’s make-believe. It’s not real. All the director says is ‘Cut,’ and it’s done. I don’t know if this will ever be.
“This monster took their lives—their everyday lives, their normalcy. How do they ever get that back?”
“Knowing the person who did this is locked in a cage can be a good step toward that.”
Kyle came back, dropped into the chair again. “Whatever I can do to help put him there, consider it done.”
“You make a lot of the vids here?”
“In New York? Yeah, we have our own studio. Neville and I built the company on the idea of starting small, being self-sufficient. We’ve got the studio right here, and now another soundstage in Brooklyn. Our team of scouts, production teams, our own writers for original productions and series.”
“Makeup, costumes.”
“Sure. Our girl copped an Emmy, two years running now, for makeup in an original series. Planet Plague. Christ, don’t cops watch screen?”
“I’ve been known to.”
“Planet Plague’s the number one original series, two years running. Zombie apocalypse never goes out of style.” He jerked a thumb behind him at one of the posters, depicting a tough but beautiful woman, armed with a crossbow, and a hard-bitten yet handsome man with a katana surrounded by what certainly looked like walking corpses.
“Last year, it took makeup, original score, best guest appearance, and capped it off with best actor, original series.”
“Nice.”
“Oh, yeah. Awards aren’t just shiny, they can translate into ratings and funds, and ratings and funds translate into more creative productions. And don’t get me started.”
On a half laugh he swiped a hand in the air. “We’re building something solid. We’re doing what we always dreamed of doing. Neville’s been shattered and shaken, and he’s just coming back. It’s been a hard road. Having him hit, seeing Rosa hit, with more cops, more questions, it can’t help him.”
“Reality doesn’t wrap up when the director says cut, or the screen goes to black, Mr. Knightly. What you do may give people a break from reality, and that’s all good. But we’ve got to come back to it.”
She pushed to her feet. “I appreciate your time, understand your concerns. Now we both better get back to doing our jobs.”
He rose with her. “We put in a bid on the Icove project.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Nadine Furst’s book. We tried to get the rights to it, but it was above our reach. Congrats on the Oscar noms.”
“Okay.”
“They announced them this morning. It’s up for seven Oscars—best actress, best supporting actor, best director, best adapted screenplay, best editing, best sound, and the holy grail of best picture. You didn’t hear?”
“I’m a cop, Mr. Knightly.”
“Kyle. And you’re the Icove cop.”
“No, I’m the NYPSD cop.”
She stepped out, headed in the direction of the main reception, tagging Peabody as she walked.
“Where are you?”
“One floor up in Makeup. Jesus, Dallas, I met Adrianna Leo. I talked to her while she was getting hair and makeup for a scene. Then Joe P. Foxx just strolled right in, and I could’ve passed out!”
“Do I have to come up there?”
“What? No, I covered it.”
“And your face? What’s on your face?”
“Um. Makeup.”
“Get your made-up face down to the garage.” Eve clicked off, reminding herself she’d been the one who sent Peabody into the damn candy store.
She rode down on the elevator, ignoring other passengers who seemed buzzed on Oscar talk, until one of the women stared at her.
The woman’s eyes popped. “Oh my God, you’re Marlo Durn!”
“No, I’m not.”
Obviously undeterred, the woman continued to chatter while digging in her rhino-sized bag. “Oh, I’m such a fan. I just have to have a picture with you.”
“I’m not Marlo Durn.”
’Link already in hand, the woman frowned at her. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“You could so be her stand-in for The Icove Agenda. I mean you look just like her Eve Dallas character. Are you her stand-in?”
“No.”
Eve escaped the elevator, took another down to the garage.
She got in the car, began a run on Kyle Knightly. And sent Peabody a long stare when her partner climbed in.
“Why do you have blue eyelashes?”
“They make my eyes pop, and it’s just a hint of blue. Mags gave me a professional daytime look.”
“That’s so special.”
“It was for me,” Peabody muttered. “Plus I got to meet one of my favorite screen stars, and interview two of the top studio makeup artists. One of them also does the specialty work—like on Planet Plague.”
“Zombies.”
“Yeah, I love that show. Scares the crap out of me, but I love it. They have everything our UNSUB would need, right in studio. I’ve got a handful of names to run. Plus, Mags’s good friend Uma in Wardrobe half dated Hugh—Jacko’s nephew—a few months ago.”
“Half dated?”
“They went out a couple of times, but it didn’t click. She clicked more with his friend Anson—bartender at Jacko’s—and they’re semi-dating now.”
Eve concluded semi-dating was more serious than half dating. “Maybe it was worth the blue lashes.”
“I’m buying this lash color, you can bet on it. And did you hear? Our vid’s up for major Oscars!”
“Peabody.”
“It’s mega, Dallas. Nadine has to be zooming out of orbit. She could win a fricking Oscar. I’ve got to text her.”
“Peabody.”
“Later. I’ll text her later. Run the names now.”
“Good plan.”
“It was exciting, sitting there getting my makeup done right next to Adrianna Leo, and she was really nice. Mags said she’s total earth. Just like Wendy Rush is a total bitch—and she always plays a sweet thing, but she’s completely not. And how Joe P. Foxx is not only frosted cream, but is always showing off pictures and little vids of his kids. Devoted family guy, which makes him frostier.”
“Mags likes to gossip.”
“Which is how I got the data on the wardrobe pal dating two of Jacko’s crew, and a lot of info on makeup, who does what, where they get it, how accessible it is. Mags is strictly in studio, but they have several artists who work location shoots or travel with the crew for exterior shots. Some are freelance and move from project to project, company to company, but some are contracted to On Screen.”
Peabody shook her head as she studied her handheld. “And my top choice isn’t going to fit. Mags said this Max Bloombaum was the ace at monster makeup and prosthetics, which is why they contracted him to create the makeup for Planet Plague. He’s sixty-three, height six-two, married, three kids, two grandkids.”
“Too tall, too settled for the profile. Finish my run on Kyle Knightly.”
“Does he ring for you?”
“He’s connected to the first vics, has used the caterer and the rental company, has access to the necessary makeups and effects. His alibi is a house droid.”
Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel. “He comes off as sincere, concerned, emotionally attached to the Patricks. But he runs about five-eight, knows their house, would easily know their plans. Not married, lives alone.”
“I’m on it— Wait.” She switched to her ’link. “Detective Peabody. Yes, Mr. Brinkman, thanks for getting back to me. That would be fine. We’ll come to you now. Yes, sir, we will. Thank you.”
Leaning forward, Peabody programmed the Brinkmans’ address in the in-dash. “They’re home now, ready to talk to us.”
Eve took the next turn and headed uptown.
“Knightly, Kyle,” Peabody read. “Caucasian, age thirty-one, height five-eight and a quarter, weight one-fifty-two. Born Greenwich, Connecticut, to Lorinda Mercer and Quentin Knightly, no sibs. Good education,” she added. “Private schools, prep schools, majored in cinema art and science—at Juilliard, two years, with another two in London. No marriage, no cohabs on record. Got a few minor producing credits—England, France, New L.A. Formed On Screen Productions with Neville Patrick (cousin) in 2055. Some links here to various articles on that.”
“Later.”
“Their first production was a low-rated but critically acclaimed home-screen series, Urbanites, canceled after its first season. Several other productions, more successful, also listed. No criminal that shows. Net worth estimated at sixteen-point-five million—that’s personal. Company is estimated at just under five hundred million, largely due to the success of Planet Plague, At Sea, and the big-screen production of Camelot Down. Do you want me to dig deeper?”
“Not now. Run the others on your list. And we’ll see if the Brinkmans bring any of this into focus.”