"Is that part of the script?" Eve demanded as they stepped into the elevator.

"No."

"Okay." She dug her communicator out of her evening bag. "This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need a medivac unit. New Globe Theater, Broadway and Thirty-eighth. Condition and injury as yet unknown."

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."