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“A little.”
“The understudy job pays enough to keep you current with your rent. You gamble, Mr. Proctor?”
“Oh, no. No, I don’t.”
“Just careless with money?”
“I don’t think so. I invest, you see. In myself
. Acting and voice lessons, body maintenance, enhancement treatments. They don’t come cheap, especially in the city. I suppose all that seems frivolous to you, Lieutenant, but it’s part of my craft. Tools of the trade. I was considering a part-time job to help defray the expenses.”
“No need to consider that now, is there? With Draco out of the way.”
“I suppose not.” He paused, considering it. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the time. It’ll be easier to—” He broke off, sucked in a breath. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s just that following your line of thinking, it takes some strain off my mind. I’m used to doing without money, Lieutenant. Whatever else, the theater’s lost one of its finest, and one of my personal idols. But I guess I’d feel better if I said—if I was honest and said—that there’s a part of me that’s thrilled to think that I’ll play Vole. Even temporarily.”
He sighed, long and loud, closed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I do feel better. I wish he’d just caught a cold, though.”
• • •
Eve’s head was throbbing lightly as she walked back up the steps to her car. “Nobody’s that naive,” she muttered. “Nobody’s that guileless.”
“He’s from Nebraska.” Peabody scanned her pocket unit.
“From where?”
“Nebraska.” Peabody waved a hand, vaguely west. “Farm boy. Done a lot of regional theater, some video, billboard ads, bit parts on-screen. He’s only been in New York three years.” She climbed into the car. “They still grow them pretty guileless in Nebraska. I think it’s all that soy and corn.”
“Whatever, he stays on the short list. His fee for walking into the part of Vole is a big step up from watching in the wings. He’s living like a transient in that dump. Money’s a motivator, and so’s ambition. He wanted to be Draco. What better way than to eliminate Draco?”
“I’ve got this idea.”
Eve glanced at her wrist unit to check the time as she zipped down into traffic. Goddamn press conference. “Which is?”
“Okay, it’s more of a theory.”
“Spill it.”
“If it’s good, can I get a soy dog?”
“Christ. What’s the theory?”
“So, they’re all actors in a play. A good actor slides into the character during the performance. Stays there. It’s all immediate, but another part of them is distant—gauging the performances, remembering the staging, picking up vibes from the audience and stuff like that. My theory is whoever switched the knives was performing.”
“Yeah, performing murder.”
“Sure, but this is like another level. They could be part of the play and watch it go down without actually doing the crime. The objective’s reached, and it’s all still a role. Even if it’s a tech who did it, it’s all part of the play. Vole’s dead. He’s supposed to be. The fact that Draco’s dead, too, just makes it all the more satisfying.”
Eve mulled it over, then pulled over at the next corner where a glide-cart smoked and sizzled.
“So it’s a good theory?”
“It’s decent. Get your soy dog.”
“You want anything?”
“Coffee, but not off that bug coach.”
Peabody sighed. “Wow, that sure stirs my appetite.” But she got out, beelined through the pedestrian traffic, and ordered the double wide soy dog and a mega tube of Diet Coke to convince herself she was watching her weight.
