“Me?”
“Another inspiration. When I saw you do that interview, I realized the story had taken a turn. Now it had an element of cat and mouse.”
As Smith leaned forward, her eyes actually danced. “But who was the cat, who was the mouse? You’d find out when your chapter came. I knew to keep up the pace, I had to move more quickly, take that risk. There are eight books, after all. And the author, before you.”
“You didn’t have as much time to plan.”
“I’d done my research. And then Glazier came in. It was a sign, it was a bonus.”
The sallow skin flushed with pleasure, pride.
“It was perfect. I had to rewrite my rewrite afterward to include him, but it made the scene so much stronger. And the chase,” she added. “That was unexpected. A good writer knows when to let the characters take over—it acknowledges they’re alive. I enjoyed the chase. I hadn’t known how it would feel. Running through the cold and the dark,” Smith murmured, caught up, caught in. “The sidewalk slick with ice as I ran with my pounding heart, my pumping blood, the soft, warm fur of the mink around me like a lover’s embrace. Streetlights, headlights, the rush and grind of traffic like music from another world. But only one thought echoing, echoing in my head. Escape. Escape.”
“You didn’t want to get caught.”
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“Of course not.”
“But here you are.” Eve sat back again. “Caught. You bungled your attempt on Felicity Lomare. Rushed it, didn’t do that research. She knocked you out, Ann. You had sharps to her throat, but she knocked you cold. She had the guts, she had the skills.”
The first tears sparkled, and spoke of self-pity.
“I would’ve written myself out of it. I didn’t have time! You weren’t supposed to be there.”
“That’s called a plot twist,” Peabody commented. “A good writer knows how to work them.”
“You ruined the pacing, the arc. I was still working on scenes with you.”
“Yeah, I read them, too.” Sitting back, amusement on her face, Eve laughed.
“You’d lure me into an abandoned warehouse, where I go in alone, without backup, without notifying anyone I’m pursuing a lead on a serial killer. Then you get the drop on me and kill me with my own weapon. Seriously? You think that plays?”
On those flushed cheeks two bright red flags burned through. “It’s a first draft.”
“Right. Well, you’ll have plenty of time for a second draft, or however many it takes. You’ll have the rest of your life. Ann Elizabeth Smith, you’ve confessed to the murders of Rosie Kent, Chanel Rylan, and Loxie Flash. You’ve confessed to the attempted murder of Felicity Lomare. Evidence supports you further planned and plotted several other murders, including that of a police officer.”
“I haven’t finished polishing those scenes. I haven’t finished the structure of the plotting on all of them.”
“Uh-huh.” Eve rose. “You might want to think about writing scenes that take place in a maximum security prison, likely off-planet.”
“I don’t want to go off-planet. I want to stay in New York. I want my writing tools. I want my sewing tools.”
“I don’t recall any of those options included in your rights and obligations. You’re a stone-cold killer, Ann. My partner and I? Our art is taking down stone-cold killers, and we sure as hell stand up for our art. You are hereby down. Officers will come shortly to escort you back to your cage. Get used to the view.”
“I don’t like this scene! I’m going to rewrite it.”
“You do that.” Eve paused at the door. “Why ‘Strongbow’?”
“A strong bow is a lethal weapon.”
Eve raised her eyebrows. “That’s it? Huh. Dallas and Peabody exiting. Interview end.”
“She’s completely bent,” Peabody commented. “Do you really think she’ll get maximum security, off-planet?”
“I think the tenor of ‘completely bent’ depends on Mira’s and the other headshrinkers’ opinions. I lean toward her getting that max security, but likely in a ward for mental defectives. Either way, she’s down and she’s done.”
She glanced down as Roarke stepped out of Observation.