The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [574]
“No, sir.” Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. “Absolutely not. I think my stomach’s growling.”
“Shut that up, too.” She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and the peephole. The building didn’t run to soundproofing.
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