Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EVE WOKE IN THE QUIET, IN THE STILLNESS, and for an instant thought the waking a dream. But she knew the arms around her, the legs tangled with hers. She knew the scent of him, and drifted into it as her mind waded through the thinning fog of sleep.

She barely remembered going to bed. He’d carried her, as he often did when she conked out over her work. Reams of data, she thought, and nothing solid in that fluid stream to push the investigation beyond theory.

She’d run it all again, picked at it and through it, re-angled it. Connections to connections always meant something, so they’d conduct more interviews.

Swim in the stream long enough, she told herself, you’d rap up against something solid.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

She opened her eyes, looked at Roarke. It was rare to wake with him on a workday as he habitually rose well before she did. She often thought he conducted more business in the hours just before and after dawn than most did in a full day.

Did they live their work or work their lives? And boy, her brain wasn’t ready to tackle that kind of question at this hour. Better just to know whichever it was—or maybe it was both—they did okay with it.

In the normal course of things, by the time she got up he’d be checking the stock and other financial reports on-screen, drinking coffee, fully dressed in one of his six million perfectly fitted suits.

And why did men wear suits? she wondered. How and why had it worked out so men wore suits and women wore dresses, unless you were talking about trannies? Who decided these things? And how come everybody just went along so guys said, “Sure, I’ll wear suits and tie a colorful noose around my neck,” and women said, “No problem, I’ll wear this thing that leaves my legs bare, then stick these shoes with stilts on the back on my feet”?

That was something to think about, she decided. But some other time because right now it was nice to wake this way, all warm and soft and naked together, as they had on vacation.

“Still too loud,” he murmured. “Mute your brain.”

It made her smile, the slurry voice, the before-coffee irritability. That was usually her job. She tried to judge the time by the soft gray light sliding through the sky window, tried to calculate how much sleep they’d managed to catch.

He opened his eyes. Like a blue bolt of lightning, she thought, in the soft gray.

“Not going to shut up, are you then?”

The hell with the time, she decided. If he was still in bed, it was pretty damn early.

“I guess I could think about something else.” She stroked a hand down his flank. Watching his eyes as she glided it up again between their tangled legs. “Since you’re up anyway. It’s funny, isn’t it, how a guy’s dick wakes up before he does. Why is that?”

“It doesn’t like to miss an opportunity. Such as now,” he added when she guided him inside her.

“Nice.” She sighed, and when she began to move, it was just as slow and easy.

Soft, sweet—this aspect of his cop, his warrior never failed to dazzle him. His mind and body woke to her, roused to her in a long, quiet rise while day took its first breath in the sky above them.

Her whiskey-colored eyes intoxicated, but more, in them was the light he’d yearned for all of his life. She was his daybreak, his sunrise after the long, hard shadows of night.

Wanting more, needing more, he shifted to bring her under him, pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. And with the taste broke his fast with her.

She sighed again, but longer, deeper with a catch in her throat as pleasure saturated every pore. Her mind emptied so all those circling thoughts drifted away under the blissful hum of sensation. That steady beat that was heart and blood and breath belonged to them in this still and hazy moment before dawn. With it there were no questions, no cases, no sorrows, no regrets.

She gave herself to it, and him, let herself open on that slow ride.

When her breath quickened, when it all coalesced inside her, burgeoning on that thin line between need and release, she framed his face in her hands. She wanted his face in her eyes when the line dissolved.

For a long, lovely moment the world slid away so the morning shimmered to life with quiet joy.

With the jump start to the day, she didn’t feel guilty about loitering over a breakfast of berries and a bagel. While the morning reports scrolled on-screen, she indulged in a second cup of coffee.

“Ninety-six.” She nodded toward the forecast. “And look at that humiture.”

“The city’ll be a steambath.”

“I like steam.” She bit into her bagel as the cat watched her with hope and resentment. “And we’ll be out of the city for a while anyway. Connecticut,” she reminded him. “I spent a lot of time getting the skinny on Dudley’s former fiancée, and his ex-wife, and Moriarity’s ex. Nobody knows you like an ex, and generally, nobody’s happier to share the crappier sides of you.”

“Then I’d better keep you.”

“Be a fool not to. Neither of them’s been able, or maybe it’s willing, to maintain a serious long-term relationship. Except, the way it looks, with each other.” She plucked a fat black raspberry out of the bowl. “That’s telling. I burned my eyes reading society squibs, articles, gossip shit. They’ve dated a lot of the same women, and that’s interesting, too. Another kind of competition maybe.”

She scooped up more berries. “And another thing I found interesting. There’s all these little bits about one or both of them being at some bullfight in Spain, some big premiere in Hollywood, or skiing the Matterhorn or whatever. Doing the shiny spots when other people in that strata do the shiny spots. Would we be doing that if I wasn’t such a bitch about it?”

“Absolutely. Pass me that coffee, bitch.”

She snorted out a laugh. “Remember your crappier side, ace, and my knowledge thereof. Anyway, what was interesting was none of the exes were in any of the shiny spots at the same time as they were. Not once that I could find a mention of. They still occupy that same strata, and the ex-wives in particular run the same kind of loop, but they never seem to hit the same spot at the same time. Running with that, I scraped a little more off. Ex-Moriarity has a second ex, but they do. Hit the same spot at the same time, often. I want to get her to tell me why that is.”

She paused. “Did you know there are all kinds of write-ups and little features on us, on our vacation?”

Roarke pointed a finger at Galahad who’d begun his crouch toward the berries. The cat turned his head toward the screen as if suddenly enraptured by the financial news.

“I expect there would be.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No, it’s just what is.” He watched her drink some of the orange juice he’d fortified with a vitamin supplement. “And none of those who write up that sort of thing have any idea I’m sitting here having breakfast with my bitch of a wife after some very pleasant morning sex.”

She shifted her gaze. “The cat knows.”

“He’ll keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him. We have home.” He touched a hand briefly to hers. “Outside of it? Privacy isn’t as important, or as possible.”

“I get that, mostly. Some of these people, and I think these two are in that type, they seek out that kind of attention. They want to read about what they were wearing when they had pizza in some trattoria in Florence.”

Apparently she’d been wearing cropped celadon pants and a white, sleeveless float. She shrugged that off.

“They like attention,” she continued. “I think that plays into why they chose this sort of murder game, with the attention-getting elements. They like hearing the media buzz about it.”

“Another reason they may have timed it so it favored the odds of you being called in as primary.”

“Maybe.” She downed the rest of the juice having no idea how much that pleased him. “I need to get going. I’m going to swing by and pick Peabody up at her place, save some time.”

“Will you spread the word about Saturday, or should I?”

“Saturday?”

“Your gathering of friends.”

She stayed blank another moment. “Oh. Right. I’ll do it.”

He pulled out a memo cube. “A reminder.” He took her chin, drew her over for a kiss. “Try not to come home with any more slices or holes.”

She trailed a finger down his side, where he’d had a slice of his own. “Same goes.”

She used the time she poked along in traffic to send e-mails for what Roarke called the gathering of friends, got it off her plate. And promptly forgot about it.

Attention, she thought. Her killers enjoyed it. Considered it their due? Possibly. A different matter from the killer who sought attention because on some level he wanted to be caught, wanted to be stopped, even punished.

If it was, as her line of theory followed, some sort of contest or competition, getting caught wasn’t an issue. Winning was—or if not winning, the competition itself.

However, competitions had rules, she concluded. Had to have some sort of structure, and in order to win, someone else had to lose.

How many more rounds of play? she wondered. Was there an endgame?

Questions circled in her mind as she stopped at a light, idly watched pedestrians cross. Ordinary people, she mused, off to their ordinary day. Breakfast meetings, shops to open, marketing to deal with, jobs waiting to be done.

People with a direction to keep, chores to be done, lists in their heads, duties to perform. Most people, most ordinary people, ran by the clock. Work, school, family, appointments, schedules.

What did these two run by? They weren’t ordinary people, but two men born into the top level of privilege. Men who could have whatever they wanted whenever they wanted it, and ordinary people served it up for them, ran on their schedule, even their whim.

Power and privilege.

Roarke had both, and, yeah, she thought, maybe part of the reason he was who and what he was was due to the fact he’d grown up hard, and grown up hungry. But that wasn’t the sum of it.

She thought of him and Brian Kelly, that long, strong connection, affection, trust. Brian owned and ran a successful pub in Dublin, and Roarke owned and ran half the damn world. But when they came together, as they had at the park, at a murder scene, at a family farm, they were simply friends.

Equals.

It was more than what you had, even more than how you’d come by it. It was what you did with it, and with yourself.

Power and privilege, she thought again. Just another excuse for being an asshole.

Two blocks from Peabody’s, Eve tagged her partner. “Five minutes. Get your ass down.”

She cut transmission without waiting for a response.

When she pulled up, double parking while other vehicles objected bitterly, she scanned the building where she’d once lived.

Ordinary again, a squat tower like so many others in a city jammed with people who needed space to eat, sleep, live. A hive, she thought, honeycombed with those spaces, those people, all living on top of each other. Now she lived in a home far from ordinary, one Roarke had built through ambition, need, style, wealth—and which she was still faintly embarrassed to admit was a mansion.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly the same woman she’d been when she’d lived in the hive, and maybe she’d come to understand that she was better for it. But the core remained, didn’t it? She still did what she did, still did the job, lived the life.

Maybe you just were what you were, she considered. Evolving, sure, changing as your life changed. But that core was still the core.

She watched Peabody come out, her dark hair pulled up and back in a short, bouncy tail; a thin, loose jacket swinging at her hips; short, summer pink gel boots on her feet. A long stretch from the square helmet of hair, the buffed and polished uniform she’d worn when Eve had taken her on as aide.

Changes, and Eve admitted she wasn’t always comfortable with change. But pink shoes or not, Peabody was a cop right to the bone.

“Money doesn’t make you an asshole,” Eve said when Peabody opened the door, “it just makes you an asshole with money.”

“Okay.”

“And people who kill for thrills? They always had the thirst for it, the predilection for it. Just maybe not the stones.”

Peabody wiggled her butt to settle in. “And you think we’re going to see that about Dudley when we talk to the ex-fiancée?”

Cop to the bone, Eve thought again. “I’m going to be pretty damn surprised if we don’t.”

“From the background I ran, she seems like the solid type. Volunteers as a counselor at the local youth center and he coaches softball. They belong to the country club, and she chairs a committee here and there. Feels like sort of the usual bits for that social and financial lifestyle.”

Ordinary people, Eve thought again, with money.

“She’d have been a lot higher on the ladder if she’d married Dudley.” Peabody shrugged. “But she’s not exactly scraping bottom. Anyway, with what you dug up last night she’s connected to Dudley and Moriarity with the cousin thing, the college pal thing. Makes you wonder, if we’re right about these two, how far back they’ve been into the nasty.”

“That kind of partnership requires absolute trust—or stupidity. I don’t think they’re stupid—or not completely stupid.” Eve considered. “And that kind of trust has to build over some time. Because if one of them cracks, it all cracks, if one talks, they both go down. And still . . .”

“Still?”

“If it’s competition, one has to lose. Losing would be not making the kill, or getting caught, or screwing up. I can’t turn it any other way.”

“Maybe neither one of them believes he can lose.”

“Somebody has to,” Eve countered.

“Yeah, but when McNab and I play, for instance, I’m always sort of shocked and pissed off if I lose. I go in knowing I’m going to win. Every time. It’s the same with him. I think because we’re pretty well matched in the games we get into. And separately we usually destroy whoever else we’re playing against.”

“It’s a thought.” Eve squeezed it a little harder. “It’s a good thought,” she decided. “They’re arrogant bastards. Maybe the concept of losing isn’t on the table.” She rolled it around in her mind, let it bump against the other elements. “The killings are planned. They’re orchestrated, and so far we know two were orchestrated back-to-back. There’s no impulse about it. Someone plots and plans and basically choreographs murder, there’s something in there that wants the kill. You can hide it, spruce it up with coats of polish, but that something’s going to eke through off and on.”

Peabody nodded. “Especially with or around someone who’s close enough to see it. So they, you could say, recognized each other.”

Recognition. Wasn’t that the same term she’d come to when considering her long friendship with Mavis?

“Yeah. I would say recognition’s a factor. What we need is to find other people who recognized them. We need to build on that until we have enough to bring them in, sweat them some. Or enough to get a search. Because they have to be communicating after a kill. There’s no way either of them would or could wait until the media hits to confirm the round.”

“On my fork, I haven’t found any connection between the vics, between the vics and Sweet or Foster, between the vics and Moriarity or Dudley, or any combination thereof, except for the known company connections.”

“Might still be there, something more subtle, or something that just doesn’t show.”

Connecticut was different, Eve mused. The space people could claim for their own purposes spread, with lots of green, lots of trees, gardens manicured as luxuriously as any society matron after a salon session. Vehicles showed off their style and shine on paved driveways—and as those private spaces increased in size, she caught glimpses of red clay tennis courts, the Caribbean blue of swimming pools, the dark circles of helipads.

“What do people do out here?”

“Whatever they want” was Peabody’s opinion.

“What I mean is, you can’t walk anywhere. There’s no deli on the corner, no handy glide cart, no buzz, no movement. Just houses.”

“I guess that’s why people live out here, or move out here. They don’t want the buzz. They want the quiet, and the space. You get to have both,” Peabody pointed out.

Using the navigation on her wrist unit, Eve turned into a driveway that circled to a house on a small rise. VanWitt had gone for a modified U-shape with the center two-story leg connecting the long, single-story juts in a mix of stone and wood and glass.

Flowers were cheerful and plentiful, trees tall and shady.

She angled where the drive widened into a small lot, and pulled in beside a spiffy little topless number in stoplight red.

“It’s pretty.” Peabody looked around as they walked to the main door. “Probably a nice place to raise kids with all this room. Low crime area, good schools.”

“You thinking of moving?”

“No. I want the buzz, too. But I can see how people aspire to places like this.”

A woman in cropped pants and a tucked white shirt answered the bell. “May I help you?”

“Felicity VanWitt.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’d like to speak with her.”

“The children.” The woman’s hand rushed up to slap against her heart.

“It has nothing to do with the children.”

“Oh. Oh. They’re on a field trip in New York today, with their youth club. I thought . . . Sorry. Doctor VanWitt is in session. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Who are you?”

“Anna Munson. I’m the house manager.”

“We’ll need to speak with Doctor VanWitt directly.”

“She should be done in about ten minutes.” Still she hesitated. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but we’re not used to having the police at the door.”

“There’s no trouble,” Eve told her. “We’re hoping the doctor can give us some insight regarding an investigation.”

“I see.” Clearly she didn’t, but she stepped back. “If you don’t mind waiting. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here as soon as she’s out of session.”

The house was as pretty and spacious inside as out, managed, Eve supposed, very well by Anna. Flowers looked to have come straight from the gardens, and had been arranged without fuss. Anna showed them to a sitting area with views of those gardens, and a pretty little house that served a sparkling swimming pool.

“Can I get you something cold to drink? I was just thinking about iced coffee.”

Eve couldn’t understand why anybody wanted to screw good coffee up with ice, and shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“I’d love some, if you’re making it, anyway.”

Anna smiled at Peabody. “It gives me an excuse to have some. Please, sit down, be comfortable. I’ll only be . . . did you say Lieutenant Dallas? Eve Dallas?”

“That’s right.”

“In the book? The Icove investigation? I read it last week. Oh, it’s so exciting—horrible,” she added quickly. “But I couldn’t put the book down. Dallas and Peabody. Imagine that. Doctor VanWitt’s reading it now. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

“Great,” Eve said and left it at that. She didn’t roll her shoulders to shift off the discomfort until Anna hurried out. “How long do you figure that’s going to happen? Ooh, the Icove book. Crap.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s pretty frosty. And you’ve got to admit, it changes attitudes. She was polite but suspicious, now she’s juiced we’re here.”

“I guess there’s that.” Eve wandered the room. Flowers, some family photos, nice paintings, comfortable furnishings in soft and serene colors.

Given the size and layout of the house, she suspected this was a kind of company room rather than a family hangout.

Anna was back quickly with a tray holding Peabody’s iced coffee, a second glass, and a cup of hot black. “I remember from the book you like coffee, Lieutenant, so I made some just in case. The doctor will be right with you. The other iced coffee’s for her. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. We’re set. Thanks for the coffee.”

“It’s no problem at all. I’ll just . . .”

She trailed off as Felicity came in, another glass in her hand. “Anna, you left your coffee in the kitchen.” Felicity passed the glass, then walked straight to Eve. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Both of you. I’m absolutely riveted by the Icove story, and desperately hoping you’re here to ask me to consult on some fascinating murder.”

She laughed when she said it, bright and easy, and obviously not at all serious. She wore her hair short and brightly red, and her eyes, a deep, dark green, held warmth and ease.

“Actually, Doctor VanWitt, we’d like to ask you some questions about Winston Dudley.” And Eve watched that warmth and ease die.

“Winnie? I don’t know what I could tell you. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“You were engaged at one time.”

“Yes.” The smile remained in place, strained at the corners. “That was practically another life.”

“Then you can tell us about that life.” Deliberately Eve picked up her coffee, sat.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen,” Anna began.

“No, please stay. Anna’s family,” Felicity said. “I’d like her to stay.”

“That’s fine. How did you meet Dudley?”

“At a party, at my cousin’s—at Patrice Delaughter’s. She knew him a little. She was seeing Sylvester Moriarity, and in fact became engaged shortly after the party. Winnie and I started seeing each other, and were engaged for a short time.”

“Why short?”

“I wish you’d tell me why this matters to anyone. It was nearly fifteen years ago.”

“I wonder why it’s difficult for you to talk about it, after almost fifteen years.”

Now Felicity sat, picked up her coffee for a long, slow sip as she studied Eve. “What has he done?”

“What makes you think he’s done anything?”

“I’m a psychologist.” Both her face and her voice sharpened. “You and I can play cryptic all day long.”

“I can only tell you he’s connected to an investigation, and my partner and I are conducting background checks. Your name came up.”

“Well, as I said, I haven’t seen or spoken to him in a very long time.”

“Bad breakup?”

“Not particularly.” Her gaze shifted away from Eve’s. “We simply didn’t suit.”

“Why are you afraid of him?”

“I’ve no reason to be afraid of him.”

“Now?”

She re-angled in her chair. Stalling, Eve noted, trying to pick the right words, the right attitude.

“I don’t know that I had any reason to be afraid of him then. You’re not here because you’re doing simple background, because he’s connected to an investigation. You’re investigating him. I think it’s reasonable for me to know what and why before I tell you anything.”

“Two people are dead. Is that enough?”

Felicity closed her eyes, lifted a hand. Without a word, Anna moved over to sit on the arm of the chair, take that hand in hers.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes again. They stayed direct and steady as they met Eve’s. “Do I have any reason to be afraid of him, for myself, for my family?”

“I don’t believe so, but it’s hard to say when I don’t have the background between you and Dudley. He was at a dinner party in Greenwich a few nights ago,” Eve added. “A few miles from here. He didn’t contact you?”

“No. He’d have no reason to. I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Then help us out, Doctor VanWitt.” Peabody kept her voice low and soothing. “And we’ll do everything we can to make sure it does stay that way.”

“I was very young,” Felicity began. “And he was very charming, very handsome. I was absolutely dazzled. Swept off my feet, cliché or not. He pursued me and courted me. Flowers, gifts, poetry, attention. It wasn’t love on my part, I realized that after it ended. It was . . . thrall. He was, literally, everything a young woman could have wanted or asked for.”

She paused a moment. Not stalling now, Eve noted, but looking back. Remembering. “He didn’t love me. I realized that sooner than I realized my own feelings, but I wanted him to. Desperately. So I tried, as young women often do, to be what he wanted. He and I and Patrice and Sly went everywhere together. It was exciting, and God, so much fun. Weekends at Newport or the Côte d’Azur, an impromptu dinner trip to Paris. Anything and everything.”

She took a deep breath. “He was my first lover. I was naive and nervous, and he was very considerate. The first time. He wanted other things, things that made me uncomfortable. But he didn’t push, not overtly. Still, the longer we were together, the more I felt something off. Something . . . as if I’d catch a shadow or movement out of the corner of my eye, then turn and it would be gone. But I knew I’d seen it.”

She drank, cleared her throat. “He enjoyed illegals. Many did, and it was recreational. Or it seemed so. Then again, recreation was what he did, what we did, so there was always a little boost of something. And he did pressure me to use, to have fun, not to be so closed in.

“When he and Sly were together, there was a kind of wildness. And it was appealing at first, exciting at first. But then it got to be too much. Too fast, too hard, too wild because, at the core I wasn’t what I was trying to be.”

She paused, breathed, and on the arm of the chair Anna continued to sit. A silent wall of support.

“He started hurting me. Just a little, little accidents—accidents that left bruises, and I started to realize he liked to see me frightened. He’d always soothe me after, but I could see on his face he enjoyed frightening me—accidentally locking me in a dark room, or driving too fast, or holding me under just a bit too long when we went to the beach. And the sex got rough, too rough. Mean.”

She stared into her iced coffee for a long moment—remembering again, Eve thought—but her hand stayed steady as she lifted the glass to drink.

“He was so charming otherwise, and so smooth. For a time I thought it was me, that I was too closed in, not open enough to the new or the exciting. But . . .”

“You didn’t want what he wanted,” Eve prompted. “Or to do what he pressured you to do.”

“No, I didn’t. It just wasn’t me. I started to realize, more to accept, I was pretending to be something I wasn’t to please him and I knew I couldn’t keep it up. I didn’t want to keep it up,” she corrected. “Once I overheard him and Sly talking about it, laughing at me. I knew I had to break it off, but didn’t know how. My family adored him. He was so charming, so sweet, so perfect. Except for those movements out of the corner of the eye, except for the accidents. So I picked a fight with him, in public, because I was afraid of him. And I maneuvered him into breaking it off. He was so angry, and he said horrible things to me, but every word was a relief because I knew he didn’t want me, and he wouldn’t bother about me. He’d walk away, and I’d be free. He never spoke to me again.”

She shook her head, let out a short, surprised laugh. “I mean that literally. Never another word. It was as if all those months hadn’t happened. We both attended my cousin’s wedding to Sly, and he didn’t even speak to me, or look at me—not, if you understand me, in a way that was a deliberate snub. It was as if I were invisible, didn’t exist. Never had. I was just no longer there for him. And that was an even bigger relief.”

They look through you, Roarke has said, and Eve understood exactly what Felicity meant.

“Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Yeah. You have a nice place here, Doctor VanWitt. I bet you have nice kids, and a good husband, work you’re good at and enjoy, friends who matter.”

“Yes, I do. Yes.”

Eve rose. “Maybe you were young, maybe you were naive and dazzled and swept. But you weren’t stupid.”

“He’s a dangerous man, they both are. I believe that.”

“So do I. He won’t bother you or your family,” Eve promised. “You’re not in his world, and he has no reason to hurt you. I’m going to talk to your cousin.”

“Will it help if I contact her, tell her some of this?”

“It might.”

“Then I will.” Felicity got to her feet, held out a hand. “I hope I helped, but I have to tell you this sort of thing is a lot more exciting, and a lot less emotionally wearing, in a book than it is in real life.”

“You got that right.”