In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

arrangements for security, display, and auction Roarke Industries gets a nice piece of the pie."
    He was scanning the room himself, and though he was anything but a cop, he studied, measured, and watched even as his wife had.
    "Her name's enough to push the bidding far above actual value. I think we're safe in predicting that twice the actual value will make up that pie by the end of things."
    Boggling, Eve thought. Boggling. "You're figuring people will choke out half a billion for somebody else's things?"
    "Conservatively and before the sentiment factors in."
    "Jesus Christ." She could only shake her head. "It's just stuff. Wait." She held up a hand. "I forgot who I was talking to. The king of stuff."
    "Thank you, darling." He decided not to mention he had his eye on a few bits of that stuff for himself, and his wife.
    He lifted a finger. Instantly a server bearing a tray of champagne in crystal flutes was at his side. Roarke removed two, handed one to Eve. "Now, if you've finished eyeballing my security arrangements, perhaps you could enjoy yourself."
    "Who says I wasn't?" But she knew she was here not as a cop, but as the wife of Roarke. That meant mingling, rubbing shoulders. And the worst of human tortures in her estimation: small talk.
    Because he knew her mind as thoroughly as he knew his own, he lifted her hand, kissed it. "You're so good to me."
    "And don't you forget it. Okay." She took a bracing sip of champagne. "Who do I have to talk to?"
    "I think we should start with the woman of the hour. Let me introduce you to Magda. You'll like her."
    "Actors," Eve muttered.
    "Biases are so unattractive. In any case," he began as he led her across the room, "Magda Lane is far more than an actor. She's a legend. This marks her fiftieth year in the business, one which often chews up and spits out those who dream of it. She's outlasted every trend, every style, every change in the movie industry. It takes more than talent to do that. It takes spine."
    It was as close as Eve had ever seen him to having stars in his eyes. And that made her smile. "Stuck on her, are you?"
    "Absolutely. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a particular evening where I needed a bit of a dodge off the streets. Seeing as I had several lifted wallets and other pocket paraphernalia on my person and the garda on my heels."
    The wide mouth she'd forgotten to dye for the evening sneered. "Boys will be boys."
    "Well, be that as it may, I happened to duck into a theater. I was eight or thereabouts and resigned myself to sitting through some costume drama I imagined would bore me senseless. And there sitting in the dark, I had my first look at Magda Lane as Pamela in Pride's Fall?'
    He gestured toward the display of a sweeping white ballgown that shimmered under a firestorm of icy stones. The droid replica of the actor turned in graceful circles, dipped into delicate curtsies, fluttered a sparkling white fan.
    "How the hell did she walk around in that?" Eve wondered. "Looks like it weighs a ton."
    He had to laugh. It was so Eve to see the inconvenience rather than the glamour. "Nearly thirty pounds of costume, I'm told. I said she had spine. In any case, she was wearing that the first time I saw her on screen. And for an hour I forgot where I was, who I was, that I was hungry or that I'd likely get a fist in the face when I got home if the wallets weren't plump enough. She drew me out of myself. That's a powerful thing."
    He avoided interruption by simply aiming a smile or wave in the direction of those who called him. "I went back and saw Pride's Fall four times that summer, and paid for it. Well, paid the fee once anyway. After, whenever I needed to be drawn out of myself, I went to the movies."
    She was holding his hand now, well able to visualize the boy he'd been, sitting in the dark, transported away by the images flickering on screen.
    At the age of eight he'd discovered another world outside the misery and violence of the one he lived in.
    And at eight, she thought, Eve Dallas had been born to a young girl too broken to remember anything that had come before.
    Wasn't it almost the same thing?
    Eve recognized the actor. Roarke didn't really go to the movies these days -- unless you counted his private theaters -- but he had copies on disc of thousands of them. She'd watched more screen in the past year with him than she had in the previous thirty.
    Magda Lane wore red. Screaming siren red that painted a stunning and voluptuous body like a