She tossed the communicator back in her bag as the elevator opened onto chaos. "Get these people back and under control. I don't want any of the cast or crew to leave the building. Can you get me a head count?"

"I'll take care of it."

They separated, with Eve shoving her way through to the stage. Someone had had the presence of mind to drop the curtain, but behind it were a dozen people in various stages of hysteria.

"Step back." She snapped out the order.

"We need a doctor." The cool-eyed blonde who'd played Vole's wife stood with both hands clutched between her breasts. There was blood staining her costume, her hands. "Oh my God. Somebody get a doctor."

But Eve crouched beside the man sprawled facedown on the floor and knew it was too late for doctors. She straightened, dug out her badge. "I'm Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security. I want everyone to step back. Don't touch anything, don't remove anything from the stage area."

"There's been an accident." The actor who played Sir Wilfred had pulled off his barrister's wig. His stage makeup ran with sweat. "A terrible accident."

Eve looked down at the pool of blood, the gored-to-the-hilt bread knife. "This is a crime scene. I want you people to step back. Where the hell is security?"

She tossed out a hand, slapped it on the shoulder of the woman she still thought of as Christine Vole. "I said back." When she spotted Roarke come out of the wings with three men in uniform, she signaled.

"Get these people offstage. I want them sequestered. You've got dressing rooms or whatever. Get them stashed, and keep the guards on them. That goes for crew as well."

"He's dead?"

"That or he wins best actor award for the century."

"We need to move the audience along to a safe area. Keep it controlled."

"Go ahead and make it happen. See if you can find out if Mira's still around. I could use her."

"I killed him." The blonde staggered back two steps, holding up her bloody hands, staring at them. "I killed him," she said again and fainted.

"Great. Terrific. Roarke?"

"I'll take care of it."

"You." She jabbed a finger at one of the guards. "Start moving these people into dressing rooms. Keep them there. You," she ordered the second guard, "start rounding up the crew, the techs. I want the doors secured. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out."

A woman began to sob, several men began to argue in raised voices. Eve counted to five, lifted her badge in the air, and shouted, "Now, listen up! This is a police investigation. Anyone refusing to follow the directives will be interfering with that investigation and will find themselves transported to the nearest station house where they will be kept in holding. I want this stage cleared, and cleared now!"

"Let's move." The brunette with the bit part as Vole's tootsie gracefully stepped over the unconscious Christine. "A couple of you big strong men pick up our leading lady, will you? I need a goddamn drink." She glanced around, her eyes cool, clear, and green. "Is that allowed, Lieutenant?"

"As long as it's not on my crime scene."

Satisfied, Eve pulled out her communicator. "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve." Once more she crouched beside the body. "I need a crime scene unit dispatched immediately."

"Eve." Doctor Mira hurried across the stage. "Roarke told me…" She trailed off, looked down at the body. "Good lord." She let out a long breath, shifted her gaze back to Eve. "What can I do?"

"Right now, you can stand by. I don't have a field kit. Peabody 's on the way, and I've sent for the crime scene team, and the ME. But until they get here, you're both the doctor on-scene and a designated police and security official. Sorry to screw up your evening."

Mira shook her head, started to kneel by the body.

"No, watch the blood. You'll contaminate my scene and ruin your dress."

"How did it happen?"

"You tell me. We all watched it. Using my acute powers of observation, I identify that knife as the murder weapon." Eve spread her hands. "I don't even have a damn can of Seal-It. Where the hell is Peabody?"

Frustrated that she couldn't begin a true examination or investigation without her tools, she spun around and spotted Roarke. "Would you hold here for me, Dr. Mira?"

Without waiting for an answer, Eve strode stage left. "Tell me, the bit with the knife in the last scene. How does it work?" she asked Roarke.

"Dummy knife. The blade retracts when it's pressed against a solid surface."

"Not this time," Eve murmured. "The victim, what's his real name?"

"Richard Draco. A very hot property. I suppose he's cooled off considerably now."

"How well did you know him?"

"Not well. I've met him socially a few times, but primarily I knew his work." Roarke tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he studied Draco's stunned and staring eyes. "He's a four-time Tony Award winner, garnered excellent reviews in the films he's done. He's a top box office draw, stage and screen, and has been so for a number of years. He has a rep," Roarke continued, "for being difficult, arrogant, and childish. Juggles women, enjoys a certain amount of chemical enhancements that might not meet the police department's code."

"The woman who killed him?"

"Areena Mansfield. Brilliant actress. A rare untemperamental type, and dedicated to her art. Very well respected in theater circles. She lives and works primarily in London but was persuaded to relocate to New York for this role."

"By who?"

"Partially by me. We've known each other for a number of years. And no," he added, dipping his hands in his pockets again, "I've never slept with her."

"I didn't ask that."

"Yes, you did."

"Okay, if I did, we'll have the follow-up. Why haven't you slept with her?"

A faint smile lifted his mouth. "Initially because she was married. Then, when she wasn't…" He ran a fingertip along the dent in Eve's chin. "I was. My wife doesn't like me to sleep with other women. She's very strict about it."

"I'll make a note of that." She considered her options, juggled them. "You know a lot of these people, or have impressions of them anyway. I'm going to want to talk to you later." She sighed. "On the record."

"Of course. Is it possible this was an accident?"

"Anything's possible. I need to examine the knife, and I can't touch the fucker until Peabody gets here. Why don't you go back there, do a pat and stroke on your people? And keep your ears open."

"Are you asking me to assist in an official police investigation?"

"No, I am not." And despite the circumstances, her lips wanted to quiver. "I just said keep your ears open." She tapped a finger on his chest. "And stay out of my way. I'm on duty."

She turned away as she heard the hard clop of what could only be police-issue shoes.

Peabody 's were shined to a painful gleam Eve could spot across the length of the stage. Her winter-weight uniform coat was buttoned to the throat of a sturdy body. Her cap sat precisely at the correct angle atop her dark, straight hair.

They crossed the stage from opposite ends, met at the body. "Hi, Dr. Mira." Peabody glanced down at the body, pursed her lips. "Looks like a hell of an opening night."

Eve held out a hand for her field kit. "Record on, Peabody."

"Yes, sir." Because it was warm under the stage lights, Peabody shrugged out of her coat, folded it, set it aside. She clipped her recorder to the collar of her uniform jacket.

"Record on," she said as Eve coated her hands and evening shoes with Seal-It.

"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on-scene, stage set of New Globe Theater. Also in attendance, Peabody, Officer Delia, and Mira, Dr. Charlotte. Victim is Richard Draco, mixed race male, late forties to early fifties."