Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(37)

Interesting, Eve thought, that K.T.’d kept her father’s last name. Interesting she appeared to have inherited or chosen—who the hell knew—his bent for pissed-off violence enhanced by too much alcohol.

She scrolled through school records. Average student with some disciplinary issues. No extracurricular activities until the age of fourteen when she’d hooked up with the theater program at her school.

“And look here,” Eve murmured. Harris had racked up a string of DUIs by the time she’d been twenty-two, and had her license revoked. Like father, daughter had completed a substance abuse program.

By eighteen, Harris had left Iowa for New LA. Had a couple brushes in addition to the DUIs for assault—charges dropped in both cases. Another for D&D—fine paid, rehab program completed.

Didn’t take, Eve thought, and remembered the face, the voice, the grief of Piper Van Horn when she’d contacted the woman to tell her K.T. was dead.

The mother grieved, she thought. Most of them did. Not all, but most. Her own hadn’t given the child she’d birthed, abused, and abandoned to a monster a second thought. Hadn’t even recognized her when they’d stood face-to-face.

Doesn’t apply, she reminded herself. Think of the victim. The more she understood the victim, the better chance she had of understanding the killer.

What she saw here was a woman who’d grown up with violence and anger, one who looked to have found escape or pleasure in acting, but who’d continued that anger/violence cycle to her own death.

Why? Eve wondered. And did why matter, really?

She swiveled around to her board. Had the victim known something about one or more of the cast and crew? Something she’d threatened the killer with, some sort of exposure—a career-damaging embarrassment?

Or had she just pushed somebody too hard for too long?

She swiveled back to read an incoming from the lab.

“Dallas?” Peabody stood in the doorway.

“Zoner mixed with the herbals—almost fifty-fifty.”

“Jeez, between that and the wine, she didn’t need the knock on the head to pass out.”

“Pretty sure bet once she went down, she didn’t get back up. Blood trace on the recovered pieces of burned rag. Vic’s blood. Only vic’s DNA on the butts recovered on scene. Drag marks on the heels consistent with skirting material and pattern.”

“That’s pretty quick work.”

“For a change. Let’s keep the zoner on the QT for now, see if anybody mentions that area of her habit.”

“Yes, sir. Carmichael’s bringing Andrea up.”

“Good.” Eve kept her eyes on the data. “Let’s give her a few minutes to settle in.”

One at a time, she told herself. They’d scrape away at some of that Hollywood polish and find out what was under it.

The more she learned about Harris, the less she liked her. But that didn’t make the dead less hers.

8

DRESSED IN TRAFF IC-STOPPING RED, HER HAIR in glinting gold waves rather than Mira’s subtle sable, Andrea Smythe sat at the scarred table in Interview. She wore bold black hoops at her ears and a sparkle of black stones forming an elongated heart at the hollow of her throat.

She tipped her head with a smile when Eve and Peabody entered.

“It’s satisfying to know our set designer was so accurate. This looks very much like what we’re using.”

“Not much to design,” Eve commented. “Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering Interview with Smythe, Andrea, on the matter of Harris, K.T. Case number H-58091.”

“So formal.”

“It’s not black-tie, but we take murder pretty seriously around here. We appreciate you coming in.”

“It seemed the wise choice, given the circumstances.”

“You’ve already been informed of your rights and obligations. Do you need me to read them to you again?”

“No. I have an excellent memory.”

“That should help.” Both Eve and Peabody took their seats. “Do you have anything to add to your statements from last night? Any corrections or changes to same?”

“No.”

“Would you like anything before we get started?” Peabody asked her. “Coffee? A soft drink?”

Andrea smiled again. “You’re to put me at ease while your lieutenant keeps me on edge. It’s a good rhythm. I think Marlo and K.T. captured it well for the camera. Not perfectly, but very well. I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”

“This isn’t a scene,” Eve reminded her. “There’s no script. And the body is very real.”

“I’m aware. Should I have played the part?” Andrea lifted her shoulders. “Worn mourning black, put on my solemn face? I could call up a tear or two. But black’s not my best color, and it’s no secret K.T. and I weren’t close. I’m sorry she’s dead. I’m sorry, philosophically, that death is part of life, and I think—outside fiction—murder is a f**king coward’s game. A selfish, self-serving f**king coward’s game. Other than that, her death means little to me.”

“Inconvenient though, isn’t it? Given the shooting hasn’t wrapped?”

Andrea lifted her shoulders again, crossed her legs. “Her scenes were nearly done, and Roundtree will find a way to work around her. He’s a brilliant and innovative director.”