In Death 10 - Witness in Death

probably thought the same thing. And saw the irony of it. Vole dies in the last act. Draco dies in the last act. A dramatic bit of justice. Executed, before witnesses."
    She walked back to sit. "It doesn't tell me anything new, really. But it solidifies the angles. Resume play."
    She waited, watched. Areena's entrance, she saw now, was brilliant in its timing. That was the writer, of course, the director, but the style of it had to come from the actor.
    Beautiful, classy, mysterious, and coolly sexy. That was the role. But that wasn't the true character, Eve remembered. The real Christine Vole revealed herself to be a woman consumed by love. One who would lie for the man she knew to be a murderer, who would sacrifice her dignity, her reputation to save him from the law. And who, in the end, executed him for dismissing that love.
    "It's acting on two levels," Eve murmured. "Just as Draco is. Neither of them show the face of their character until the last scene."
    "They're both very skilled."
    "No, they're all skilled. All used to manipulating words and actions to present an image. I haven't chipped through the image yet. Sir Wilfred believes he's defending an innocent man, and in the end learns he was duped. That's enough to piss you off. If we're correlating life and make-believe. It's enough to kill for."
    He'd thought the same himself, and nodded. "Go on."
    "The character of Diana believed every bullshit line Vole fed her. That his wife was a cold bitch, that he was innocent, that he was going to leave her."
    "The other woman," Roarke put in. "The younger one. A little naive, a little grasping."
    "In the end, won't she figure out she was duped and used and be mortified? Just as Carly learned she was duped and used and mortified. As Christine learned. And there's Michael Proctor standing in the wings, hungry to take it all on."
    She studied the faces, listened to the voices, measured the connections. "It's one of them, one of the players. I know it. It's not some tech with a grudge, or with dreams of being in the lights. It's someone who's been in the lights and knows how to wear the right face at the right time."
    She fell silent again, watching the play progress, searching for some chink, some instant when a glance, a gesture indicated the feelings and plans beneath the facade.
    But no, they were good, she mused. Every one of them.
    "That's the dummy knife, first courtroom scene. Freeze screen, enhance sector P-Q, twenty-five percent."
    The screen shifted smoothly, with the evidence table enlarging. The knife on it was in clear view from this angle, and enlarged, Eve could see the subtle differences between it and the murder weapon.
    "The blade's nearly the same size and shape, but the handle's a bit wider, thicker. It's the same color, but it's not the same material." She let out a breath. "But you wouldn't notice it unless you were looking for it. You expect to see the prop, so you see it. Draco could have looked right at it, hell, he might have picked it up himself, and he wouldn't have noticed. Resume normal play."
    Her head was beginning to throb lightly. She barely noticed when Roarke began to rub her shoulders. She watched the change of scenes, the curtain drop, the soundless circling of one set for another. A few techs slipped across behind the curtain, nearly indistinguishable in their traditional black.
    But she spotted Quim. He was clearly in charge now, in his element. He gestured, a kind of theater sign language that meant little to her. She saw him consult briefly with the prop master, nod, then glance downstage left.
    "There." Eve leaped to her feet again. "He sees something, something that doesn't fit. He's hesitating, yeah, just for a second, studying. And now he's moving off in the same direction. What did you see? Who did you see? Damn it."
    She turned back to Roarke. "That was the switch. The real knife's on the courtroom set now. Waiting."
    She ordered the disc to reverse, then set her wrist unit to time, and replayed. "Okay, now he spots it."
    Behind her, Roarke rose, moved to the AutoChef and ordered her coffee. When he stepped beside her, she took the cup without realizing it, drank.
    On-screen, extras moved out to their marks. The bartender took his position, techs vanished. Areena, dressed in the cheap and gaudy costume that suited a mid-twentieth-century barfly, took her seat on a stool at the end of a bar. She angled herself away from the audience.
    A train whistle blew. Curtain