Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE HUNTED. WITH A BAYONET SHEATHED AT her side, a crossbow in her hands, she stalked her prey through richly appointed rooms, glittering light, velvet shadows.

The fragrance was drowning floral, so thick it felt like breathing blossoms. On the ornately carved desk she’d seen in Moriarity’s office, two men—hooded, stripped to the waist—turned a screaming woman on the rack.

“Can’t help you,” Eve told her. “You’re not real, anyway.”

The woman paused mid-scream to smile wearily. “Who is? What is?”

“I haven’t got time for philosophy. They’ve already picked out the next.”

“The next what? The next who? The next what?”

“Do you mind,” one of the hooded men said. “You’re interrupting the program.”

“Fine. Carry on.”

She moved into the next room, sweeping her weapon, right, left. In the sleek black-and-white drama, the bold red on the floor was blood, and on the blood floated a chauffeur’s cap.

Leaving signs, she thought. They liked leaving clues. Liked thinking they were too smart, too insulated, too rich to be caught.

She stood in the center of the room, studying it. What was missing? What had she missed?

She stepped through and into her own office at Central where her murder board dominated.

Was it there? Already there?

Limo driver, crossbow, transpo center.

LC, bayonet, amusement park.

Who, what, where.

But why?

She eased out the door, turned toward the bullpen.

But rather than the cops, the desks, the smell of bad coffee, she stepped into what she imagined to be a room in some exclusive club. Big leather chairs, a simmering fire though the heat was fierce, deep colors, paintings on the wall of high-class hunting.

Hounds and horses.

The two men sat, swirling amber-colored brandy in balloon glasses. Long, slim cigars smoked on the silver tray on the table between them.

They turned to her as one, and their smiles were sneers.

“I’m sorry, you’re not a member. You’ll have to leave or face the consequences. It takes more than money to belong.”

“I know what you did, and I think I know how. But I don’t know why.”

“We don’t answer to you and your kind.”

It was Dudley who lifted the gun, an enormous silver weapon.

She heard the snap when it cocked.

She jerked, and her eyes flew open. She swore she heard—even smelled—the explosion of gunfire.

“Shh.” Beside her Roarke pulled her closer, wrapped her in. “Just a dream.”

“What’s it telling me?” she mumbled. When she tried to shift, an annoyed Galahad dug his claws into her butt. “Ow, damn it.” She maneuvered him off, and ended up face-to-face with Roarke. “Hi.”

“Again.” He trailed his fingers lightly over her wounded arm. “How?”

“Idiot with a plastic knife sharpened to a shiv, right in fucking Central. The worst was Whitney made me get a medic on it while I gave him my report.”

“Why the bastard, forcing one of his cops to have a wound tended.”

“I’d field-dressed it. Jacket’s toast.”

He snuggled her in on the remote chance they’d both just drift off again. “There’s more where that came from.”

“I don’t like Dudley or Moriarity.”

“Isn’t that handy? Neither do I, particularly.”

“Dudley comes up smarm and charm, with that ‘I just love women’ light in his eyes, and the other’s all ‘I’m a busy and important man so move this along, peon.’ And maybe that’s what they are, on top of it. Maybe it is. But under it they were smirking.”

He watched her face as she spoke, and decided that remote possibility didn’t exist. “I know that look,” he murmured. “You think they did this—together.”

“It’s a theory.” She scowled at nothing. “It’s the right theory. And not just because I don’t like them. I didn’t like that little bastard Sykes either, but I didn’t look at him for murder.”

“All right, so you know who. How?”

She took him through it, the alibis, the lack of them, the friendship.

“It’s not a hell of a lot, but there was . . . a tone, a feel, a sense that they’d been waiting to play those scenes. And . . . I know what I missed. Family. Family firms, right?”

When she started to sit up, he just kept his arm hooked around her waist. “Let’s just lie here a bit. I’m listening.”

“Well, why wasn’t there anything of or about family in their offices? They’ve got huge spaces, all fancied up. No family photos, or photos at all. No, there’s the cricket mallet my—”

“Bat. It’s a cricket bat.”

“It doesn’t look like a bat. Or mallet either, but it doesn’t matter. Here’s the cricket whatzit my dear old dad gave me on my tenth birthday, or yes, that’s my great-grandfather’s pocket watch. They’re generational firms without any generational tokens in their spaces. Nothing. Neither of them. They’re running a company passed down from father to son, and so on, and there’s nothing.”

“Devil’s advocate. It might be a deliberate show that they’re their own men.”

“That’s part of where I’m going. Legacies are a deal with those types, even if it’s for show. And family weighs. Mira’s got her family all over her office. Whitney’s got stuff, Feeney, like that, and maybe that’s a different kind of thing, but there ought to be some sort of show. It’s off, isn’t it, that neither of them has anything, at least visibly, that connects them to their family but the company itself?”

“You think they resent being put in their positions?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Or they figure it’s their due so who gives a fuck about dear old Dad or whoever. And maybe it’s nothing. It’s just odd it’s both of them. Common ground. I think that’s how it started. They have all this common ground.”

“It’s a long step from a similar background to a murderous partnership.”

“There’s more than background between them.”

“Sex?”

She considered. “Maybe. That would certainly add a layer of connection and trust. It could be sex, even love. Or just the bond of like minds, like interests. People find each other.”

“We did.”

“Aw.” She exaggerated the sound as she grinned at him. She kissed him lightly, then nudged him away. “I’ve got to update my board, and do some runs. I have to keep looking for a connection between the vics, and between the vics and the company, even though I don’t think there are any. And I’ve got one that should be done on military ancestors who might’ve owned the bayonet.”

“Red meat.”

“Huh?”

“We’ll have steak. We could both use the boost.”

“You’re not tired anymore. I’m looking right in your eyes, and I’d see if you were. It’s annoying.”

“I still want steak.”

“Now I want it, too. But first I want a shower. Wash off this day and a half.” She sniffed at him. “How come you smell so good?”

“Could be I’m simply blessed that way, or it could be the shower I had at the office. Go on then.” He gave her ass a friendly pat. “I’ll set up the meal.”

She felt better, after the shower, another hit of coffee, a change of clothes. And when she walked into her home office, she smelled grilled meat, and felt better yet.

And it reminded her of her early-morning conversation with Morris.

“Ah, I sort of said how we might have a thing, you know with that big-ass grill of yours, and people.”

Roarke lifted the bottle of wine he’d opened. “You want me to grill people?”

“Only some people. But that should be done privately. Just half a glass of that for me.”

He poured. “You’re after having a cookout.”

“I’m not really after it, but I saw Morris this morning, and he looked so damn sad, and I said something about it before I actually thought about it, then I forgot about it until I smelled the steak.”

He crossed to her, handed her the wineglass, then caught her chin in his hand, kissed her. “You’re a good friend.”

“I don’t know how the hell that happened.”

“Saturday evening?”

“I guess. Unless—”

“There’s always an unless, but as we’ll be entertaining cops or those associated with, it’s a given for all.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“Eve, I know this continues to astound and baffle you, but I actually like to socialize.”

“I know. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be perfect.” When he laughed, she walked over, lifted the cover of a plate. “God, that really does smell good. I’m getting that boost and I haven’t even eaten it yet.”

“Let’s see what happens when you do. How’s the arm?” he asked when they sat at the table by the window.

“It’s okay.” She rolled her shoulder, flexed. “Hardly feel it.”

“We should have a contest,” he decided, “to see if you can go, say, two weeks without an on-the-job injury.”

“I was just switching glides.” She cut into the steak. “Minding my own business. And what kind of idiot thinks they’re going to get away with stabbing their ex with a plastic knife in the middle of Cop Central?”

“One who’s only thinking of the satisfaction of the act, not the consequences.”

“Probably toked up,” she muttered. “But not enough he didn’t feel it when I kicked his balls until they tickled his tongue.”

It made him smile to picture it. “Is that what you did?”

“It was the quickest and most satisfying action.”

“That’s my girl.” He toasted her.

“What are you going to do? Asshole with a plastic knife in Cop Central. It’s like . . .”

He knew that look as well, and said nothing to interrupt her train of thought.

“Make that Asshole’s Ex with a plastic knife in Cop Central.”

“All right.”

“Could that be it? Is it just that sick?”

“I can’t say.” Watching her, he sipped his wine. “You tell me.”

“It’s Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel.”

“Hmm.” He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. “Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.”

“Whatever. It’s that game—who was it—McNab or Peabody said something about that game sometime back.”

“Clue.”

“You always know this crap. But yeah, and it sounded interesting, so I brought it up on the comp one day to check it out. And that doesn’t matter.”

“You playing a game on the comp is big news, but I’d say your brainstorm on this is bigger. You’re speculating that Dudley and Moriarity, if indeed they’re in this homicidal partnership, are in fact playing a game.”

“The elements are all screwy—the methods. The weapon, the vic, the kill site. They come off as random kills, connected by the type of each element, which still strikes me as random. So what if it is, what if it is fucking random because they’re elements of a contest, a game, a competition? Or, if not that sick, some sort of deeply disturbed agreement?”

“If so, the question would be why.”

“Why does anyone play a game, enter a contest, compete? To win.”

“Darling, while that viewpoint is one of the reasons you’re not much of a player, many play because they simply enjoy the game or the experience.”

She stabbed another bite of steak. “Losing sucks.”

“I tend to agree, but nonetheless. Your hypothesis is: two respected and high-powered businessmen, with no previous criminal record or reputation for violence have partnered up, not merely to kill, but to kill for . . . sport?”

“Sport.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Look at the vics. Jamal Houston. Neither of the men or their companies used his transpo service. Nothing we’ve uncovered shows any previous connection to him. Peabody’s looking into the remote possibility one of them did use him on the QT—which isn’t probable or logical—and he saw or overheard something, then one or both of them decided to eliminate him. But just look at that convoluted mess. First, one or both had to use a service they didn’t routinely use, which limits their security. Then one or both have to do or say something incriminating, illegal, immoral, whatever, in front of a driver they don’t routinely use.”

She scooped up some of the baked potato she’d already drowned in butter, sampled, then kept talking while she—to Roarke’s mind—buried it in salt.

“Then one or both have to decide to kill him, and chose a method that highlights the crime when, shit, they could’ve hired the hit.”

“Why don’t you just salt the butter and eat it with a spoon?”

“What?”

“Never mind. All right, I agree that scenario doesn’t make sense. It’s too complicated and illogical.”

“That doesn’t even get to Crampton. Neither of them are in her book. Now, maybe one or both of them used her services with another ID, but it’s hard for me to swallow she wouldn’t have made one or both in her vetting process. And if they were using fake ID and getting away with it, why kill her? I’ve got no evidence of blackmail, as in she learned who the client was and tried to shake him down. Which would be stupid and risk her very valuable rep for money when she was already flush, and risk her license when she didn’t have a single blemish on it. Add the method and location, and it’s too showy.”

“Can’t argue. Eat your vegetables.”

She rolled her eyes but ate some asparagus. “There. So, simplify it, break it down to its elements.”

“And you have a game of Clue.”

She circled a finger in the air as she chewed more steak. “Or their version of that sort of thing. Maybe their version of some urban hunt for really big game.”

“Which winds back to why. It’s murder, Eve, and by your supposition the murder of innocent and personally unknown people.”

“People important in their field. People in business or services for the upper rung of the social and financial ladder. I think that’s an element. Maybe that’s part of the why. I don’t know yet.”

“Because anything less isn’t worthy.”

Eve paused with a liberally salted forkful of potato halfway to her mouth. “Worthy.”

“Just trying to follow the trail you’re breaking. You’ve described them both as arrogant, smug, wealthy, privileged, and from my limited knowledge of them I don’t disagree.”

He poured more water in her glass as he expected she’d need to drink like the dying with that much salt in her system.

“They’ve been steeped in that privilege all their lives,” he continued, “and have known only the best, have been able to select the best in every area. That can be a heady experience when you come from nothing. Conversely, it could be a matter of considering what you deserve is only the best, and less isn’t to be tolerated.”

He lifted his wine, gestured before he drank. “Why murder a sidewalk sleeper, for instance? Where’s the shine in that, where’s the prestige? And you’ve no truck with that sort in any case. They’re too far beneath you.”

“But a tony chauffeur service, or the best LC in the city, while beneath you, are still people you would or could utilize.”

“It’s logical.”

“It damn well is,” she agreed. “An unusual weapon, or unique weapon, it adds to the shine.”

“And perhaps the challenge.”

“So does the location. Makes it challenging, and worthy.”

“They’ve each completed their round, if that’s what this is,” Roarke pointed out. “Or bagged their trophy. Maybe that’s the end of it.”

“No. It’s a tie, isn’t it? A tie doesn’t cut it, not in games, in competition, in sports. Ties suck for everybody. There has to be a winner. They have to go to the next round.”

He turned it over in his mind. “They know you’re looking at them, checking alibis, doing background checks. That would add to the flavor, the buzz of it all, if that’s what this is about.”

“They were ready for me.” She nodded to herself as she looked back at both interviews. “See that’s what struck me when I talked to each of them. They were ready with their performance, their script, their play. It was like another kind of round, wasn’t it? A level. Okay, we each qualified in that round, now it’s Beat the Cop time for bonus points. They had to factor that in when they used employee IDs. They had to want that element, too.”

“A bigger bonus that it was you, with your reputation.”

“Add my connection to you. A little more—what’s it—panache.”

“As you’re talking me into it, consider the timing. We’re just back from holiday. It’s very easy to verify we’d both be back to work. And if any research had been done, a good bet that your name would come up on a fresh homicide when you’re just back. I’d say they wanted, hoped, and did their best to ensure it would be you. Only the best.”

“He brought up the book. Dudley,” Eve remembered. “Nadine’s book, the Icove case. A lot of shimmer on that right now. Damn it, maybe I should tell Nadine to watch her back. She’s riding a big, shiny bestseller. And the bastard made a point of mentioning it.”

“I can’t see her as a target, but you’d feel better if you contacted her.”

“Why not a target?”

“Both victims have been service providers. Some would even consider them a kind of servant.”

“Maybe, yeah, maybe, but I’m going to tell her not to do anything stupid. Then, damn it all over again, she’s going to push me for a one-on-one on this, try to wheedle more out of me on the investigation.”

“Friendship’s complex and layered.”

“It’s a pain in the ass.” But she pushed away from the table and walked to her desk to contact her friend.

She was pumped, Roarke thought as he lingered over his wine. Pumped and ready. It was more than the sleep, the meal, though God knew she’d needed both. It was the mission. She saw it now, and maybe that’s what Sinead had meant by Eve’s gift. She could see, and feel, both her victims and their killers.

He rose now, walked to her murder board.

He could hear her arguing with Nadine over making an appearance on Now to discuss the case, over giving a straight interview for Channel 75, but he paid little attention.

That, too, was a kind of game, he supposed. They each played their parts, pushed their agendas, and respected each other’s skill. A fine trick between two hardheaded, strong-willed women who believed absolutely in their duty to their profession.

When Eve broke transmission, muttered: “Coffee,” he said, “I’ll have some as well.”

He waited until she came out, handed him a cup. “They look through you.”

“What?”

“People—some people—with this level of social and monetary privilege. Those who can have whatever they wish whenever they wish it, and have chosen not to care, or simply haven’t the base in them to care about those who can’t. They don’t see you, the ones sweating out a day’s pay to meet the rent, or those begging on a street corner with empty bellies. They don’t see those who provide the services they use as they’re no more than droids in the world of that tunnel-vision privilege. I’ll wager they don’t know the names much less the situations of those who work for them outside their admins or PAs—and then only the names.”

“You see, you know. And you could probably buy and sell both of them.”

He shook his head. “It’s a different matter, not only in that base, but in the background. I’ve been the one looked through. It was one of the things I determined to change. And I’ve killed. There’s a weight in that for most of us. I can see, I think, how they might kill without that weight.”

“Because the victims aren’t people to them. They’re like a chair or a pair of shoes, just something they buy. They pay for the kill, that keeps coming around for me. They bought them, then own them.”

“And it’s a new thrill, the killing.”

He could, now that she’d opened the window to it, see them sitting in their fine homes over fine brandy, discussing that new thrill.

“It’s fresh and fascinating,” he went on. “When you can have anything you like, there can be little that feels fresh and fascinating.”

“Do you feel that way?”

“Not a bit.” He smiled a little as he turned to her. “But in my way, it’s the business itself, the angles, the strategies, the possibilities that are fresh and fascinating. And I have you. Who do they have? As you said, they keep nothing on display that connects them to family, to a loved one.”

“It’s one of the things I’m going to look at. Their exes, their family connections, the people they hang with. What do they do with their leisure time?”

“They don’t play polo or squash, but I had it right on golf. You’d made me curious,” he said when she frowned at him. “So I looked into it a bit. They both belong to the Oceanic Yacht Club, quite exclusive, as you’d expect, and have participated or sponsored quite a number of races and events. They both enjoy baccarat, high stakes. They each own majority shares in racehorses, which often compete.”

“Compete,” she repeated. “Another pattern.”

“When not in New York tending to their companies’ HQs—or in my opinion after a bit of digging, sitting in as the symbolic head—they tend to follow the seasons and trends. They sail, they ski, they gamble, attend parties and premieres.”

“Together?”

“Often, but not always. They do have separate interests as well. Dudley enjoys tennis, playing and attending the important matches. Moriarity prefers chess.”

“Nonteam sports.”

“So it seems.”

“They compete with each other in several areas. That’s part of their dynamic. Separately they go for activities where you compete head to head rather than suit up with a team.” She nodded. “It’s good data. Now I need to get more. Do you want in on that?”

“I have a little time I can squeeze in.” He traced a fingertip along the dent in her chin. “For a price.”

“Nothing’s free.”

“There’s my motto. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“You could go back further. See if these two went to school together at any point, or have any relatives in common. Basically I’d like to pin down when they met, how, that sort of thing.”

“Easy enough.”

“And keep it on the straight line.”

“You do know how to spoil my fun. That may cost you double. You can start with the dishes,” he said and strolled away.

She scowled, but she couldn’t bitch since he’d put the meal together.

“I bet these guys don’t expect their bed partners to dump stupid dishes in the machine,” she called out.

“Darling, you’re so much more to me than a bed partner.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, but gathered up the dishes, dumped them in the machine.

She sat, input all the information Roarke had given her, added various elements of her own into the file.

“Computer, run a probability on Dudley and Moriarity killing both victims while working as competitors and/or partners, considering these acts part of a game or sport.”

Acknowledged. Working . . .

“Yeah, take your time. Chew it over. Computer, simultaneous tasking. Background check on former spouses and cohabs of Dudley and Moriarity. Addition,” she thought quickly. “Search and find any official announcements of engagements for either subject, run background check.”

Secondary task acknowledged. Working . . .

“Computer relay the data on previous search regarding military service for ancestors of both subjects. Screen one display.

Acknowledged. Data on screen one . . .

She sat back, began to scan—and thanked God she’d limited the search to between 1945 and 1965, as there were dozens of names in each family.

She sipped coffee as she read, and found another pattern.

“Computer, separate commissioned officers, major and above, from current list. Display that data, screen two.”

Acknowledged. Working . . . Primary task complete. Probability is fifty-four-point-two that subjects Dudley and Moriarity killed both victims as competitors or partners as a game or sport.

“Not bad, but no cheers from the crowd.” She studied the remaining names on screen one. “Only five. Okay, computer, run a full background on the individuals on screen one, highlight military service.”

While it worked, she rose to update her board, to circle it, to consider it until the computer announced her secondary task complete.

She studied the composites Feeney had sent her from the partial image on the amusement security.

Could be Dudley, she mused, sporting a fake goatee and long brown hair. Could be Urich. Could be an army of other men. Which is just what the defense team would point out.

The shoe was a better bet. But she’d have the composites as weight, she’d have them to help tip those scales if she needed them, and when she was ready.

She ordered the names on screen two saved and removed, and replaced with the new data.

One ex-wife each, she noted, and each from prestigious, wealthy families. Same circle again. Barely two years for Dudley, shy of three for Moriarity. Just over two years prior to his marriage to one Annaleigh Babbington, Dudley’s engagement to a Felicity VanWitt had been announced and its dissolution announcement had come some seven months later.

“I thought that was my job.”

“Huh?” She glanced back, mind elsewhere, as Roarke came in.

“The relations.”

“This is something else. What?”

“Felicity VanWitt, engaged to Dudley for slightly more than half a year, is first cousin to Patrice Delaughter.” He nodded toward the screen. “Moriarity’s ex-wife.”

“Fucker.”

“When I can, and only with you, darling.”

“Not you.” But she laughed. “Delaughter married Moriarity right after Dudley and the cousin broke it off. Moriarity would’ve been twenty-six, Dudley twenty-five. They met through the women. I want to talk to the women. Hold on,” she snapped when the computer interrupted with another completed task.

She took a breath, cleared her head again. “On-screen.”

Pacing, she read the data on each name. “See this one? Joseph Dudley, good old Joe. Great-uncle to our current Dudley. Joe gets tossed out of Harvard, drops out of Princeton, gets a couple knocks for drunk and disorderly. Then he joins the regular Army as a grunt. He’s the only private, regular Army of the bunch, and he’s the closest relation. Not a cousin six times removed or whatever it is. But the great-granddaddy’s brother.”

“He served during the Korean War,” Roarke added. “Earned a Purple Heart.”

“I bet he had a bayonet. I bet you my ass he did.”

“I already have your ass, or intend to.”

“Cute. I raise that bet with Joe bringing that bayonet home as a memento, where it ended up being passed down to Winnie.”

“Difficult to prove.”

“We’ll see about that, but even if I can’t, it’s another strong probable. We’re loaded with them.”

“By the way, they didn’t attend the same schools. But the fiancée and the ex-wife—the cousins—both attended Smith—as did a female cousin of Dudley’s at the same time.”

“Okay, so they go back. They go back, ran in the same pack, at least in their twenties. And they’re still running in the same pack. Both had marriages that failed. Neither had offspring, and both remain unmarried and unpartnered. Lots of common ground. Like minds? Competitive.”

She blew out a breath. “Murderous, that’s a different matter. Look at the fiancée. She’s married now, married for eleven years, two kids. Lives in Greenwich, that makes it easy. Worked as a psychologist until the first kid. Professional mother status until last year.”

“The youngest would have started school.”

“She’s the one I want to talk to first. Tomorrow. They’re not going to hold off the next round too long. Not too long.”

She sat, went back to work.