A series of clicks and jangles followed. She counted five manual locks being disengaged before the door opened.
The face that poked into the crack was a study of God's generosity. Or a really good face sculptor. Pale gold skin stretched taut and smooth over long cheekbones and a heroic, square jaw that boasted a pinpoint dimple. The mouth was full and firm, the nose narrow and straight, and the eyes the true green of organic emeralds.
Michael Proctor framed this gift with a silky flow of rich brown hair worn with a few tumbling, boyish curls. As his eyes darted from Eve to Peabody and back, he streamed long fingers through the mass of it, slicking it back before he tried out a hesitant smile.
"Um… Lieutenant Houston."
" Dallas."
"Right. I knew it was somewhere in Texas." Nerves had his voice jumping over the words, but he stepped back, widening the opening. "I'm still pretty shaken up. I keep thinking it's all some kind of mistake."
"If it is, it's a permanent one." Eve scanned what there was of the apartment. The single room held a ratty sleep chair Proctor hadn't bothered to make up for the day, a skinny table that held a low-end tele-link/computer combo, a pole lamp with a torn shade, and a three-drawer wall chest.
For some, she supposed, acting wasn't lucrative.
"Um… let me get… um." Coloring slightly, he opened the long closet, fumbled inside, and eventually came out with a small folding chair. "Sorry. I don't do much more than sleep here, so it's not company friendly."
"Don't think of us as company. Record on, Peabody. You can sit, Mr. Proctor, if you'd be more comfortable."
"I'm…" His fingers danced with each other, tips to tips. "I'm fine. I don't really know how to do this. I never worked in any police dramas. I tend to be cast in period pieces or romantic comedies."
"Good thing I've worked in a number of police dramas," Eve said mildly. "You just answer the questions, and we'll be fine."
"Okay. All right." After glancing around the room as if he'd never seen it before, he finally sat on the chair. Crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Smiled hopefully.
He looked, Eve thought, like some schoolboy called down to the principal's office for a minor infraction.
"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Proctor, Michael, in subject's residence. Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide."
Watching Proctor, she recited the revised Miranda. As he listened, he tapped his fingers on his knees and succeeded in looking as guilty as a man with six ounces of Zeus in each pocket.
"Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?"
"Yes, I think. Do I need a lawyer?" He looked up at Eve like a puppy, one hoping not to be whacked on the nose for spotting the carpet. "I've got a representative, a theatrical rep. Maybe I should call her?"
"That's up to you." And would waste time and complicate matters. "You can request one at any time during the interview. If you prefer, we can move the process down to Central."
"Well now. Gosh." He blew out a breath, glanced toward his link. "I don't guess I'll bother her now. She's pretty busy."
"Why don't you start by telling me what happened last night."
"You mean…" He shuddered visibly. "I was in the wings. Stage left. It was brilliant, just brilliant. I remember thinking that if the play had a long run, I'd get a chance to be Vole. Draco was bound to miss a performance or two along the way…"
He trailed off, looked stunned, then appalled. "I don't mean to say… I never wished for anything bad to happen to him. It was more thinking that he'd catch a cold or something, or maybe just need a night off. Like that."
"Sure. And what did you see from the wings, stage left, in the last scene?"
"He was perfect," Proctor murmured, those deep green eyes going dreamy. "Arrogant, careless, smooth. The way he celebrated his acquittal even as he cast Christine off like a leftover bone. His pleasure in winning, in circumventing the system, fooling everyone. Then the shock, the shock in his eyes, in his body, when she turned on him with the knife. I watched, knowing I could never reach that high. Never find so much in myself. I didn't realize, even after everyone broke character, it didn't sink in."
He lifted his hands, let them fall. "I'm not sure it has yet."
"When did you realize that Draco wasn't acting?"
"I think – I think when Areena screamed. At least, I knew then that something was horribly wrong. Then everything happened so quickly. People were running to him, and shouting. They brought the curtain down, very fast," he remembered. "And he was still lying there."
Hard to jump up and take your bows with eight inches of steel in your heart. Eve thought. "What was your personal relationship with Richard Draco?"
"I don't suppose we had one."
"You had no personal conversations with him, no interactions?"
"Well, um…" The fingers started dancing again. "Sure, we spoke a couple of times. I'm afraid I irritated him."
"In what way?"
"You see, Lieutenant, I watch. People," he added with another of those shaky smiles. "To develop character types, to learn. I guess my watching him put Draco off, and he told me to keep out of his sight or… or he'd, hmmm, he'd see to it that the only acting job I got was in sex holograms. I apologized right away."
"And?"
"He threw a paperweight at me. The prop paperweight on Sir Wilfred's desk." Proctor winced. "He missed. I'm sure he meant to."
"That must have pissed you off."
"No, not really. I was embarrassed to have annoyed him during rehearsal. He had to take the rest of the day off to calm down."
"A guy threatens your livelihood, throws a paperweight at you, and you don't get pissed off?"
"It was Draco." Proctor's tone was reverent. "He's – he was – one of the finest actors of the century. The pinnacle. His temperament is part – was part – of making him what he was."
"You admired him."
"Oh yes. I've studied his work as long as I can remember. I have discs and recordings of every one of his plays. When I had a chance to understudy Vole, I jumped at it. I think it's the turning point in my career." His eyes were shining now. "All my life I dreamed of walking the same stage as Richard Draco, and there I was."
"But you wouldn't walk that stage unless something happened to him."
"Not exactly." In his enthusiasm, Proctor leaned forward. The cheap chair creaked ominously. "But I had to rehearse the same lines, the same blocking, know the same cues. It was almost like being him. In a way. You know."
"Now, you'll have a shot at stepping onto his – what do you call it – his mark, won't you?"
"Yes." Proctor's smile was brilliant, and quickly gone. "I know how awful, how selfish and cold that must sound. I don't mean it that way."
"You're having some financial difficulties, Mr. Proctor."
He flushed, winced, tried that smile again. "Yes, ah, well… One doesn't go into the theater for money but for love."
"But money comes in handy for things like eating and keeping a roof over your head. You're behind on your rent."
"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."