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“Love of your life, jeez, Dallas. But see, you’re the love of his right back. This wasn’t the same way, because she threw him over for Draco. If you were to go insane and throw Roarke over for somebody, what do you think he’d do?”
“Before or after this somebody was no more than a smudge on the bottom of Roarke’s shoe?”
“See?” Pleased, Peabody grinned. “If you’ve got a love of your life, you know.” She paused, sniffed. “Something smells really good.”
“Just keep going,” Feeney ordered quickly. “If the theory is that Stiles was stuc
k on this Carvell woman, how does that change the picture?”
“Because you never get over the love of your life. That’s the whole definition, isn’t it? You only get one. So that bit about him losing touch with her was bull.”
“I like it. If we find that Stiles had some contact with the woman, we’ve got a motive that spans a quarter century. The setup suits him in both murders. He had opportunity.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Feeney reminded her.
“Yeah, but we pile on enough, we might finesse a confession out of him. Find the woman, Peabody. If you run into snags, hook up with McNab on it. Feeney, how do you feel about going to a splashy memorial service?”
“My wife loves it when I rub elbows with celebrities.”
“Peabody, we’re in the field.”
“Yes, sir.” She watched them head off, and had a sudden craving for a big, chunky salad.
• • •
Feeney’s wife was going to be delirious. Performers from every medium were in attendance. The service was held at Radio City. Though Draco had never performed there, its Art Deco glamour had just the right ambiance. Word was Draco’s agent had hired the top Mourner’s Association company to arrange the affair.
And as it was, technically, Draco’s last performance, he’d skimmed off 15 percent of the gross.
Enormous screens flickered with Draco in dozens of images. There was a holo-performance running on a side stage, with Draco in full costume, defending country and womankind with sword and fancy footwork.
For two hundred and fifty dollars a pop, a thousand lucky fans could attend. The rest were invited guests.
There were seas of flowers, islands of people in sophisticated black, streams of gawkers who, despite the posted request, were busy immortalizing the event on disc.
On the main stage, atop a white pedestal, was Draco himself, resting in a coffin of pale blue glass.
“Hell of a show.”
Eve just shook her head. “They’re selling souvenirs. Did you see? Little Draco dolls, T-shirts.”
“There’s nothing like free enterprise,” Roarke said from behind her. She turned, eyed him up and down.
“Why are you here?”
“Lieutenant, have you forgotten? The deceased met his end while starring in a play in my theater. How could I stay away? Besides…” He patted the pocket of his elegant suit. “I got an invitation.”
“I thought you had meetings all day.”
“The advantage of being in charge…is being in charge. I took an hour.” With his hand lightly on her shoulder, he scanned the crowd, the lights, the screens. “Appalling, isn’t it?”
“And then some. Feeney, let’s split up, see what we see. I’ll meet you at the main entrance, one hour.”
“You got it.” He spotted several faces he knew from on-screen and a banquet table. No reason he couldn’t see what he saw with his mouth full.
“Roarke, if I ditched you twenty-five years ago, would you still be hung up about it?”
He smiled, caressed her hair. “Difficult to say, as I’d have spent that time hounding you and making your life a living hell.”
