“So he objects?”
“Disapproves. Worries. I tried to switch to herbals as he’s not as rabid about those, but hell. It’s not the same.”
“Anyone else? Smoke or object to it?”
“Andi will bum a drag now and then, either from me or off an herbal. A lot of the crew sneak off for an herbal during breaks. Roundtree designated an area for them, though the studio wouldn’t approve. And Joel pitched a fit.”
Inside, Eve smiled. “Did he?”
“He’s the smoking gestapo.” She straightened again, rolled her eyes dramatically. “I swear, he can tell if you’ve had a single puff an hour before from a half mile away.” She made sniffing sounds, lowered her brows, roughened her voice, and did a dead-on mimic of Steinburger. “Who’s been smoking! I won’t be exposed to it. Preston! Valerie! Get this place aired out, right now!” She made hacking noises, covered her mouth with her forearm. “Somebody get me a lozenge and some spring water!”
Then she laughed, sat back. “I swear, his eyes start watering if somebody so much as thinks about smoking. He and K.T. were at it on that all the time. They’d … Oh, I didn’t mean. It’s not like he’d kill somebody over it. He just can’t stand it, and his eyes do get red.”
“Understood.” Eve smiled. “We know Harris smoked herbals on the roof, inside the dome. DNA. From what you’ve said it doesn’t seem likely she got them from someone else at the party.”
“She wouldn’t ask, believe me. Or share.”
“Then that covers that. Just a minor detail, as I said. I’ve got to get to the briefing, Marlo.”
“Okay. Thanks. Really.” She rose, took Eve’s hand. “It’s probably stupid, but I feel better just talking to you.”
“Glad I could help. I’ll walk you out.”
“You probably think it’s silly,” Marlo said and tugged on her wig. “Wigs and shades and oversized coats.”
“I think I’d hate it if I couldn’t walk down the street, buy a soy dog, take a stroll, grab a slice without having people staring at me, pushing at me, taking pictures of me.”
“It’s part of the package.”
“Everybody’s got a package. You don’t have to like all of it.”
“Matthew and I are talking about going public. What the studio wants, it just doesn’t seem important now. Two people are dead. That’s what’s important, so … And you know what else?” She pulled off the wig, shaking out her short hair as she stuffed it in her bag. “God! That feels better. Screw it. I’m Marlo Durn.”
She shot Eve the megastar smile and strolled toward the glide.
Armed with the additional data, Eve strode to the conference room. Inside, McNab stuffed the last of a doughnut into his mouth.
Peabody turned from the board, goggled. “Holy shit, Dallas.”
“Convinced?”
“Are you kidding? The pattern’s there. Right there. He kills people.”
“Not quite a habit,” McNab put in, “more than a hobby. Or maybe there are others, people who didn’t have a connection to him. In between he kills complete strangers.”
“Possible. But it strikes me as more likely his killing is, to him, just part of doing business. Sometimes you fire, sometimes you dissolve a partnership. Sometimes you kill.”
“It’s almost sicker that way.” Peabody looked back to the board. “If he profiled like a true serial, we could at least say he’s compelled. But it’s not compulsive when you go years between. It’s—”
“Convenience.”
“Sicker. And to think I was so juiced because he talked to me about the cameo, and how they’d play me up.”
“We’ll get him, She-Body.”
“Now I want a damn doughnut.”
“Got your cream-filled with sugar glaze right here.” McNab pulled it out of the box for her.
She took the first enormous bite as Whitney came in.
“Commander,” Eve began. “Thank you for making the time.”
“You made it sound urgent. Are those doughnuts?”
Peabody, unable to speak with a mouth full of cream, nodded.
“Detectives Peabody and McNab thought they were called for,” Eve told him.
“When aren’t they?” Whitney selected a jelly, topped with sprinkles. But the board caught his eye before he could sample. In silence he studied the data, the pattern.
“Nine?”
“Yes, sir. It’s possible there are more, but these dates, times, circumstances I can verify. I’m expecting Doctor Mira, Captain Feeney, APA Reo, and would like to brief everyone on the data and my conclusions at once.”
“Yes. Kyung will join us here at oh-nine-hundred. I can bump that time if you need more.”
“Hopefully not.”
Whitney shook his head. “This is a shit storm.”
A lot of that going around, Eve thought.
She stayed out of the way as Feeney came in, reacted enthusiastically to the doughnuts, then stood munching one as he studied the board. Mira and Reo came in together, and Eve heard a snippet of their continued conversation about a shoe sale.
Eve waited as each caught the board, as Mira accepted the cup of tea Peabody brought her. As she sat, sipped, studied.
Eve judged the timing, then walked up to the board, faced the room.
“The data, my gut, and a probability of seventy-three-point-eight say that Joel Steinburger killed the nine individuals on these boards. Motives may be murky as yet, but beginning with Bryson Kane, when the victim and the suspect were twenty and twenty-one respectively, the suspect had received a warning of imminent academic suspension due to spotty attendance and failing grades. While records show the suspect’s attendance did not significantly improve, he went from near suspension to honors list in a four-week period.”
“You figure he cheated,” Feeney commented.
“I do. I figure he paid the victim, who was a straight honors student, to write his papers, crib any tests or exams. I believe the victim either wanted to stop or asked for more money. They argued, and the suspect pushed him down the stairs. The suspect’s grades dipped sharply for the three weeks after his roommate’s death. This was put down to natural emotional upheaval at the time. I call bullshit. His grades dipped because he killed his source. He had to find another.”
“How do you prove it?” Reo asked her.
“By analyzing financial data from that period. By interviewing the other roommates, instructors, students.
“Second victim,” she continued. “His fiancée’s wealthy, influential great-grandfather, and the suspect’s boss. At his death, the great-granddaughter—who married the suspect—came into a considerable inheritance. And from the pattern that emerges here, the suspect has a fondness for women.”
“A cheat’s a cheat,” Feeney commented. “He cheats on the girlfriend, Granddaddy finds out, tells him to blow.”
“That’s the one I like,” Eve agreed. “The suspect ends up with a wealthy wife, a solid position at the studio, and the potential to become heir apparent.
“Victim three,” Eve said and worked her way down.
She juggled data and theories, answered questions, reasserted time lines.
“Considering the length of time we’re dealing with,” Reo began, “it would take a miracle to access all the data. The financial records, travel, wit statements. Much less locate and interview all parties involved. Then we have to jog, and trust those memories and impressions.”
“So he keeps getting away with it, because he scatters his kills, changes his method. Nine people—maybe more—are dead because Joel Steinburger wanted them that way. Because he wanted money or sex or fame or a reputation he’d never earned. They’re dead because he wanted the easy way to the red carpet, the media spotlight, the power chamber of a glamorous industry. And he wanted all the benefits that go with it. The money again, the sex, the envy of others.”