Witness in Death (In Death #10)(99)

"Four now, three next month."

"All right, all right." Her head was starting to spin. "I'll work it out."

"Then we have a deal." He offered his hand, clasped hers.

"So, are we going to the beach?"

"We can do that. The Olympus Resort has a stunning man-made beach."

"Olympus." She blanched. "Off planet? I'm not going off planet. That's got to be a deal breaker."

"Deal's done. Buck up. Now, what's the favor?"

She sulked. It was a rare attitude for her, but she was damn good at it. "It's not even a big favor."

"You should've thought of that before you tried to scam me. You might have, if you'd had a decent breakfast instead of ice cream."

"How did you -- " She broke off, and the single word was a vicious hiss. "Summerset."

"Now, when a woman asks her husband for a favor, it's a lovely touch if she sits on his lap." He patted his knee.

"You won't have much of a lap if I break both your legs." Seriously annoyed, she sat on the counter. "Look, it's police business, and you always want to stick your nose in anyway. I'm giving you a chance."

"Now, there you are." Enjoying himself, he lifted a hand, palm up. "If you'd presented it that way initially, put me in the position of being given a favor rather than giving one, you wouldn't have made what you consider a poor deal. And you wouldn't be cross."

"I'm not cross. You know I hate when you say I'm cross. And before I forget, what's the deal with this Authorization One shit?"

"Did you buy something?" He handed her the rest of his coffee. "I must make a celebrational note on my calendar. Eve Dallas went shopping. Strike up the band."

She scowled off into space. "I was in a pretty good mood before I came in here."

"See, you're cross. As to Authorization One, what sense does it make for you to pay for products manufactured by one of my companies?"

"Next time I'm going to a competitor. If I can find one." She huffed out a breath, brought herself back on track. "I'm going to close the case today. I've worked it how to smoke out the killer, get a confession. It's roundabout," she murmured. "I have reasons not to take the straight line. I had to do a tap dance for Whitney to clear it. If it doesn't work..." She trailed off.

"What do you need?"

"To start, I need your theater. And I need you to help me script and produce a little performance."

An hour later. Eve was on her way to Central, and Roarke was making the first phone call.

In her office, Eve loaded the disc recording of the play in her computer. With her mind elsewhere, she barely noted how smoothly the disc was accepted, how clear the audio and video. When she ordered it to fast-forward to the final scene, it did so without a single bump.

There they were, she thought. Draco as Vole blithely confessing to a murder he could no longer be charged with. His face handsome, smug, as he drew Carly's hand, Diana's hand, through his arm.

And she stood by him, pretty and charming, with a loving smile.

Kenneth Stiles, the cantankerous and sly Sir Wilfred, stunned fury on his face, as the realization struck that he'd been used, exploited, manipulated. Eliza's fussy Miss Plimsoll standing beside him, outraged, her hands gripping the back of Kenneth's chair, and white to the knuckles.

Areena, the beautiful and multi-faceted Christine, who had sacrificed everything, risked prison, to save the one she loved.

Michael Proctor, merely a shadow, watching from the wings, wondering when he would step into the spotlight and into the role of murderer.

And hovering over all was the ghost of Anja Carvell.

Eve didn't flinch as she watched murder done, as the knife that should have been harmless plunged deep into the heart.

There, she thought and froze the screen. There it is.

Ten thousand witnesses would have missed it.

Hadn't she?

The performance of a lifetime, she realized. In death.

"End program," she ordered. "Eject disc."

She bagged it, gathered others. She engaged her office link for interdepartmental transmission. "Peabody, alert Feeney and McNab. We're moving out."

With a final check of her weapon, she prepared to begin a performance of her own.

Eve's driving, Mira observed from the backseat, was a mirror reflection of her personality. Competent, direct, focused. And fierce. As the car whipped through traffic, bulling into gaps, challenging other charging bumpers, Mira quietly checked the tension on her safety harness.

"You're taking a risk."

Eve gave a quick glance in the rearview, met Mira's eyes. "A calculated one."

"I believe..." Mira trailed off, found herself falling back into childhood prayers as Eve shot into sharp vertical, swung hard to the right, and skimmed crossways over jammed traffic.

"I believe," she continued when she had her breath back, "you've assessed the situation correctly. Still, there's a wide margin for error, which you could eradicate by adhering to strict procedure."

"If I'm wrong, it's on me. Either way, the person who killed Draco and Quim will be in custody by the end of day."

The car dove into an underground parking tunnel, barely slacking speed. It winged like an arrow from a bow toward a reserved slot. Mira's mouth came open, she made some small sound, as they roared toward the security barricade. Eve flipped down her visor to display her ID pass.