Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER TWENTY

EVE HIT THE BULLPEN AT HOMICIDE LIKE A blaster.

“Trueheart.”

He jolted in his seat, then knocked a short stack of file discs to the floor as he sprang to attention. “Sir!”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. I’m going to send you a list of weapons—images, makes, models, ID numbers where applicable. Run them. I want a complete list of vendors, outlets, collectors, and licenses. Cross-reference same with Dudley and Moriarity, personally, through their companies—Dudley and Son and Intelicore, respectively, all arms and locations—and family members, living and dead. Include ex-wives and their family members, living and dead.

“Questions?”

While his eyes were wide enough to swallow Pluto, he shook his head. “Ah . . . no, sir.”

“Good. Baxter.”

He sat as he was, smiled a little. “Yo.”

“Same weapons list. I want names and locations of hunting clubs, hunting and/or fishing venues that allow the use of crossbows and/or harpoon guns. Stick with first-class venues, extreme first-class. On and off planet.”

He straightened now. “You want every one of them in the universe?”

“And when you’ve got them, get the member list or client list. Find Dudley and/or Moriarity. They’ve practiced. More, they’re show-offs. They’ve used those weapons somewhere, sometime.”

“Reineke, Jenkinson, I want your report on the Jonas homicide on my desk ASAP. You’re going to work this case like Adrianne Jonas was your beloved mother. If Dickhead hasn’t tagged the whip yet, chew on his ass until he does. When he does, pass it to Trueheart and Baxter. Meanwhile find bullwhip experts.”

“Experts?” Jenkinson echoed.

“If I hand you a freaking bullwhip are you going to know how to wrap it around somebody’s throat? And do it strong enough to hang her by it? He had to learn somewhere, from someone. Experts, venues, trainers. Find them, contact them, dig until somebody remembers Dudley or Moriarity. Or both. Dig. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jenkinson answered as Reineke gave a thumbs-up.

“Carmichael.” As Eve turned, two voices answered.

“Detective Carmichael,” she specified, and the uniform Carmichael looked faintly disappointed. “I’m going to give you a list of names, invites to Dudley’s alibi party last night.”

“Lieutenant, I’m not caught up with the details and particulars of this investigation.”

“Catch her up,” Eve ordered Peabody. “When you are,” she continued, “contact the names. Both suspects left the premises at some point: Moriarity most likely shortly before twenty-two hundred and likely returned before twenty-three hundred; Dudley between two and two-thirty, returning sometime after three hundred hours. Dudley may have been in the company of the last vic. Find somebody who noticed, somebody who missed them. When you’re done with the guest list, start on the staff, permanent and any hired for the event.

“New guy.” Eve pointed at a young, broad-shouldered man who’d transferred in the days before she’d left for vacation.

“Detective Santiago, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Work with Carmichael.” She tried to think what went into it when Roarke threw a fancy party. “Dudley probably had some valets for parking. Some of the guests likely came and went with private car services. He’d have had catering, servers, people who don’t have any particular reason to be overly loyal. Service providers are invisible to these people, and that’s a vulnerability because they don’t consider those service providers to have the wit to notice, or the balls to talk. Find somebody with wit and balls.”

With one glance she targeted uniforms.

“Newkirk, Ping, the other Carmichael, do whatever the detectives need you to do. Anything pops, anything even breaks the most discreet of wind, I hear about it. Full briefing and all reports in two hours. Conference room . . . Peabody?”

“C.”

“Conference room C, two hours. Sweat,” she ordered. “These cocksuckers are killing people the same way a kid steps on ants. Because they want to see them squish. More, they think we’re stupid, too stupid to bring them down. We’re going to prove them wrong. Peabody, with me.”

Eve headed straight to the AutoChef in her office for coffee, then jerked a thumb at the machine.

“I better not.” Peabody’s voice signaled sincere regret. “I was fading so I took a boost. Now I feel like my eyes are glued open and my nerves are all twitchy. I haven’t found the connection to the last vic and Moriarity.”

“Pass it to Carmichael. Uniform Carmichael. And why do they have to have the same name? One of them needs to change it. Anyway, he’s a vicious bastard on details. And, yeah, you’d find it,” Eve added before Peabody could protest. “But he’ll come with a fresh eye, and without the twitches. Plus I need you on other angles. Hold on a minute.”

She sat, copied the relevant files, and transferred them to the relevant cops.

“French guy’s wine and supplies.”

“Bought in gay Paree.” With so many details crowded in her head, Peabody took out her notebook to keep them straight. “He got the booking five weeks ago.”

“Five weeks. That’s good, that’s a confirmation of long-term planning. Dudley would know Simpson and her family would be in Georgia. She’d have to clear the vacation time in advance, and this is an annual family summer thing. They’d want to lock Delaflote in, had to suss out and plan the alibi, the timing. Probably practiced that, too.”

“Booking was done by e-mail, through what I’ve already checked was a temp account, assigned to Simpson for billing. The vic’s assistant has it listed as a surprise for the husband, for Frost. Intimate, romantic dinner for two, alfresco.”

“The garden. All set up for the garden,” Eve added, nodding.

“Late supper,” Peabody continued. “Delaflote’s travel fee—and he came in on his own shuttle—paid early this week, through Simpson’s account. Delaflote personally shopped for the food supplies and the wine on the day of departure. He has a major interest in a vineyard, and selected three bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé, a bottle of Sauternes, three bottles of champagne. All from the Château Delaflote label. I have the vintages for all of them, as the vic kept a kind of spreadsheet for jobs.”

She paused, and pleasure moved onto her face. “And Dallas, as the client hyped this as such a special deal, expense no object, the champagne’s from a limited edition label and vintage. They’re freaking numbered. He took numbers forty-eight, forty-nine, and fifty from the private reserve he kept back for special clients.”

Eve’s smile spread slowly, a reflection of Peabody’s pleasure. “Maybe I do love you.”

“Aww.”

“We find one of those bottles, we’ll nail them with it. Clean that report up. You’ll be presenting that to the ADA and the commander in a couple hours.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“Tag Feeney, and tell him when and where. I want a solid report from him for same. I want everybody ready and in the conference room on time. No excuses. I’ll set the commander and Reo for ten minutes after. Brief Carmichael—both of them. I’ll send you a report on Jonas as soon as I put it in order. Now go away. Shut the door.”

Before it shut, she was contacting Whitney’s office. She locked him in, then Reo, then moved onto Mira. If she’d had time, she’d have cheered when the temp came on-screen.

“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Gee, the doctor’s in a session right now.”

“I’m going to send her a number of files, starting now and over the next hour. I need her to give them her immediate attention, and report to conference room C, Homicide Division, with her conclusions, at fourteen hundred and fifteen.”

“Oh, well, golly, I think she has an appointment at—”

“This is priority one. Commander Whitney and an ADA will also be attending. Doctor Mira’s presence is mandatory.”

“Oh, gosh. I’ll cancel her appointment, and—”

“Good. If she has any questions, she can contact me.”

Cutting the temp off, Eve shot Mira the report Peabody had written on Delaflote, the reports her other detectives had written on Jonas. She pushed through the ME’s reports, the labs, the prelim from the sweepers.

Then she cleared her head and began to write her own on each.

Twice she rose for more coffee, to check her time lines, to consult the computer on the time required to travel the distances from Dudley’s home to each crime scene—on foot, and by transpo. She brought up her map, studied it, then confirmed with the computer the most direct routes to and from each.

With nearly an hour left, she loaded up everything she could carry to take it to the conference room. She turned out of the office just as Jenkinson turned toward it.

“If you’ve got something, walk and talk.”

“Let me give you a hand.”

“I got it. It’s balanced.”

“Okay.” He fell into step with her. “We checked with the vic—our vic’s—usual car service. They took her to Dudley’s, and she told the driver she’d contact them for a time of return, which was booked to include travel home, then to the park location and back, or—depending on the time—straight to the park. She left it open.”

“Figuring if the party was a dud, she could take off, go home awhile before her appointment. Okay.”

“Yeah, but what she did was cancel pickup altogether, about two A.M.”

Eve felt that slow smile cross her face again. “Because she copped another ride.”

“We checked with every freaking legit cab company in Manhattan. Nobody picked up a fare at that location between two and three A.M. And nobody dropped off a fare between those times at the logical entrance to the park for the Great Hill. We gotta figure—”

“She got a lift,” Eve finished, and jerked her head at the conference room door, “with Dudley.”

“That’s our take.” He opened the door, followed her in. “So far Carmichael and the new guy haven’t hit on anybody, but they’re asking if anybody saw the vic and Dudley hanging together between the two A.M. and the two-thirty mark.”

“Okay.” She dumped her things on the conference table. “She sure as hell didn’t walk from the party to that point in the park in those shoes. No reason to cancel her pickup unless she had alternate transpo, and we’ve covered she didn’t book alternate transpo.”

A lot of other guests at the party, she thought, a lot of other alternatives for a lift. That would be the argument, but she would damn well knock it down.

“We’re going to push for a warrant to search all Dudley’s vehicles for her DNA. We find her prints, a stray hair, it adds more weight.”

“I think the other Carmichael hit something, because he started making those noises in his throat like he does.”

“Yeah, the grunting. Good.”

“Reineke gave Dickhead a shove, and Dickhead came through. It’s an Australian deal—the whip—made out of freaking kangaroo.”

“The hopping things, with the pouches?”

“Yeah. Freaking kangaroo. It’s seven feet long, eleven with the handle or grip, and that’s lead-loaded steel. Dickhead said it had a coating of some sort of leather cream, and he’s working on IDing the brand, and he’s still working on dating it, but says it ain’t no antique or anything. He’s saying the sucker’s handmade. So we’ve got Trueheart checking out Aussie whip makers. Dickhead comes through with the rest, that’ll narrow it.

“You know that fuckhead’s in love?” he added.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s creepy.”

“So say we all. Get back to it, Jenkinson.”

Alone, she began with the murder board.

She’d worked her way halfway through the time lines when the other Carmichael came in, making grunting noises in his throat. “Boss, I got something.”

“Give it to me,” Eve said and continued to work.

“Jonas used to work as a concierge at the Kennedy Hotel on Park. Started as an assistant right out of college. Moriarity’s grandfather owned the hotel along with a couple partners. They had a lot of events there like business stuff and private stuff, and put up important accounts and whatnot.”

Eve glanced up long enough to acknowledge the pop.

“When he croaked he left his share to Moriarity—the grandson—and he sold it off about ten years ago. The vic was still working there. She didn’t go out on her own until about a year after the sell. She got a write-up in The New Yorker back before she left, about how the girl from the Midwest became one of the top concierges in New York.”

“And used that capital to parlay into her own business. Smart. Good work, Carmichael. Write it up tight, attach the article and any other media.”

Coming together, she thought, crumb by crumb.

When her boards were complete, she sat at the computer to check the images and data she’d want on-screen.

“Lieutenant? Sorry to interrupt.”

“If you’ve got something, Trueheart, you’re not interrupting. If you don’t, go away.”

“It’s about the harpoon gun.”

“Spill it.”

“They’ve been running tests on it in the lab. On the mechanism and the spear, and checking on regulations. It turns out the projectile . . .”

“You’re trickling, not spilling.”

“Um. Both the spear and the gun required to shoot it exceed the limits accepted by sport fishing regulations here in the U.S. and in Europe, as well as several other countries. Baxter’s research corroborates when it comes to tours and clubs and organizations. Mr. Berenski—”

“Jesus.” She shoved back in her chair to goggle at him. “You don’t actually call him that?”

Trueheart pinked up. “Well, not always. He concludes the weapon was manufactured prior to regulations, as it’s American-made. Or that it was made in violation of the regulations, and he leans there because he believes it’s between five and ten years old. Some of the internal parts carry a manufacturer’s mark, and I traced that to a company in Florida. It’s one of Moriarity’s subsidiaries, one of its companies under its SportTec arm.”

Her legs stretched out, she smiled, and her eyes stayed flat and cold. “Is that so?”

“I have the data, sir, if you’d like to verify.”

“That was a rhetorical is that so. Keep digging. I want to put that weapon in Moriarity’s hands.” She frowned when Baxter strolled in. “I haven’t finished with your boy yet.”

“I have something to pump up what he just brought you. Both suspects did belong to both a sport fishing and a scuba club, though they’ve let their memberships lapse. But they’ve twice—five years ago, and just last winter—hosted a private island party for fifty-odd of their closest friends. A party that included scuba, sport fishing off your choice of yacht, and spear fishing. Among other assorted water sports. Several celebrities dropped in—vid stars and the like. It got a lot of play in the media.”

“Fucking A.”

“Ditto. I’ve got some lines out to bullwhip experts and instructors. There’s more of them than you’d think.”

“Go to Australia.”

“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to.”

“On the C&D. The whip was kanga-fucking-roo. Maybe Dudley took his lessons from whoever made the bastard. Add in handmade kanga-fucking-roo bullwhips.”

“I’ll run a search now, but it’s going to be close, Dallas, if you want me in here for the briefing.”

“Get it started, but be here. Put everything you’ve got together, and make it succinct. We’ve got some selling to do.”

When they left she rose to go to the room’s AutoChef for another hit of coffee and remembered she’d neglected to load it with the real thing she’d become spoiled by.

“Shit. Sometimes you just got to suck it up. Or down.”

She programmed an extralarge, black. And when the scent hit, she smiled. It was loaded with her brand. “Peabody, it really must be love.”

She gulped some down, ignored the jitter in her belly from caffeine overload, as Feeney came in. “Got your ninety percent. Ninety-point-one, and you ain’t going to get better. Give me that.”

He grabbed the coffee, drank it like a camel at an oasis. And he eyed her over the rim. “Maybe you need this more than I do. You don’t look like you’ve slept in a week.”

“Four dead, Feeney, in less than that. And those?” She gestured to the side of the board where she’d put the other victims. “All of those, too, from before. Their practice sessions. There could be another face up there tonight, or tomorrow. And what’ve I got?”

She pushed at her hair, pressed on her eyes. “It’s like weaving cobwebs together. A few strands of . . . whatever’s stronger than cobwebs. What I’ve got points to motive, method, opportunity, but it doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye. And I have to convince the PA and Whitney that it does, that it will.”

“You believe you can make it stick?” When she hesitated, he jabbed her shoulder.

“Ow.”

“You better fucking believe it or they won’t. Don’t waste my time here, or everybody else’s.”

“I know it. I know it. I’m tired. Half punchy, half twitchy.”

“I’d tell you to take a booster but you’ve probably had a cargo hold of coffee already.” He took a long, merciless study. “Go . . . do something with your face.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever it is your kind does. It’s one thing to look overworked, and another to look wrung out when you’re trying to pull a warrant this way.”

“You think because I have a vagina I cart around face enhancers?”

“Jesus, Dallas, you don’t have to use language like that. Borrow some, for Christ’s sake. You don’t want them looking at you thinking, ‘Man, Dallas needs some sleep.’ You want them focused on what you show them.”

“Fine. Fine. Crap.” She yanked out her communicator. “Peabody, put this on private.”

“What? Is there a break?”

“Are we private?”

“Yeah, what—”

“Do you have any face gunk?”

“Ah . . . sure. I got a supply in my desk for—what’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s for me. And if you say a word, if you breathe a syllable, I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands and feed it to the first rabid dog I find. Meet me in the bathroom, and bring the crap.” She clicked off. “Satisfied?” she demanded of Feeney, and stomped out.

It only took about five minutes, and that with Peabody trying to offer advice and instruction. The first thing she did was put her head in the sink, grit her teeth, and turn the water on full and cold.

It shocked the edge of fatigue away.

She toned down the circles under her eyes, added some color to cheeks she had to admit looked pasty and pale.

“That’s it.”

“I’ve got some nice lip dyes, and this mag eyeliner, and some—”

“That’s it,” Eve repeated, and raking her fingers through her wet hair, headed back to the conference room.

The scent of food hit the empty pit of her stomach. In the few minutes she’d been gone, someone had brought in another table and loaded it with paninis, subs, pizza.

Roarke picked up a panini, held it out. “Eat. You’ll think more clearly. And later, you can have a cookie.”

She didn’t argue, but took a huge bite. And just closed her eyes. “Okay. Good. You got cookies?”

“It seemed apt. Now take this blocker. No point going into this with a headache. Just a blocker,” he added, popping the little pill in her mouth, then handing her a bottle of water. “Hydrate.”

“Jesus. Cut it out.” She guzzled water, took another bite of panini. “I’m in charge here.”

He tugged a damp lock of her hair. “And it suits you. Your bullpen’s buzzing.”

“I need five minutes of quiet before—”

“Food!” McNab, who probably smelled pizza in EDD, led the charge.

“Take your five,” Roarke told her, and she nodded.

She settled for crossing to the windows, and blocking out the sound of cops pouncing on a bonanza of free food.

When she heard the commander’s voice, she turned. Mira came in, walked straight to her. “I wasn’t able to get away sooner.”

“Were you able to review any of what I sent you?”

“I read all of it. You make a number of persuasive points. If we could take another hour, I think we could refine several of them.”

“It’s already midday on a Friday. In July, when half the people who live here go somewhere else for the weekend. I’ve got to lay this out for Reo, have her convince a judge to issue warrants. I want to get it down before the end of business. We’re just waiting for her now, so . . . and there she is. I’m going to get started.”

She moved to the center of the room. “Officers, Detectives, take your seats. If you’re going to continue to gorge, do so quietly. Commander, thank you for taking the time.”

He nodded, took a seat. He had two slices of pizza on a plate and looked . . . guilty, she realized, and wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“The wife doesn’t like him eating between meals,” Feeney muttered in her ear.

“I thought I’d missed lunch.” Reo chose a seat, nibbled on half a panini.

Eve let the murmurs, the shifting, the laughter run on for a moment. Let them settle. She glanced at Roarke. He hadn’t sat, but stood leaning against the wall by the windows.

She walked over, shut the conference room door, then moved back to the center of the room.

“I’d like to bring everyone’s attention to the board.” She used a laser pointer, highlighting each photo. “Bristow, Melly, Zimbabwe, Africa,” she began, and named them all.

“All of these people were killed by Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I know that with absolute certainty, just as I know with absolute certainty that they will kill again if they aren’t stopped.”

She let that sink in, just two beats of silence.

“Detective Peabody and I have built a case that I believe is substantial enough for search warrants for the suspects’ homes and businesses and vehicles. With the murder of Adrianne Jonas, Detectives Reineke and Jenkinson joined the investigative team. Earlier this afternoon, I assigned every officer in this room specific tasks relating to this investigation. Together, we’ve built a stronger, wider case. We’ve correlated with EDD, Doctor Mira, and the expert consultant, civilian.

“Bristow, Melly,” she said again, and ordered the data on-screen.

It took time, but she couldn’t rush it. She walked them through every victim, every connection, every overlap. She called on each member of the team to present his or her findings, then connected those.

“The shoes.” Reo gestured. “How many sold, that size and color?”

“Peabody.”

“Three pair, from New York merchants. I’ve verified one of the buyers was in New Zealand at the time of the murder. The other lives in Pennsylvania, is eighty-three years of age. Though I can’t absolutely confirm his whereabouts at the time in question, he doesn’t fit the height or body type from the image EDD was able to access from park security. He’s six inches shorter, at least twenty pounds lighter.”

“Okay, that’s good. But worldwide there would be more, and that’s what the defense would point out.”

“Less than seventy-five pair sold as of the date of the murder,” Eve said. “Peabody’s already eliminated forty-three.”

“Forty-six now, sir.”

“I’ll take those odds.”

“The alibis,” Reo began. As she and Eve debated, Baxter’s ’link signaled. He glanced at the ID, held up a finger to Eve, and walked out of the room.

“Some people swear they were there the whole time,” Eve continued. “Some state they don’t remember seeing one or both of them for long periods. Others just don’t remember one way or the other. If you can’t break that flimsy an alibi, you’re not doing your job.”

“You don’t want to tell me my job,” Reo shot back. “I’m doing my job by questioning every aspect of this. If you go after these two before we’re solid, they could slip through. My boss isn’t going to go for arrests on this unless he believes he can convict. These are wealthy men, who can afford an army of very slick attorneys.”

“I don’t care if they’re—”

“Lieutenant.” Baxter stepped back in. “Sorry to interrupt. I need a minute.”

She walked to him, listened, nodded. “Tell the room.”

“I just got off the ’link with one of the most respected and renowned makers of whips—that’s your bull, your snake, and so on. He verifies making the murder weapon for a Leona Bloom—who was buying it as a gift for a friend. Buying the whip and a package of lessons. The whip guy keeps very specific records as he takes large pride in his work. The lessons were given to Winston Dudley the Fourth six years ago, in Sydney.”

“That’s good,” Reo said.

“Whip guy remembers Dudley,” Baxter continued. “Remembers he took the lessons seriously. He not only took the package, but added to it with another round of lessons. Whip guy says Dudley was damn good with a whip by the end of it.”

“That’s very, very good,” Reo added.

“It’s bull’s-eye,” Eve countered. “What do you need, to actually see them kill somebody? We can link the weapons to the men, the victims to the men. Moriarity’s going to have the crossbow and harpoon gun, Dudley’s still got the sheath he used for the bayonet. Believe it. A case for the whip. They’d want part of the weapon to keep, to gloat over.

“There’s no way to know who they’ve targeted next, but there will be a target.” She pressed that button, pressed it hard. “These are addictive personalities, and they won’t stop. They can’t stop,” Eve insisted. “They like it too much, and they’re at tie score. They won’t stop until one of them misses, and even then, they won’t stop. After an entire life of playing at work, at playing at sport, at just goddamn playing, they’ve found something they’re really good at, something that they can share as intimately as lovers. The people they kill are only important because they’re important—but every one of the victims lack what these men would see as their pedigree, their privilege to be important by birth.

“They’re addicts,” she repeated, “and won’t give up this drug. And they’re freaking soul mates, so they won’t give up this union. They may take it elsewhere—Europe, South America, Asia, mix their pie a little when they’re bored of New York.”

“I think they’ll stay until they’ve finished this particular contest.” Mira spoke quietly. “I agree with the lieutenant’s evaluation. These men need to feed their desires, their whims, their sense of intimacy with each other. They need to indulge themselves, and this is their ultimate competition, and partnership. They work together, even as they compete. Killing two people, one after another, using the same alibi would have been yet another kind of rush. A new thrill, and codependency. They may continue that pattern, or escalate. And once again kill together. I believe that’s how they plan to indulge themselves with you, Eve.”