Page 48 of Celebrity in Death

Eve nodded toward the board. “She was, at various times, intimate with both Zank and Cross. Both men volunteered this information. Zank also stated that the victim continued to pursue him after he’d ended the relationship, was violent and obsessively jealous.”

“And Zank’s the one who claims to have found her, pulled her out.”

“Yes, sir, along with Marlo Durn. I believe Zank and Durn are currently engaged in a personal, sexual relationship. If the vic was aware of this, it would have added yet more friction. At TOD, the guests were gathered in Roundtree’s home theater watching what they call a gag reel. We know Harris left the theater during the show as TOD confirms she died during its run. We can’t, as yet, pinpoint who else left the area, joined her on the roof. We do know there was time to leave, get to the roof, kill Harris, and return before the end of the reel.”

She paused a moment. “We’ll dig into backgrounds, prior conflicts, any violent behavior. The initial shove, or fall, that feels impulsive, a moment of temper. But dumping an unconscious woman in the water, that’s a deliberate act, as is walking away while that woman drowns. It may or may not have been calculated, Commander, but it’s cold.”

“And the probability one of the staff had a relationship with her that turned murderous?”

“Very low. It’s going to be one of the cast or crew, one of the people who worked with her, one of the people she pushed, insulted, threatened.”

“Who pushed back.” He got to his feet. “Celebrity murders,” he muttered. “They’ll probably make another goddamn vid.” At Eve’s stunned, slightly horrified expression, he smiled. “You could make book on it,” he said. “Keep me updated. And don’t be late for the media conference.”

“Shit,” Eve said when he’d gone out. “Shit. He could be right.”

“Who’d play me in this one? I mean, it’s really wild, isn’t it? Somebody playing me investigating the murder of somebody who was playing me. And then there’s—”

“Don’t. You’re giving me a headache. Get those runs done.” Eve rubbed the back of her neck as they headed back to the bullpen. Inside, she stopped, scanned the room, considered. “Uniform Carmichael.”

When his head popped around his cube, she gestured. “My office.”

She strode off, texting Roarke to expect a contact by Kyung, and that Kyung wasn’t an asshole.

“Sir?” Uniform Carmichael said, standing in her doorway.

“Are you a vid fan, Carmichael? Do you like watching, keeping up with the Hollywood gossip, reading up on the celebrities?”

“When I have time to watch any screen, I like sports. That’s real action.”

“Right. You’ll do.” She assigned him as escort, ordered him to keep a lid on it, dismissed him.

Happily she transferred all messages from reporters to Kyung, and got back to work.

She’d completed her initial report, including her own statement, had just started a deeper run on Harris when her ’link signaled an incoming text from Roarke.

Not an asshole. From you, glowing praise. Will deal with it.

Satisfied, she leaned back, studied the data on Harris.

Parents divorced, Eve noted, when she’d been thirteen. One sibling, a brother two years her senior. She’d grown up in Nebraska until the divorce. The mother, who’d sued for and had been granted sole custody due to domestic violence, relocated with her children to Iowa.

Eve couldn’t see much difference between Nebraska and Iowa. As far as she was concerned they were both big states with lots of fields, barns, and cows.

She dug a little deeper, scanned some of the police reports, court documents on the domestic violence, frowned over the photographs in evidence of Piper Van Horn—the mother—after her husband, Wendall Harris, had tuned her up. Also documented was a broken wrist, black eye, minor concussion on then fifteen-year-old Brice Harris—now Van Horn as he’d taken his mother’s name as she had after the divorce. Wendall had done a stint in an Omaha pen, completed anger management and substance abuse courses. Then, Eve saw as she poked a bit more, had died of injuries incurred in a bar fight when Brice had been twenty.

Interesting, Eve thought, that K.T.’d kept her father’s last name. Interesting she appeared to have inherited or chosen—who the hell knew—his bent for pissed-off violence enhanced by too much alcohol.

She scrolled through school records. Average student with some disciplinary issues. No extracurricular activities until the age of fourteen when she’d hooked up with the theater program at her school.

“And look here,” Eve murmured. Harris had racked up a string of DUIs by the time she’d been twenty-two, and had her license revoked. Like father, daughter had completed a substance abuse program.

By eighteen, Harris had left Iowa for New L.A. Had a couple brushes in addition to the DUIs for assault—charges dropped in both cases. Another for D&D—fine paid, rehab program completed.

Didn’t take, Eve thought, and remembered the face, the voice, the grief of Piper Van Horn when she’d contacted the woman to tell her K.T. was dead.

The mother grieved, she thought. Most of them did. Not all, but most. Her own hadn’t given the child she’d birthed, abused, and abandoned to a monster a second thought. Hadn’t even recognized her when they’d stood face-to-face.

Doesn’t apply, she reminded herself. Think of the victim. The more she understood the victim, the better chance she had of understanding the killer.

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