"And?"

"He threw a paperweight at me. The prop paperweight on Sir Wilfred's desk." Proctor winced. "He missed. I'm sure he meant to."

"That must have pissed you off."

"No, not really. I was embarrassed to have annoyed him during rehearsal. He had to take the rest of the day off to calm down."

"A guy threatens your livelihood, throws a paperweight at you, and you don't get pissed off?"

"It was Draco." Proctor's tone was reverent. "He's – he was – one of the finest actors of the century. The pinnacle. His temperament is part – was part – of making him what he was."

"You admired him."

"Oh yes. I've studied his work as long as I can remember. I have discs and recordings of every one of his plays. When I had a chance to understudy Vole, I jumped at it. I think it's the turning point in my career." His eyes were shining now. "All my life I dreamed of walking the same stage as Richard Draco, and there I was."

"But you wouldn't walk that stage unless something happened to him."

"Not exactly." In his enthusiasm, Proctor leaned forward. The cheap chair creaked ominously. "But I had to rehearse the same lines, the same blocking, know the same cues. It was almost like being him. In a way. You know."

"Now, you'll have a shot at stepping onto his – what do you call it – his mark, won't you?"

"Yes." Proctor's smile was brilliant, and quickly gone. "I know how awful, how selfish and cold that must sound. I don't mean it that way."

"You're having some financial difficulties, Mr. Proctor."

He flushed, winced, tried that smile again. "Yes, ah, well… One doesn't go into the theater for money but for love."

"But money comes in handy for things like eating and keeping a roof over your head. You're behind on your rent."

"A little."

"The understudy job pays enough to keep you current with your rent. You gamble, Mr. Proctor?"

"Oh, no. No, I don't."

"Just careless with money?"

"I don't think so. I invest, you see. In myself. Acting and voice lessons, body maintenance, enhancement treatments. They don't come cheap, especially in the city. I suppose all that seems frivolous to you, Lieutenant, but it's part of my craft. Tools of the trade. I was considering a part-time job to help defray the expenses."

"No need to consider that now, is there? With Draco out of the way."

"I suppose not." He paused, considering it. "I wasn't sure how I was going to manage the time. It'll be easier to – " He broke off, sucked in a breath. "I don't mean that the way it sounds. It's just that following your line of thinking, it takes some strain off my mind. I'm used to doing without money, Lieutenant. Whatever else, the theater's lost one of its finest, and one of my personal idols. But I guess I'd feel better if I said – if I was honest and said – that there's a part of me that's thrilled to think that I'll play Vole. Even temporarily."

He sighed, long and loud, closed his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I do feel better. I wish he'd just caught a cold, though."

Eve's head was throbbing lightly as she walked back up the steps to her car. "Nobody's that naive," she muttered. "Nobody's that guileless."

"He's from Nebraska." Peabody scanned her pocket unit.

"From where?"

" Nebraska." Peabody waved a hand, vaguely west. "Farm boy. Done a lot of regional theater, some video, billboard ads, bit parts on-screen. He's only been in New York three years." She climbed into the car. "They still grow them pretty guileless in Nebraska. I think it's all that soy and corn."

"Whatever, he stays on the short list. His fee for walking into the part of Vole is a big step up from watching in the wings. He's living like a transient in that dump. Money's a motivator, and so's ambition. He wanted to be Draco. What better way than to eliminate Draco?"

"I've got this idea."

Eve glanced at her wrist unit to check the time as she zipped down into traffic. Goddamn press conference. "Which is?"

"Okay, it's more of a theory."

"Spill it."

"If it's good, can I get a soy dog?"

"Christ. What's the theory?"

"So, they're all actors in a play. A good actor slides into the character during the performance. Stays there. It's all immediate, but another part of them is distant – gauging the performances, remembering the staging, picking up vibes from the audience and stuff like that. My theory is whoever switched the knives was performing."

"Yeah, performing murder."

"Sure, but this is like another level. They could be part of the play and watch it go down without actually doing the crime. The objective's reached, and it's all still a role. Even if it's a tech who did it, it's all part of the play. Vole's dead. He's supposed to be. The fact that Draco's dead, too, just makes it all the more satisfying."

Eve mulled it over, then pulled over at the next corner where a glide-cart smoked and sizzled.

"So it's a good theory?"

"It's decent. Get your soy dog."

"You want anything?"

"Coffee, but not off that bug coach."

Peabody sighed. "Wow, that sure stirs my appetite." But she got out, beelined through the pedestrian traffic, and ordered the double wide soy dog and a mega tube of Diet Coke to convince herself she was watching her weight.

"Happy now?" Eve asked when Peabody dropped back into the passenger seat and stuffed the end of the dog into her mouth.

"Ummm. Good. Wanna bite?"

Peabody was saved from a scathing response by the beep of the car 'link. Nadine Furst, reporter for Channel 75, floated on-screen. " Dallas. I need to talk to you, soon as you can manage."

"Yeah, I bet." Eve ignored the transmission and whipped around the corner to head back to Central. "Why she thinks I'll give her an exclusive one-on-one before a scheduled press conference, I don't know."

"Because you're friends?" Peabody hazarded with her mouth full of soy dog and rehydrated onion flakes.

"Nobody's that friendly."

" Dallas." Nadine's pretty, camera-ready face was strained, as Eve noted with mild curiosity, was her perfectly pitched voice. "It's important, and it's… personal. Please. If you're screening transmissions, give me a break here. I'll meet you anywhere you say, whenever you say."

Cursing, Eve engaged transmission. "The Blue Squirrel. Now."

" Dallas – "

"I can give you ten minutes. Make it fast."

It had been a while since she'd swung through the doors into the Blue Squirrel. As joints went, there were worse, but not by much. Still, the dingy club held some sentimental attachment for Eve. At one time, her friend Mavis had performed there, slithering, bouncing, and screaming out songs in costumes that defied description.

And once, during a difficult and confusing case, Eve had gone in with the sole purpose of drinking her mind to mush.

There Roarke had tracked her down, hauled her out before she could accomplish the mission. That night, she'd ended up in his bed for the first time.

Sex with Roarke, she'd discovered, did a much better job of turning the mind to mush than a vatful of screamers.

So the Squirrel, with its debatable menu and disinterested servers, held some fond memories.

She slid into a booth, considered ordering the hideous excuse for coffee for old times' sake, then watched Nadine come in.

"Thanks." Nadine stood by the booth, slowly unwinding a brilliant multicolored scarf from around her neck. Her fingers plucked at the long, dark fringe. " Peabody, would you mind giving us a minute here?"

"No problem." Peabody pushed herself out of the booth, and because Nadine's eyes were clouded, gave the reporter a quick, reassuring squeeze on the arm. "I'll just go sit at the bar and watch the holo-games."