Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(90)

“Oh, well, I asked if I could have a copy of the setup, the schedule, and so on. So I could sort of practice, sort of get the feel for it. It’s my first time,” she said defensively.

“If the information wasn’t so useful, I’d pity you. Run me through it.”

“Okay. They’ll let our limo through this block for the drop-off at the main entrance. People who want to catch a glimpse, try for autographs, take their own vids, they’ll be behind barricades in these areas. The publicist thinks high volume there because the lead actors are A-list, the story’s New York, we’re New York, and because K. T. Harris was murdered during the filming. The house will be filled—SRO—invite only, but they issued a lot of VIP tickets. There’ll be security for the producers, personal security, theater security, and an NYPSD presence.”

“More than they know,” Eve murmured.

“So, we get dropped here, and the red carpet goes right from the curb, down this way. At this point the media—those who obtained passes—can line up to take vids, stills, ask questions, try for quick interviews. And that goes all the way into the theater lobby.”

“It’s a big one,” Eve commented, studying the layout.

“Yeah. McNab and I went there a couple weeks ago to scope it out. It’s not one of your standard vid houses. It’s like a palace. It has two full bars, and a little café, and—”

“We’ll get to all that.”

“Well, there’ll be more media in the lobby. It’s like a pecking order. The schedule calls for us to be there by seven-fifteen so we can do the red carpet, talk to reporters, do this mix and mingle. Then we’ll have escorts take us to our seats. We’re down front because we’re V-VIPs.”

“Security at all exits? And in each section?”

“I didn’t ask about that—not knowing at the time somebody might try to kill me—but you have to figure it. They don’t want people trying to sneak in. And if you really have to pee, they’d want security nearby because the media’s allowed to stay in this smaller viewing room for the vid. If you want a drink or snack, each seat has an order plate. You key in what you want, they deliver it to you. No charge for us because—”

“V-VIPs. What happens when the vid’s finished?”

“We’re escorted out. Back out the main if we want, or either of these back exits.”

“Okay. Okay.”

She played it through her head as she walked back and forth in front of the screen. “He can’t wait until it’s over because he won’t be sure which way we’ll go. And he won’t want to wait. He could mix with the crowds behind the barricades, but unless he’s got something more lethal at that distance than a stunner, that’s not going to do the job. He’ll need to get close this time. Security or media, so it’s going to be security. Easier for him to blend there.”

She studied the screen, changed angles, zoomed in, enhanced, zoomed out.

“Finish the board,” she told Peabody. “I need to work this out.”

“If he hits us outside, he gets to do it in front of more people,” Peabody pointed out. “The public.”

“Yeah, that’s a factor. But inside gives him a better chance of coming in close, and from behind. Smaller space. All those celebrities and VIPs corralled in there, grabbing drinks, showing off for the cameras.”

She ordered the computer to give her an overlay of that sector, studied that, calculating the most likely escape route. Out of the theater, out of the area.

She routed the quickest, then routed what she considered the best. She’d run probabilities, but her instinct told her he’d go quickest. She didn’t think he was smart enough to see the advantage of the longer, less direct route.

As she began to see the structure of her operation in her head, she used one screen for exterior, one for interior of the theater.

She highlighted potential routes, added highlights to maintenance areas, security areas, offices, employees only. She studied the layout—rest rooms, viewing rooms, bars, café, vending area, food sale area, ticket sale area.

Mentally she placed cops on sectors, like chess pieces on a board.

She glanced over as the door opened, turned when Detective Yancy came in.

“Lieutenant. Baxter said you’d be in here. I’ve got your likeness. Sorry it took so long. Some wits need more time.” He offered her a printout and a disc.

Eve studied the image—the wide face, squared at the jaw; short, medium brown hair, buzzed at the crown; brown eyes heavily lidded, the slightly hooked nose, the more prominent top lip.

“How confident are you?”

“I think we’re close.”

Yancy slipped his hands into the pockets of comfortably worn jeans. “His overall impression was big, kind of surly, but he started to remember the details as we went along. It’s a strong face. It comes off surly,” Yancy added, “because that’s how the wit saw him. But the features, I think, are close.”

“Then we’ll go with it. Thanks.”

“No problem.” When he glanced at the board, his young, attractive face hardened as he scanned Jake Ingersol’s crime scene shot. “You’d have to be pretty damn surly to do that.”

“Yeah. I think he’s got an anger management problem.”