“And he cheated her out of it. Cheated on her sexually.” Eve jabbed a finger at Darla’s ID shot. “I’m telling you that’s the motive. It’s not all of it, because this is one sick bitch, but that’s the springboard, the break, the push.”
Roarke got up, went to the board, studied the photo. “So you’re convinced she’s involved?”
“Not ready for convinced, but man, I’m leaning there, and hard.” She began to pace. “Not Geena McEnroy. She’s got two kids, and by every account—even people who actively disliked him—he was a good father. You heard the tutor—did she come off straight to you?”
“She did, yes. And like you, I believe she’d have known or would have had some inkling if the wife had a part in this.”
“Agreed. Horowitz. Young, a little stupid if you ask me, living the good life and happy there. If she’d found out about the LCs, I figure her to cry and rage and demand he stop—or run home to her mother. But help plan out two torture murders? No. Plus, with him dead, she’s out. Not a spouse or a legal cohab. Just lived with him. She gets nothing.”
“All right.” Because he knew Eve, Roarke nodded. “And what else?”
“Neither of them, not as far as evidence shows, had a direct connection with the support group. The killer’s been in those meetings, been part of them, heard the stories. Darla.”
“You’re convincing me.”
“It’s not going to convince the PA or a judge to issue a search warrant for Eloise Callahan’s residence.”
“You don’t believe the grandmother’s complicit, surely?”
“She’s an actor, right? Legendary, everybody says. She didn’t give me any buzz when we talked to her—”
“You talked to her.” Roarke held up a hand. “You talked with Eloise Callahan?”
“Yeah, because, you know, murder investigation.” She had to smirk. “Fanboy.”
“Being an admirer of her craft doesn’t make me a fanboy. Maybe a bit,” he admitted with an easy smile. “And I think this calls for a meal over which you can give me all the details.” He cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb grazing lightly over the shallow dent in it. “I think steak. You look tired, Lieutenant. You haven’t had much sleep in the last couple nights.”
“I could eat steak.”
He drew her in first, held her. “When there’s time, I think we’ll watch Eloise in Only Once.”
“Do things blow up?”
Smiling, he kissed her temple. “Not this time. It’s a beautiful film. Staggeringly, sumptuously romantic. I think she’d have been in her twenties still. Gorgeous creature. Luminous.”
“Big fanboy.”
“Perhaps I am at that. You’ve seen her in Rise Up—and in that one quite a bit blows up. Urban War setting,” he began, but Eve pulled back, gestured.
“That was her? I remember that one. Sure that was her,” Eve realized as she studied the photo. “She kicked ass.”
“She did. Steak,” he repeated. “Top off the wine.”
Eve stood, studying the photo. She could see it now, though the woman had
been easily three decades younger in the vid.
Did it apply that Callahan could project—hell, embody—every human emotion, make you believe she felt it?
When Roarke came out, she grabbed the bottle, his glass, took them to the table by the window. “Do you figure that kind of talent is inherent or learned?”
“I suspect some of both, but you can’t learn what isn’t in you, can you?”
“Don’t know. But I’m wondering if the skill can be passed on.”
Roarke set the plates down while Eve topped off the wine.
“Ah, as in could the granddaughter have her grandmother’s talent? Interesting. Well, there have been dynasties, family members who share interest and skills in various areas, acting included. But from her educational choices, it seems the granddaughter’s interest held in science and engineering, not the arts.”