Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(3)

Dallas World.

Huh.

“Wouldn’t you know we’d catch one.” Peabody hustled up. “That was fun! And Preston—Preston Stykes, the assistant director—said I could do a cameo! They’re going to be shooting some street scenes next weekend, and I get to be a pedestrian—with a closeup, and maybe even a line. I bet I get a zit.” She patted a hand around her face, checking. “You always get a zit when you have a closeup.”

“Had many—closeups, not zits. I don’t want to know about your zits.”

“It’ll be my first.” She settled into the passenger seat while Eve got behind the wheel. “And tonight we get to hob with the nob at dinner. I’m having dinner with vid stars, with celebrities, at the swank Park Avenue residence of the hottest director in Hollywood, meeting the most powerful and respected producer—and founder of Big Bang Productions.” Peabody stopped checking for potential zits to press her hand to her belly. “I feel a little sick.”

“Then you can boot in the swank john of the hottest director in Hollywood.”

“He was looking for you, Roundtree. He was about to send a gofer to find you.”

“I was having the surreal experience of having myself show myself around my office and bullpen.”

“Oh! My desk. I could’ve sat at my desk. I could’ve sat at your desk.”

“No.”

“It’s a vid set.”

“Even then, no.”

“Mean. The other you is nice. I can call her Marlo. The other me is kind of a bitch.”

“There you go. Typecasting.”

“Funny, ha ha. Really, she talked to me for about thirty seconds, then brushed me off. And do you know what she said?”

“How can I know when I wasn’t there?”

“So, I’ll tell you.” Scowling out the windshield, Peabody stuck on her rainbow-lensed sunshades. “She said if Nadine’s book was an accurate portrayal, she suggests I take an assertive course. Otherwise I’m never going to be anything but an underling, or a sidekick at best. But with my subservient attitude I’d never be in charge.”

Eve felt a claw of annoyance scrape down the back of her neck. Her partner had been assertive enough to springboard the investigation and downfall of an organization of dirty cops.

“She isn’t kind of a bitch. She’s essentially a bitch. And you’re not an underling.”

“That’s right. I’m your partner, and okay, you’re my lieutenant, but that doesn’t make me some kiss-ass underling with a subservient attitude.”

“Following orders in the line isn’t subservient, it’s being a good cop. And you have a smart-ass attitude half the time.”

“Thanks. I didn’t like me very much.”

“I don’t like you a whole lot. Neither does the other me.”

“Now I’m confused.”

“Marlo and K.T. don’t like each other much. It shows when the camera’s not on them. Once the director called ‘Cut,’ they went separate ways, didn’t speak or look at each other until Marlo called K.T. over to you.”

“I guess I had Hollywood stars in my eyes because I didn’t notice. But you’re right. It must be rough to work with somebody so closely, have to pretend you like and respect each other, and you really don’t.”

“That’s why they call it acting.”

“Still. Oh, and I think the other me has a bigger ass.”

“No question about it.”

“Really?”

“Peabody, I didn’t actually look at her ass, and I rarely have occasion to look at yours. But I’m willing to say her ass is bigger if it makes you happy and we can stop talking about the Hollywood people.”

“Okay, but just one more thing. The other me is also a lying sack. She told me she had to go prep for her next scene, but when I cut across where the trailers are to get to the VIP lot, I saw her—and boy, I heard her. Banging on one of the trailer doors, yelling, ‘I know you’re in there, you bastard, and open the f**king door.’ Like that.”

“Whose trailer?”

“I don’t know, but she was pissed, and didn’t care who heard because there was crew milling around.”

“It’s like I’ve always said. You’re a bitch with a nasty temper and no class.”

Peabody sighed, smiled. “But not an underling.”

“With that settled,” Eve said as she pulled behind a black-and-white, “maybe we can check out this DB.”

“A visit to a vid set, a DB, and dinner with celebrities. It’s a really good day.”

Not for Cecil Silcock.

His day had ended early on the leopard-print tiles of his elaborate kitchen. He lay there, blood from the head wound running river to lake over the black-spotted gold. It made the floor look a little too much like a terminally wounded animal, in Eve’s opinion.

Cecil was definitely terminally wounded. Blood also soaked into the tissue-thin white cashmere robe he’d put on sometime before his head had made contact with a blunt object of some weight, then the unfortunately patterned tiles. From the gash down his forehead, Eve figured Cecil also made contact with the edge of the gold-topped black cooking island.