“Don’t you keep a calendar? For work shifts, for dates, for auditions?”
“Sure. But that was last year. You gotta wipe the slate, get down on the now.”
“How about November twenty-eight?”
“Who keeps track? I was in workshops for three weeks running in September, then the backing fell out. I remember that. Man, I was this close. Second lead.”
He brooded into the distance.
“Do you do your own makeup, Anson?”
“For theater, sure.” He gave a little sigh, likely over being this close, then seemed to cue back into the moment. “It’s part of the immersion. Screen’s different. You need to put yourself into the hands of the artists there.”
“I bet you’re good at it. Doing your own.”
“Took some courses to hone the skills. A lot’s just practice, experimentation.”
“And doing the makeup, that helps you, what, become the character?”
“That’s exactly right.” Earnest, he leaned forward. “I’m already immersed, right? Then, once I’m in makeup and costume, I am the character. The character is me. No separation. It’s exhausting, but it’s the only way.”
“Have you ever played any violent characters?”
“Oh, man, that’s part of the fun. You get to cut those inner demons loose, baby. Joe Boyd, as he descends into madness, he kills a member of the commune he thinks is infecting the crops. Accidentally, but that act pushes him over the edge. He sets fire to the storehouse after that, blames the guy he’s killed. Then—”
“I get it. How do you immerse yourself for the violence?”
“You have to believe it. I mean the staging’s all set, and the cues, the lines, all of that’s around it, but inside, you have to believe you’re going to shove this guy over a cliff to his death.”
“And tap into your own inner demons.”
“We all got ’em, right?”
“How about horror? Ever done a vampire, a ghoul, an actual demon?”
“I was a zombie, an extra on Planet Plague—that got me the audition for the spot on Triple Threat. Man, I would totally kill for a continuing role on Planet Plague.” He caught himself. “Not kill-kill, you get me?”
“Right.” She tried another avenue. “When you’re bartending, I imagine you talk to a lot of people.”
“It’s part of it. You’ve got to talk, but even more, to listen.”
“Do people ever ask you about your outside jobs, the fancy parties?”
He frowned. “The customers? How would they know about them?”
“At the theater, or if you get a screen part, maybe you’d mention the parties you’ve been to. Do a little name-dropping, or talk about what you’ve … observed?”
“I guess. Maybe.”
“And maybe if you’ve got one coming up, you chat about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Anybody specific you might chat with about it?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, it’s just the day job.”
She worked him another half hour, then cut him loose. She stayed in Interview A, brooding into the distance.
Peabody poked her head in. “How’d it go?”
“Either Wright’s an oblivious moron or a hell of an actor.”
“He gets solid reviews.”
Eve frowned, turned her head. “Does he?”
“I did a search on that, and more than one said he was the best thing in some crap play. Authentic’s what comes across.”
“He’s got no alibi for any of the attacks. Claims he doesn’t remember and has no record of his whereabouts on the nights of the first two, and claims he was home alone for the last two.”
She rose, scowled at the two-way glass. “He’s white, and L’Page thinks the guy who pushed at her at the gala was white. He’s the right height. But, Jesus, he doesn’t ring. Not for the killer, not for somebody who’d pass information to someone, except in rambling conversation—but that’s a factor. He connects to the Patricks through On Screen, and he’s worked in the Strazza home, but he doesn’t ring. Yet.”
“Baxter and Trueheart just logged in. Olsen and Tredway are coming in.”
“Let’s try for a conference room.”
Something had to shake loose, she thought. But right now the big-ass tree she beat her head against seemed immovable.
“I figured that, so I grabbed Room B.”
“Good. We’ll set it up now.”
Maybe the act of creating a new board, arranging photos, evidence, reports would help shake the damn tree.
17
As Eve finished setting up the board, Peabody stepped out of the conference room. She came back with a couple of pita pockets that smelled iffy at best.