Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER TEN

EVE GATHERED WHAT SHE NEEDED BEFORE walking out of her office into the bullpen.

“Peabody, with me,” she said, and kept walking.

Peabody scrambled to catch up. “We nailed the shoe.”

“Good work. The top—when you’re talking important and exclusive—vendor in the city is the designer’s boutique on Madison. We’ll need a list of people who bought that shoe in the size range.”

“Shopping! Even if I couldn’t afford the toe of a pair of socks in a place like that.”

“Field work,” Eve corrected. “First we’re going to ruin Mitchell Sykes’s day. He’s in Interview A, and he’s mine. You’ve got the cohab in B.”

“I get to work her solo.” Peabody rubbed her hands together.

“I want you to go in like this is in the bag. We got everything we need to put her over, but the PA wants to save the taxpayers some money, and offer a deal. First one to lay it all out, verify the skim and scam, gets to plead to misappropriation of prescription drugs and a lighter sentence.”

“Because we want her to roll on Sykes.”

“We do.”

“And I get to be disgusted the PA isn’t fully backing our play because it’s all politics and crap. So here’s the deal, sister, and you better grab it before your playmate does.”

Eve rubbed her ear. “See where it takes you. If you get a sense she’s as much an asshole as he is, change your tactic. We’ll get them both on the whole shot. But I want to put this away fast. We’ve got bigger fish to bake.”

“Fry. Fish to fry.”

“Jesus, why would you care how metaphorically fish is cooked?”

Eve peeled off, stepped into Interview A. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Sykes, Mitchell. Hey, Mitch, how’s it going?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Who does?”

“Look, I told you what I know about all this already. I don’t have to be here, but Mr. Sweet’s directive is for full cooperation with the police.”

“Sweet,” she said, to amuse herself. “Have you been read your rights?”

“No. Why would I—”

“It’s routine, Mitch, everybody knows that.” She reeled off the Revised Miranda. “So, do you understand your rights and obligations?”

He let out a long, windy sigh. “Of course I do.”

“Excellent. So, since we’re both busy, let’s get right to the point. You and your cohab are deep in shit. My partner’s got her down the hall and is, right now, giving her a deal. I don’t want to give you one because I just don’t like you.”

His shoulders jerked the instant Eve mentioned his cohab. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Yeah, you do, because you’re under arrest. You and your girlfriend have been procuring drugs from Dudley and Son, and selling them on the open market. I know this, have solid evidence of same—that secret account of yours isn’t a secret anymore.”

She smiled pleasantly while a thin line of sweat formed over his top lip. “Basically what we’re doing here is just a formality, and more about my personal satisfaction.” She spread her hands. “I’ve got to squeeze in some fun now and again, right?”

“You . . . you’re making all this up.”

“Got you cold, Mitch. You and Karolea Prinz stole from your own company, then profited on the weaknesses, needs, and sickness of others by distributing what you stole.”

She leaned on the table, inching a little closer to his sweaty face. “You split the profits and set up a couple of offshore accounts under the name Sykpri Development.” She watched his face go paler, paler. “The tax guys are going to have their fun with you on that deal later. But for now, it’s all mine. Prinz is confirming the details right now with my partner in another interview room.”

“I—I don’t have anything to say. I want to talk to Karolea.”

“You don’t have to talk to me, but you won’t be talking to her either. She’s busy saving her own ass at the moment. Now we can move on because it strikes me that anybody who’d steal and sell drugs, who’d have the skill to set up an account that isn’t flagged by the usual regulations, wouldn’t have any problem screwing with his boss’s ID and credit, using that to cover his sorry ass when he killed.”

“I’m not a killer!” This time his voice squeaked, just a little ratlike sound that warmed Eve’s heart. “Good God, I never killed anyone.”

“Well, let’s see. You’re a thief, a liar, an illegals pusher, as well as being a complete dick.” She sat as if weighing the notion. “Yeah, it’s just a short step to murder. Maybe it went like this: You used Jamal’s company and services to reach a higher-income client base, then he wants a bigger cut. Or maybe has a change of heart. Can’t have that, so you have to take him out, don’t you? And why not frame your own boss—get a twofer. Maybe a nice promotion. Then—”

“No!” He leaped out of the chair, then dropped straight down again as if his legs couldn’t hold him. “I didn’t even know that man, that Jamal person. I’m not a murderer!”

“Just a thief, liar, illegals pusher, and complete dick?” She shrugged. “Convince me, because I’ve got things to do, Mitch, and this one’s looking all wrapped up with a bow on it.”

“You’re crazy.” His eyes bulged and wheeled. “It’s crazy.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“Listen . . .” He tugged at the knot of his tie, wet his lips. “Okay, fine, we skimmed some inventory.”

“Inventory, as in drugs. As a rep for Dudley, Karolea could access them.”

“Yes. Yes. All we had to do was doctor the logs, tweak the invoices. It’s not a big deal. The company builds that kind of loss into the budget. We just wanted the money. I’m entitled to some perks considering the hours I put in. Do you know how much my education cost? And I’m stuck running errands for Sweet? We didn’t hurt anyone. We . . . we provide a service. We sell at a discount.”

“You steal drugs from Dudley—”

“Karolea acquires the merchandise,” he said quickly. “She handles that area. I’m in sales.”

“I see. So she acquires the drugs, and you sell them.”

“Yes. We have regular customers. It’s not as if we’re peddling Zeus on street corners to children. These are safe medications. We’re helping people.”

“Like the guy who’s addicted to painkillers and buys from you instead of going to the medicals for rehab or assistance. Or the one who ODs on tranqs, or the ones who mix the chemicals to get high. Or the ones, you fuckhead, who resell to kids on street corners.”

“We’re not responsible for—”

“Cut the crap. You’ve confessed, on the record. I don’t need your sob stories and justifications.”

“You can’t seriously believe I killed that driver.”

“Oh, hell no. I just said that so you’d spill your guts on the rest. Good job.” She checked the time. “Now we can both get out of here. Me to work, you to your cell.”

“But . . . I want a lawyer.”

“No problem. They’ll let you contact one on your way to booking. Thank you for your cooperation. Interview end.”

She rose, opened the door, and hailed the waiting uniforms. “Walk him through, let him contact his lawyer.”

She walked into Observation and watched Peabody wrap up a weeping Karolea Prinz.

“She cried a lot,” Peabody said when they headed down to the garage. “I mean a lot. She says, or thinks, she’s in love with the asshole. Didn’t want to roll, but—”

“Push comes to shove, love goes down.”

“I guess, except when it’s really love. Do we get to go look at shoes now?”

“We’re not looking at shoes. We know the shoe already. I want to make this quick.”

“Shoes are fun.” Peabody gave a little bounce of enthusiasm on her own. “It’ll be good to have the side benefit of fun after all that crying. See, it’s a nice combo. Shutting down a small, yet profitable prescription drug scam, running down a lead on the investigation, and getting to gaze longingly at shoes I’ll never be able to afford, but imagining I could.”

“You know what happens to people who longingly imagine having things they can’t afford?”

“Happy dreams?”

“A life of crime.”

As she drove, Eve considered that possibility as applied to the case. “Maybe this guy gazes longingly at fancy limos and high-priced LCs, and it just pisses him off he can’t order them up like pizza. So he vents the anger and frustration by killing them. Which isn’t bad as theories go except for the shoes. When you’ve got three thousand to spend on a pair of designer loafers, you’re not hurting.”

“Maybe he stole them,” Peabody suggested. “Or got them as a gift, or blew a wide chunk of his savings just to have them for his own.”

“All possible, and ors that shouldn’t be dismissed. But he’d also have to spend a chunk on a crossbow and bolts—pricey ones, and an antique bayonet. Unless he scammed someone else’s ID to acquire those. He still has to connect somewhere to the two corporations. Otherwise, why go through all the layers on the security there?”

It kept coming back to the companies, Eve concluded. “If he’s just a homicidal hacker, he could’ve accessed any IDs and credit lines—and he could afford all the fancy limos and high-priced LCs he wanted anyway, so it doesn’t jell.”

Eve twitched her head toward the dash comp when it signaled incoming data.

“It’s from the lab,” Peabody told her. “A report on the weapon. Antique is right. It’s mid-twentieth century. Dickhead’s got make, manufacturer, even a serial number. Pretty thorough.”

“You be thorough, start a search. Find us the owner.”

It gave Eve a few minutes of quiet. Who was next on his list? she wondered. What type? Maybe a top-drawer salon tech, private shuttle pilot, some hot, exclusive designer.

She thought of Leonardo, her oldest friend’s husband. And Mavis herself, Eve thought with a clutch in her belly. Famous music vid star. She’d make a point of checking in with them, putting them on alert.

No private gigs until she cleared it.

“It’s not registered.” Peabody looked up as Eve hunted for a parking spot. “It hasn’t been sold by any legit vendor in the last twenty years. Something that old could’ve been bought twice that long ago, before weapons of that kind had to be registered. It could’ve been passed down through a family or something. It’s military, and there’s no way to trace the original owner back a hundred years. There’s no records on that kind of thing.”

“Okay.” She hit vertical, causing Peabody to yelp, and squeezed into a second-level spot. “So he already owned it, skipped the registration—thousands do—or he picked it up on the shady side. More thousands do.”

They walked down to street level, and the half block to the shoe boutique. As they passed the display window Peabody let out a distinctive yummy noise.

“Don’t do that. For God’s sake, you’re a cop on a homicide investigation, not some tourist window-shopping.”

“But look at the blue ones with the silver heels with the little butterflies.”

Eve gave the shoes a narrowed stare. “Ten minutes on the feet, two hours in traction.” She pushed through the door.

The air smelled like the sort of flowers shoe butterflies probably rocked on. Shoes and bags were displayed under individual sparkling lights, like art or jewelry. Seating spread in chocolate-colored low-backed sofas and cream-colored chairs.

Customers or lookie-loos browsed while others sat, a few surrounded by colorful rivers of shoes. Some of the few wore expressions that put Eve in mind of chemi-heads on a high.

One woman strutted from mirror to mirror in a pair of towering heels the color of iridescent eggs.

The staff stood out from the browsers and strutters as everyone was stick thin and dressed in snug urban black.

Eve heard the gurgle sound in the back of Peabody’s throat, and snarled.

“Sorry.” Peabody tapped her collarbone. “It’s reflex.”

“You’ll have another reflex when you’re on the ground with my boot on your neck.”

“Ladies.” The man who strolled over boasted a blinding smile and a jacket with sleeves that ended in points as sharp as razors. “What can I do to make your day special?”

Eve pulled out her badge. “Funny you should ask. You can give me the customer list on this shoe, size ten or ten and a half.” She held up the printout.

“Really? Is it evidence? How exciting!”

“Yeah, we’re thrilled. I want to know who bought this shoe in either of those sizes.”

“Absolutely. What fun. How far back would you like me to go?”

“How far back is there?”

“That particular shoe debuted in March.”

“Okay, go back to March.”

“This store or citywide?”

Eve gave him a cautious stare. “Aren’t you the cooperative shoe guy.”

“Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had all day.”

“Citywide to start.”

“Citywide it is! Give me a few minutes. Have a seat. Would you like some sparkling water?”

“No, we’re good.”

“That’s why people who can afford magilicious shoes shop in these places and pay the full freight.” Peabody nodded after the salesman. “You get offered fizzy water by people who look like vid stars.”

“And who are so freaking bored they’re delirious with joy when you tell them to do a customer search.”

“But that’s good for us.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Peabody clasped her hands together. “Please, you don’t need me until he comes back. Five minutes is all I ask to worship at the altar of the shoe.”

“Don’t drool on any of them.” Eve turned her back, and for the hell of it, tried out her wrist unit in a tag to EDD.

“Any progress?” she asked Feeney.

“We’re going to be able to give you that projection on the rest of the killer’s face. But there’s nothing on the other discs at this point.” He pursed his lips. “You got a new ’link.”

“Sort of.”

“Trans is crystal.”

“It’s my wrist unit.”

“Get out. Those kinds of toys have crap trans.”

“New model.”

“Roarke didn’t mention it. I want a look at that when you come in.”

“Maybe.” She saw the salesclerk walking back, a little spring in his step. “Gotta go.”

“And here we are.” He handed her a disc. “We sold a pair in that color choice in size ten last March, by the way, and another pair in a ten and a half just last month. In Raven, we sold—”

“I didn’t ask about Raven. You sold two pair of those in four months?”

“In those sizes, in that color, in this store. Citywide includes several department stores and boutiques.”

“The ones bought here? Regular customers?”

“As a matter of fact.” He nodded. “So I’m afraid they’re probably not who you’re looking for. Sampson Anthony—the producer—last month, and Winston Dudley, the pharma king—in March.”

“Just for fun, because my partner’s getting juiced drooling over the shoes in here, who sold those two pair?”

“Patrick’s down for Mr. Anthony. And Mr. Dudley only works with Chica.”

Eve made a show of glancing over at Peabody. “I can stall another couple minutes. Why don’t I take a run at Chica while I’m here, it’ll give me something to put in the report and jibe the time she’s having a little fun.”

“You bet. She’s right over there, just finishing with a customer. Aubergine hair.”

Aubergine, Eve thought. It looked purple to her. “Appreciate it.”

She walked over, sat, gestured.

“And what can I slip on you today?”

“I’ll stick with what I got.” She held up her badge.

“Okay. Those are good boots for a cop. A good investment, and classic style.”

“If you say so. What can you tell me about Winston Dudley?”

“Winnie? Size ten, medium. Slightly high in the arch, but a nice easy fit. He likes what’s right off the runway. Favors classic styles, but he’ll get crazy now and then.”

“Does he come in a lot?”

“It depends on his schedule. Sometimes I take a selection to him.”

“You make house calls with shoes?”

“Shoes, belts, ties, bags, other accessories. It’s a service we provide to our upper clientele.”

“Are you booked to see him anytime soon?”

“No. He was just in, actually, a few days ago. Bought six pair. I probably won’t see him, either way, until next month, and then only if he’s in town.”

Eve took out a card. “Do us both a favor. If he contacts you for an at-home session, you get in touch.”

Chica studied the card and for the first time looked concerned. “Why?”

“Because I’m a cop with good boots.”

Chica laughed, but turned the card in her hands. “Listen, he’s a really good client. I get a nice commission and a generous tip with the at-your-door service, and I’d really hate to do anything to mess that up.”

“It won’t mess that up.”

“I guess it’s no skin off mine.”

“Good enough.” Eve rose, started out. “Peabody, dry your adoring tears. We’re done.”

“Oh, God!” Peabody beamed as they climbed to the car. “That was the best time. Did you see those—”

“Do not describe a pair of weird-looking, overpriced shoes to me.”

“But they were—”

“You’ll be crying tears of pain and misery any second. Dudley bought that shoe, right in that store, in March. Size ten.”

“No shit?”

“Not a single scoop of shit. We’ll run the other name—just one other sale—on the list—and the others citywide, global, too, just to cover bases, but that’s just too damn good. Circumstantial, but damn good. Let’s go screw with his day. Verify with his HQ he’s there. If not, find out where he is.”

This time when they arrived at Dudley’s, they were met in the lobby by a woman in a dark, pinstriped suit that showed a lot of leg and showcased excellent breasts. She wore her hair pulled back in a long, curly tail from a face boasting a perky, pointed nose, full lips, and wide, deep blue eyes.

“Lieutenant, Detective.” She shot out a hand. “I’m Marissa Cline, Mr. Dudley’s personal assistant. I’ll escort you directly to his office.”

“Appreciate the service,” Eve said.

Marissa gestured, and began to walk, briskly, on her candy-red heels. Eve wondered if she considered them a good investment.

“Mr. Dudley’s very concerned with the situation,” Marissa continued, “and the company’s indirect involvement in a crime.”

She palm-printed a pad, swiped a card in the security slot, then again gestured for Eve and Peabody to step into the elevator.

“Marissa, carrying two, to sixty.”

Verified, the computer responded. Proceeding.

“So, is Mr. Dudley active in the running of the company?” Eve asked.

“Oh, yes, of course. When Mr. Dudley’s father semi-retired three years ago, Mr. Dudley took over the reins, primarily from this HQ.”

“Before that?”

Marissa smiled, blankly. “Before?”

“Before he took over the reins?”

“Oh, ah, Mr. Dudley traveled extensively to various other HQs and outlets, gaining a wide range of experience in all levels of the company.”

“Okay.” Eve wondered if that was corporate speak for Dudley’s getting shuffled around, enjoying a variety of travel and partying while his father kept him on the payroll. They stepped out of the elevator into a spacious reception area, stylishly decorated with white lounging chairs equipped with miniscreens. Among the flowers, the refreshment bar, the conversation areas, three attractive women busily worked on comps.

Marissa knocked briskly—brisk seemed to be her mode—on one of the center double doors before tossing them both open.

Winston Dudley’s office was more along the lines of a snazzy hotel suite—lush and plush, staggering view, sparkling chandeliers.

A great deal of furniture helped fill the space, artfully arranged in conversational groups. He rose from behind a desk with a black mirrored surface.

He was more attractive in person than the ID shot. Eve put it down to what people called charisma—the way he smiled as he looked you directly in the eye, the way he moved, smooth as a dancer. Just a hint of flirtation in that move, that smile, those eyes, she thought—the sort that said, you’re a desirable woman, and I appreciate desirable women.

Avid eyes, she mused, that made her wonder if he’d recently sampled some of his own products.

His hair, so blond as to be nearly white, was swept back from a delicately boned face. Almost feminine, she mused. The features weren’t quite as sharp as Urich’s, but close.

His suit fit perfectly in a color she thought of as indigo. Old-fashioned links glinted at the cuffs of his pale blue shirt. His ID data, and her visual scan, put him at five feet ten and a half inches, weighing in at one-seventy.

Again, in Urich’s ballpark.

His shoes were as black and shiny as his desk, and sported no silver trim.

He took Eve’s hand, a firm grip, soft skin, and held it two flirtatious seconds after the shake.

“Lieutenant Dallas. I hoped we’d meet, but under different circumstances. I hope Roarke is well.”

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“And Detective Peabody, a pleasure.” He took her hand. “I recently finished Nadine Furst’s book. I feel I know both of you. Please sit down. Black coffee,” he said as Marissa lifted a tray, “coffee regular.” He tapped the side of his head. “Those details from the book stick. Thanks, Marissa. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

He sat on one of the wide chairs, laid his forearms on the wide arms. “I know you’re here about the murder of the driver, and our own Augustus Sweet. It’s very distressing. What can I do to help?”

“You can tell me where you were on the night in question.”

His eyes widened, briefly, then lit with fun. “Really? I’m a suspect?”

“It’s routine, Mr. Dudley—”

“Please, Winnie.”

“It’s routine, and just helps us cross things off the list.”

“Of course. I was at a dinner party with a number of friends in Greenwich—Connecticut, that is. I believe my date and I arrived at just before eight, and left around midnight. I’ll have Marissa give you the names and location. Will that do?”

“Works for me. How’d you get there?”

“My driver. I have a private car and driver. I’ll get you that information as well.”

“Good enough.” She walked him through a few standard questions—did he know the victim, had he used their services, tossed in a few more relating to Sweet.

“I have to tell you we’ve just arrested and charged two of your employees.”

“Good God, for the murder? Who—”

“No, on an unrelated matter. Mitchell Sykes and Karolea Prinz. They’ve been skimming some of your products, selling them.”

He sat back, arranged his face into sober lines. “I’d like more information on this. It’s very upsetting. This shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, I need to have meetings with my department heads, Security, Inventory. I owe you a debt.”

“No, we did our job. Another unrelated matter, just crossing off. Are you acquainted with Sylvester Moriarity?”

“Sly? Yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Why?”

“Just covering bases. Was he at this dinner party?”

“No. He’s not particularly friendly with the hosts, and it was a close-knit group.”

“Okay. Thanks for the time, the coffee.” She got to her feet, smiled as he rose. “Oh, just to tidy up. How about last night? Can you tell me where you were?”

“Yes. I had drinks with a friend about five, then went home. I wanted a quiet evening, and very much wanted to finish the book. The Icove case. Just fascinating.”

“So, nobody came by?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“Just the opposite. It was one of those nights I wanted to myself. I’m curious as to why you’d want to know?”

“I’m nosy. Part of being a cop. Thanks again.”

“You’re more than welcome, both of you. Let me walk you out, and have Marissa get you the information you need. I hope we’ll see each other again, when it’s not work related.”

Marissa had the data at her fingertips—almost, Eve thought, as if she’d been told to have it there. In the elevator, Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak.

“Good coffee.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“It helps when you get that kind of cooperation.” Eve leaned negligently against the side wall. “Saves time. I want you to check out the driver, and the dinner party, just so we can put it aside. We have to log it in, even though it’s obvious he didn’t book that limo or kill Houston. So . . . what’re you and McNab up to tonight?”

Peabody’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Ah, well, we thought we might catch a vid unless we’re on OT.”

“Probably wrap up shift on time.”

She moved across the lobby, outside. She didn’t speak again until she was behind the wheel and driving away.

“Slick bastard.”

“Yeah, I was going to say—”

“And if that elevator isn’t monitored, eyes and ears, I’m having an affair with Summerset.”

“You’re—oh. Damn, sure it is.”

“Lobby might be, too.”

“You didn’t really want to know what McNab and I were doing tonight?”

“Why the hell would I care? He’s slick,” she repeated.

“He is, but he didn’t kill Houston. And he didn’t have an alibi for The Night of the Shoe.”

Eve snorted out a laugh. “Good one. That’s right, and he’s also five ten, and a little heavier than Urich. What else did we get out of that?”

“The connection you wanted between the two companies. Just call me Winnie and Sly. Good pals. It’s the first real link we’ve found.”

“That’s right. Top-level connection. What else did we get?”

“Okay, what?”

“Who wasn’t at the famous dinner party two nights ago when Jamal Houston was getting a crossbow through the neck?”

“Sylvester Moriarity? You’re thinking . . . Like that case a while back. Where the two women killed the other’s husbands? They each took one? But why?”

“Don’t know. But it’s an interesting angle. Track down Sly, and let’s go see if he’s as slick as Winnie.”