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2 (#u724cccf6-3c78-580e-ab40-d5f9fb45c036)
There had been something about Marnie Davante in her role as Madam Zeta that had been magical. The show had been cast well. It was one of those in which the chemistry between the players was just right on, and because of it, the show was incredibly watchable, and it was still doing very well in syndication.
Bryan had downloaded a number of episodes to watch on his phone during the cross-continental flight. After a few, he felt he knew Scarlet Zeta—except, of course, who he had come to know wasn’t a real person—he had come to know a character.
His first stop was with the major crimes detectives who were handling the case. The detective he’d finally managed to speak with over the phone before his arrival—Sophie Manning—was still confused as to why he was coming out from Virginia.
That was all right. In a way, he was still confused himself.
He was asked to wait by the desk sergeant, and soon a small woman with a purposeful gait came toward him. She assessed him quickly, apparently noting that he’d probably hold his own in a fight since she gave him a sort of approving nod. While she was a tiny thing, Bryan figured she’d had some training herself, and while she might not be able to throw much weight around, she’d be damned good throwing around what she did have.
“Mr. McFadden?” she asked, offering him a hand. She had a good grip.
“Bryan McFadden, yes. And you’re Detective Manning.”
“I am. If you’ll come with me, my partner is upstairs in one of our conference rooms.”
Upstairs, he met Grant Vining; once again, he was impressed. Vining didn’t appear to be at all intimidated, nor did he seem to resent Bryan’s presence there. If anything, he was curious—something that he voiced almost immediately.
“You’re out here from Virginia?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Virginia is my home. At the moment.”
“Military brat?”
“Military myself for a few years—a few years back. My parents, no. They were actors.”
“I see,” Vining said. Then he scratched his graying head. “No, no, frankly, I don’t see at all. You’re a private eye?”
“Yes, recently licensed.”
“And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”
Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.
“I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.
“But then—”
“I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.
“For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.
Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”
“And?”
“Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.
“The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.
Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”
“Dead,” Bryan finished for her.
She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.
“That would be me. I am my own client on this.”
Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”
“Absolutely,” Bryan promised.
“We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”
“I don’t intend to grill anyone,” Bryan said.
“Ah, well, then...” Vining just stared at him.
“My most sincere thanks,” Bryan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to work in your jurisdiction, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to share information.”
“We did investigate you, of course,” Vining told him.
“I’d expect no less. I will be in touch.” He hesitated. “As far as the comic con goes, are there markers at the table that suggest who sits where?”
“Yes, there were numbers on the table. Along with their nameplates,” Vining said.
“Were they in order?” Bryan asked.
“In order?” Vining frowned. “What order would that be? We believed the numbers to have been set out by the organizers. Along with the nameplates.”
“Were such numbers available on other tables?” Bryan asked.
“They were between a descendant of a famous German shepherd and Malcolm Dangerfield,” Vining said. “Just one dog. And in Malcolm’s case—just one man. Oh, yes, and his publicity manager and reporters and God alone might know who else during the day. Dangerfield is what might be a called an ‘It boy’ this year. You think that the numbers mean something?” he asked.
Bryan shook his head. “I’ve seen the news. That’s about it. I don’t think anything as of yet. And even if someone had been offended by Miss Barton, this was one drastic method of showing displeasure.”
“Yes,” Vining said. “You have contact info for the comic con organizer and his secretary for operations there. I can’t tell you how many people are involved. There are some closed-circuit cameras around the convention floor. But not enough to cover the entire area. I’m willing to bet, however, that there are tons of cell phone videos of the event out there, videos we have yet to see here, though we did pick up many. If you find any...”
“If I find more video, I’ll let you know.”
“Precisely,” Vining said.
Sophie Manning cleared her throat.
“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner released the body, and... I guess everyone wanted it to happen. She was just killed on Friday. We’re frankly surprised that the ME did release the body so quickly, but he has extensive notes—”
“I know,” Bryan said.
“You’ve been to see Dr. Collier already?” Vining asked a little sharply.
“No. I just know of him,” Bryan said. “And he is top-notch.”
“There will be a reception following, but I can’t help you get access.”
“That’s fine. I’ll manage,” Bryan assured him. “And thank you again.”
“You just keep in touch,” Vining said firmly.
“It’s a promise,” Bryan assured him.
Before he’d actually reached the street, Bryan had received a digital folder. Vining clearly meant to keep his word.
A glance at his email showed him that he’d received the autopsy notes, as well. He could have told Vining that Dr. Edward Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.
He headed on out for his third stop that day.
He wanted to see where Marnie Davante lived.
Just to observe. It was a day for gathering information.
Tomorrow would be time enough to put some of it to use.
* * *
Marnie Davante stood quietly by the graveside and listened while the priest spoke about life and death, and his certainty that while they buried the mortal remains of Cara Barton, her soul went on to a better place, one where there was no pain and no fear, and where love reigned.
Marnie hoped it was true.
For a moment, she thought she saw Cara there, dressed beautifully in the red-and-black tailored suit she’d been dressed in for her viewing, enjoying the attention her funeral was receiving.
Marnie had truly loved Cara, but she knew as well that years of fighting to maintain a career had left Cara jaded and weary. She had dated many a heartthrob, but she had never married. Her parents had long ago departed their mortal coil, and she’d had no siblings. So she left behind no one with very close ties to her. But in Marnie’s mind, there had been many wonderful things about her friend. Cara had cared deeply about animals—she had raised money and awareness for humane societies and no-kill shelters. She had given what she could to children’s charities.
And Marnie had had a chance to talk about all the good in Cara lately—she’d been interviewed right and left, almost to a point of embarrassment.
Cara would have been happy.
In death, she was incredibly famous.
So much was being written about her. Every celebrity and pop culture magazine out there was doing an article on her.
Marnie was somehow the golden girl in most interviews, and it was very uncomfortable. She had remained friends with her fellow castmates from Dark Harbor, and she hoped to God that they knew she had never mentioned herself as the “success” story from the show while the others had gone on to face less-than-stellar careers.
She wasn’t sure how exactly anyone measured success. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly been besieged with scripts for blockbusters. She’d just managed to keep working, and a lot of that had been theatrical work.
The priest was going on. He was a good man, Marnie knew. He and Cara had been friends. That was one thing people hadn’t known about her. Cara had been a regular churchgoer.
A cloud shifted in the sky.
Marnie thought that the late-afternoon sun must be playing tricks on her; she could have sworn that Cara—or someone dressed similarly, wearing one of the ridiculous giant black hats Cara had worn—had just slipped behind the priest.
Someone was sobbing; it was Roberta Alan, Marnie’s sister from the show. Well, of course. Roberta and Cara had often bickered, but they had been very close. Since Cara had lacked real family, her Dark Harbor fellows were being seen as her closest relations. To be fair, they had been something of a family for a time. Marnie had been so young herself when she’d started—just turned sixteen—she had leaned on the others. While Cara had been huge at emoting—larger than life, more than a bit of a diva—she’d always been kind and something like a very whacky but caring aunt for Marnie.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she was still in shock. Marnie had done enough crying herself, the night at the hospital when she realized there had never been a chance for Cara, that doctors had gone through the motions, but there had been nothing they could do.
Since then, she had just been going through the motions. Moving by rote, speaking by rote...
Getting herself here today...she didn’t even recall how.
As Roberta softly sobbed, a spate of flashbulbs went off. Marnie could see them even through her closed eyelids. There was press everywhere. There had been ever since Cara died.
The priest, deep in his reflection, didn’t miss a beat.
Marnie opened her eyes again.
That was when she saw her fully. The woman dressed like Cara.
She was on the other side of the coffin, standing beside one of Hollywood’s hot young leading men and an older, well-respected actor. They didn’t seem to notice the woman.
How the hell they didn’t, Marnie didn’t begin to understand.
She looked just like Cara.
As if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.
It was Cara.
Cara Barton.
It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.
She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.
She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...
But it had been real. The blade had been real.
And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!
Not at death, no, not the horror of death.
They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.
And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.
It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.
