Indulgence in Death (23 page)

“We can go now?”

“Yeah. Did the officer get your contact information, in case we have to talk to you again?”

“Yes. He has everything. Should I tell Mr. Frost? Ms. Simpson? Should I tell them what we found?”

“We’ll take care of it.”

They rose as Eve did, and Peabody moved to walk them out. The boy turned, met Eve’s eyes. “It’s not like it is on-screen. It’s not really like that at all.”

She thought of Sean standing over a young girl’s body in the Irish woods. “People are always saying that. They’re right.”

18

EVE DID A WALK-THROUGH HERSELF, TO GET A feel for the house, the people who lived there. And to make absolutely certain there were no droids in residence.

She found the wine cellar, well stocked and secured. She’d have EDD check the log, determine the last time a bottle had been removed, but she held the opinion they’d confirm the vic had brought the wine with him from France, and the killer had taken it with him.

She went back to the kitchen. What she knew about cooking wouldn’t fill a teaspoon, but she could gauge the general concept.

She imagined herself back in the kitchen of the farmhouse in Ireland, watching Sinead fix breakfast.

There was an order to these things, she mused

“What would he do first? Take out his supplies, that’s what I’d do. Supplies and tools. Some of the stuff must need refrigeration, so he’d put that in the chiller until he needed it. Put his music on, maybe pour a glass of wine.

“Get everything all organized. Has he worked here before? We’ll want to find out. If he already knew the lay of the land, it wouldn’t take him as long to get set up.”

She opened the oven, studied the fatal chicken. “Roarke said the bird would take a couple hours. It’s probably the longest deal, so he’d do that first.”

“Roarke knows how to roast a chicken?”

“No. He looked it up.”

Peabody poked her head in the oven again, nodded. “A good ninety minutes anyway, less for the veggies, so he’d arrange them in the pot a little later. I actually know how to roast a chicken, but not so fancy. It’s got this sauce, and see he’s trussed it up?”

“Yeah, it’s real pretty. How long to get it in the oven?”

“Hmm. He’s a pro, so maybe not as long as your average. Or maybe longer due to fancy. Maybe half an hour. He’d have to peel and chop the veggies, so that’s a little more time once the bird was in.”

“He’s got this fishy thing in here.” Eve opened the fridge.

Peabody poked in again, sniffed. “It’s like a mousse deal. That probably took some time. And there are artichokes. I guess he was going to do something with them. Caviar, too—mega-fancy. And all those greens over there. It’s too bad they’re all wilted now.”

“Put it all together, and he worked here at least two hours. From the looks of the bottle, he had a couple glasses of wine. ME can confirm.”

“You know what else?” Hands on her hips, Peabody took a long survey. “It’s tidy. No spills, no jumble. When my granny cooks it’s like a hurricane’s been through. So either he or the killer cleaned up.”

“I think we can eliminate the killer. No point, and wiping off a counter or sticking something in the washer isn’t something Moriarity would consider his job.”

But Peabody’s observation helped her see it more clearly. “The pro liked an organized workspace, so he cleaned or had the droid do it. We’re going to feed all this into the computer, get the most probable timing. Which is likely what Moriarity did. Then, with the security down, all he has to do is have the droid drive him away, and wherever he wanted to go.

“Didn’t drive himself here.” Eve shook her head. “He wouldn’t want to deal with two vehicles. Maybe the droid again. Otherwise he’d have to walk, at least for several blocks. So he’d have to disguise himself somewhat. Carting that harpoon in some sort of case or bag. If it went that way, the droid lets him in through the gate, and he sends it out to the car.”

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “That’s just sloppy. Why walk when you’ve got a droid and a stolen car at your disposal, and you’ll be the one with an alibi according to the pattern? He wouldn’t want to waste time.”

“Vehicle gives him cover, saves him the disguise,” Peabody added.

“And there’s a nice safe place to go, just about five-six minutes’ drive from here.”

“Dudley’s primary New York residence.”

“That’s the one. Droid picks him up there, brings him here. He’d figure the vic’s busy in the kitchen, or taking a break in the garden. All Moriarity has to do is walk through the house. If the vic’s in the kitchen, he just has to talk him outside. If the vic’s outside, which he was, having his smoke, Moriarity just walks out, gets the vic in position, and spears him. Puts the mechanism back in the case, bags the wine, walks out, and the droid drives him away.

“The kill didn’t take more than five or ten minutes from the time he came through the gates.”

She circled one last time. “I want the timing locked down, and we’re going to find out where Moriarity was last night, if they have the nerve to start alibiing each other. Let’s go see Dudley.”

“He’s connected to the owners,” Peabody pointed out. “So, sticking to pattern, he’ll have an alibi.”

“Yeah. I want to know what it is. I want to contact them first, the owners. We need to confirm they didn’t hire the vic. The vic’s got to have an admin or assistant. Track them down, get the setup. How he was hired, how it was arranged, how he traveled. And the supplies. Did he bring them with him, and if so, where he got them. Lock down the wine. It’s going to be key.”

“Then what?”

“Then we put it all together, every step, every layer, every angle.” She felt her anger struggle to rise up, and hardened it into sheer resolve. “We’re going to put on a fucking show, Peabody, because we have to convince Whitney, the PA, and anybody else who needs convincing to issue search warrants. I want to tear these bastards’ houses, offices, playgrounds, clubrooms, and pieds-à-goddamn-terre apart.”

I
t was probably small, and hardly relevant, for Eve to feel such cold satisfaction when she noted Roarke’s house could’ve swallowed Dudley’s whole, then spit it out again.

It was nothing to sneeze at. From the looks of it, it had likely been a smallish hotel pre-Urbans. Someone with vision had redesigned it and turned it into a mini estate too sleek and modern for her taste.

Or, she supposed, the taste she’d developed over the past few years.

The windows, coated with a silver sheen for privacy, tossed back shimmering reflections of the city Dudley could smirk at from the other side. He’d opted for stone and metal sculptures rather than plantings at the entrance.

She supposed they were somebody’s idea of high art, but that somebody wasn’t her.

Security put her through the usual paces before a young, shapely woman in a snug red uniform opened the door.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Mr. Dudley will be with you shortly. He apologizes for the wait. He entertained last night, quite late.”

She gestured them into the wide foyer done up in silvers and red, slashes of black, and into a large living space where the walls alternated between glossy white and glossy black, and the floor formed a kind of chessboard of the same colors.

Furniture, and too much of it, gleamed in jewel tones Eve decided would make her eyes ache after twenty minutes.

“If you’d wait in here. I’ve already ordered coffee. Mr. Dudley will be with you as soon as possible.”

“So he had a party last night?”

“Yes.” The woman smiled brightly, showing perfect and whiterthan-white teeth. “A garden party. Such a lovely night for it. I don’t think the last guest left till nearly four this morning.”

“Some people just don’t know when to go home.”

Red Uniform’s laughter was as bright as her smile. “I know what you mean, but Mr. Dudley didn’t mind, I’m sure. Mr. Moriarity’s such a dear friend.”

Eve’s answering smile edged thin. “I bet.”

“I’ll just go check on your coffee.”

Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak. “I got about two hours of sleep last night myself,” she said and wandered to the windows, let out a yawn. “Couldn’t that gardener have started work at a decent hour? It’s not like the dead French guy was going anywhere.”

“I didn’t tell you about the subway deal this morning,” Peabody said, playing along. “Some sort of snafu, so I had to get off a station early and hoof it the rest of the way to the scene.”

“Screwed-up days always seem to start early. The media’s going to be all over this last murder, and the commander’s going to want us to toss them something.”

“At least the media hasn’t connected the first two. Maybe they won’t go there yet.”

“We’ve been lucky. Luck doesn’t last.”

Another woman, again young, curvy, dressed in red, wheeled in a coffee service and a silver basket of muffins.

“Please help yourself. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, we’re good.”

“Be sure to try a muffin. Celia baked them this morning.”

Eve eyed the basket when the second red uniform clipped out. “I guess Celia didn’t go to the party.”

“I can have a muffin,” Peabody decided. “I had a morning power walk.”

As she chose one, Dudley came in.

He looked bright-eyed, in Eve’s opinion. Maybe just a little too bright, the sort that came from a little chemical boost. No suit today, she noted, but a rich guy’s casual wear. And the fucker was wearing the loafers, the shoes he’d worn when he’d killed Ava Crampton.

“This is an unexpected morning treat.” He beamed at them. “I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve found whoever killed that driver the other night.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Ah, well. I suppose these things take time.”

He poured himself coffee, added three little squares of brown sugar, then sat comfortably on a chair the color of a nuclear sapphire.

“What can I do for you, ladies?”

“I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you so early in the day,” Eve began, “and after, we’re told, you had a late night.”

“Wonderful party. Actually, I’m feeling very up this morning. Evenings like that are so stimulating.”

“That kind of thing wears me out, but it takes all kinds.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news,” Eve continued. “Would you object if I recorded this? And I’ll need to read you your rights. It’s official, a formality, and it would keep the record clean.”

“Not at all.”

“I appreciate that.” Eve engaged her recorder, and noticed Dudley’s eyes got just a little brighter. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, in interview with Dudley, Winston, the Fourth, in his home.” She read off the Revised Miranda. “Mr. Dudley, you employ a Meryle Simpson, correct?”

“Yes, she’s our CEO of Marketing. And a family connection . . . convolutely. No, don’t tell me something’s happened to her. I thought she and her family were away for a while.”

“They are. However, her ID, her company credit information, and her home were used in a homicide.”

“This just can’t be.” He braced his head in his hand, closed his eyes. “Not again.”

“I’m afraid it can be. It’s possible her information was compromised before your recent security checks. If not, you still have a problem.”

“It’s a nightmare.” He breathed it out, brushed a hand over his white-blond hair. “I have to assure you Meryle couldn’t be involved. She’s not only a trusted member of the Dudley team, but family.”

“We have no reason to believe she’s involved. I spoke with her and her husband this morning, and informed them of the incident. Also I advised them there’s no need for them to return to New York at this time, but I believe Mr. Frost intends to do so, to reassure them both their house is in order.”

“Yes, he’s a very responsible sort. What a terrible thing.” He aimed a sorrowful look in Eve’s direction. “Their home, you say?”

“That’s right. Ms. Simpson’s name and information were used to engage the services of a private chef. A Luc Delaflote, from Paris.”

“Delaflote!”

Dudley pressed a spread hand to his heart. Eve wondered if he’d practiced the gesture and the shocked expression in the mirror.

“No. My God, was he the victim? Is he dead?”

“You know him?”

“Yes, I do. I certainly do. The man’s an artist, a genius. We’ve—myself, friends, family—hired him many times for events, for special occasions. Why, I dined in his restaurant the last time I was in Paris. How did this happen?”

“I’m not free to give you the details, as yet. As the employer, and a family connection, and now with your personal acquaintance with the victim, I have to ask for your whereabouts last night between the hours of nine and midnight. Obviously you were entertaining,” Eve continued. “If I could have your guest list, even a partial, to verify, it would put that matter aside so we can focus in on viable lines of investigation.”

“Of course, of course. This is such a shock. I’m going to contact our security, and have this checked yet again.”

“I think that would be wise. Again, we’re sorry to disturb you at home, and with such distressing news. Thank you for your time.”

“I’m more than happy to give you my time under these tragic circumstances. This is a terrible business.”

He chose a grim expression this time, and Eve thought he selected his facial reactions the way a man might pick the correct tie.

“I want to contact Meryle, offer my support and sympathy. That won’t be a problem, officially, will it?”

“Not at all. We won’t keep you any longer. If we could have that guest list, or even a handful of names, we’ll get out of your way.”

“Let me just tell Mizzy to make you a copy.” He rose, walked to a house ’link.

“Nice shoes,” Eve said with a casual smile. “The silver accessory gives them some jump, but they look comfortable.”

“Thank you, and they are. Stefani invariably marries comfort and style. Mizzy, would you make a copy of last night’s guest list for Lieutenant Dallas? Yes, dear. Thank you.”

He walked back, picked up his coffee again. “It won’t take a minute. Have you ever dined on Delaflote?” he asked her.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Ah, if you had, you could and would say.” He forgot to look grim or sorrowful as delight twinkled over his face. “I’m surprised Roarke wouldn’t have indulged you.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad since we’ve missed our chance there. Still, I lean toward Italian,” she said, thinking of the pizza she’d shared with Roarke the night before.

Mizzy, yet another red uniform, strode in, brisk on toothpick heels. “Here you are, Lieutenant. The guest list, with contact data. Is there anything else I can do?”

“This should cover it. Thanks again.” Eve rose, held out a hand to Dudley. “Shoot, sorry, lost track. Interview end.”