Celebrity in Death

right.”

Marlo’s smile exploded. And no, Eve thought, she absolutely did not smile that way.

“That’s good then.”

“And this.” Eve did a turn around the office set. “I feel like I need to sit down and knock out some paperwork.”

“Carmandy would be thrilled to hear that. She’s the head set designer. Let’s get that coffee. They’ll need me back on set soon.”

Marlo gestured as they went out into the sun-blasted October of 2060. “If we go this way, you’ll see some of the Roarke/Dallas house set. It’s spectacular. Preston, our AD, told you they were going to want some publicity shots while you and Peabody are on set? Valerie Xaviar, that’s the publicist, is handling it. She’s on top of everything.”

“It was mentioned.”

Marlo smiled again, gave Eve’s arm a quick, light rub. “I know it’s not something you’d choose to do, but it’ll be great publicity for the vid—and it’ll make the cast and crew happy. You’re going to make the dinner tonight, I hope. You and Roarke.”

“We’re planning on it.” Couldn’t get out of it, Eve thought.

Marlo let out a laugh, shot Eve a look. “And you’re wishing you had a hot case so you could skip it.”

“I guess you are good at your work.”

“It’ll be more fun than you think. Which won’t be hard because you think it’ll be torture.”

“Have you got my office wired?”

“No, but I like to think I’m wired into you.” Marlo tapped her temple. “So I know you’ll enjoy yourself a lot more than you think. And you’ll love Julian. He’s nailed Roarke—the accent, the body language, that indefinable sense of power and sex. Plus, he’s gorgeous, funny, charming. I’ve loved working with him. Are you on an investigation now?”

“We just closed one a few days ago.”

“The Whitwood Center case, at least that’s what the media calls it. As I said, I’m steeped. Still, even when you’re not working something active, you’re supervising other investigations, testifying in court, consulting with the officers and detectives in your division. It’s a full plate. Dealing with—”

Marlo broke off when Eve’s communicator signaled.

“Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officer at Twelve West Third. Possible homicide.

“Acknowledged. Dallas and Peabody, Detective Delia, en route.” She clicked off, signaled Peabody. “We caught one. Meet me at the vehicle.”

Pocketing the communicator, she glanced at Marlo. “Sorry.”

“No, of course. You caught a case, right when we’re standing here. It’s probably a stupid question, but how does it feel when you’re contacted, told someone’s dead?”

“Like it’s time to go to work. Listen, thanks for showing me around.”

“There’s so much more. Big Bang Productions basically built Dallas World here at Chelsea Piers. We’ll be shooting for at least two more weeks—probably three. Maybe you can make it back.”

“Maybe. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight, work permitting.”

“Good luck.”

Eve wound her way around to the VIP lot and her vehicle. She wasn’t happy somebody was dead—but if they were going to be dead anyway, she wasn’t unhappy to have picked up the case before the stupid photo shoot thing. She’d found Marlo Durn personable, maybe a little intense, but personable, smart, and not an asshole. But she had to admit it got to be a little unnerving to keep looking at somebody who looked so much like you. And to do it in surroundings that looked like your surroundings.

Dallas World.

Huh.

“Wouldn’t you know we’d catch one.” Peabody hustled up. “That was fun! And Preston—Preston Stykes, the assistant director—said I could do a cameo! They’re going to be shooting some street scenes next weekend, and I get to be a pedestrian—with a closeup, and maybe even a line. I bet I get a zit.” She patted a hand around her face, checking. “You always get a zit when you have a closeup.”

“Had many—closeups, not zits. I don’t want to know about your zits.”

“It’ll be my first.” She settled into the passenger seat while Eve got behind the wheel. “And tonight we get to hob with the nob at dinner. I’m having dinner with vid stars, with celebrities, at the swank Park Avenue residence of the hottest director in Hollywood, meeting the most powerful and respected producer—and founder of Big Bang Productions.” Peabody stopped checking for potential zits to press her hand to her belly. “I feel a little sick.”

“Then you can boot in the swank john of the hottest director in Hollywood.”

“He was looking for you, Roundtree. He was about to send a gofer to find you.”

“I was having the surreal experience of having myself show myself around my office and bullpen.”

“Oh! My desk. I could’ve sat at my desk. I could’ve sat at your desk.”

“No.”

“It’s a vid set.”

“Even then, no.”

“Mean. The other you is nice. I can call her Marlo. The other me is kind of a bitch.”

“There you go. Typecasting.”

“Funny, ha ha. Really, she talked to me for about thirty seconds, then brushed me off. And do you know what she said?”

“How can I know when I wasn’t there?”

“So, I’ll tell you.” Scowling out the windshield, Peabody stuck on her rainbow-lensed sunshades. “She said if Nadine’s book was an accurate portrayal, she suggests I take an assertive course. Otherwise I’m never going to be anything but an underling, or a sidekick at best. But with my subservient attitude I’d never be in charge.”

Eve felt a claw of annoyance scrape down the back of her neck. Her partner had been assertive enough to springboard the investigation and downfall of an organization of dirty cops.

“She isn’t kind of a bitch. She’s essentially a bitch. And you’re not an underling.”

“That’s right. I’m your partner, and okay, you’re my lieutenant, but that doesn’t make me some kiss-ass underling with a subservient attitude.”

“Following orders in the line isn’t subservient, it’s being a good cop. And you have a smart-ass attitude half the time.”

“Thanks. I didn’t like me very much.”

“I don’t like you a whole lot. Neither does the other me.”

“Now I’m confused.”

“Marlo and K.T. don’t like each other much. It shows when the camera’s not on them. Once the director called ‘Cut,’ they went separate ways, didn’t speak or look at each other until Marlo called K.T. over to you.”

“I guess I had Hollywood stars in my eyes because I didn’t notice. But you’re right. It must be rough to work with somebody so closely, have to pretend you like and respect each other, and you really don’t.”

“That’s why they call it acting.”

“Still. Oh, and I think the other me has a bigger ass.”

“No question about it.”

“Really?”

“Peabody, I didn’t actually look at her ass, and I rarely have occasion to look at yours. But I’m willing to say her ass is bigger if it makes you happy and we can stop talking about the Hollywood people.”

“Okay, but just one more thing. The other me is also a lying sack. She told me she had to go prep for her next scene, but when I cut across where the trailers are to get to the VIP lot, I saw her—and boy, I heard her. Banging on one of the trailer doors, yelling, ‘I know you’re in there, you bastard, and open the fucking door.’ Like that.”

“Whose trailer?”