Indulgence in Death (29 page)

“You can’t have. I took . . . I wasn’t there.”

“You were going to say you took care of it, jammed security with this.” She drew out the jammer. “You did a pretty good job, Winnie. Credit where credit’s due. But you didn’t get them all. And before you say there are any number of people with this particular make of shoe,” she said to Sorenson, “you should know they’re a limited edition, and in this size and color, very few have been sold—and we’ve been briskly eliminating them as suspects. I really don’t think your client’s been fully forthcoming with you.”

“I’ll need time to confer privately with my client.”

“Sure. We can do that. And given the time, I can postpone the continuation of this interview until Monday morning. I bet you’re feeling a little tense and itchy, Winnie. Gee, you’re all shaky and sweaty. I bet you wish you had just a little hit to smooth it out. It’s a long time until Monday, a long time in a cage without all your usual indulgences.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

She leaned forward, into his face. “Oh, yes, I can.”

“Sorenson, you useless shit, deal with this.”

“Lieutenant, if I could speak with you outside.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” In fact, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her booted feet. “Why don’t you deal with me, Winnie? That was the plan. But Sly screwed up, he messed it up for you. He’s the loser. But you, you’re a screwup, too. Jesus, you’re laughable. I beat both of you in under a week. Maybe I should have a victory drink.”

She pulled a bottle of champagne from the box. “Fancy French stuff. Special vintage, numbered and signed and recorded in Delaflote’s log for the Simpson job. It was in your wine cellar. That Delaflote, he had no business getting naked with your mother. Freaking French upstart.”

“You shut your mouth.”

“Oh, I got more. Lots more. So much I’m amazed the two of you had a nine-month run at this. The NYPSD judge?” She gestured to Peabody.

“Gives them a five-point-eight out of ten. But that’s for creativity,” Peabody added. “Execution drops to a four-point-six.”

“That’s fair. But it was fun, wasn’t it, Winnie? That much fun, you do it for the love, not the score. And you loved it, just like you love your chemicals. What’s life without some buzz and thrill?”

“Lieutenant, that’s quite enough.” Sorenson stood. “We’ll end this interview here.”

“I’m not staying here, going back to that cell. You moronic prick, do what you’re paid to do! I want to go home. I want this bitch punished.”

“Ouch, starting to jones some, huh?” Eve shook her head in sympathy as she checked her wrist unit. “It’s been a while. Not that you’re going home—ever—Winnie, but you wouldn’t find any of your stashes there. We’ve got them, too.”

He surged to his feet, backhanding Redhead out of her chair when she tried to soothe him down again. “You have no right to touch my things. I pay you. You’re nothing but a public servant. I own you.”

“You bought and paid for these people.” Eve gestured to the photos scattered over the table. “You had every right to kill them for sport.”

“You’re damn right we did. They’re nothing.” He swept the photos to the floor. “Barely more than droids. Who cries when a droid’s destroyed? And you, you’re nothing more than a conniving, social-climbing nobody’s temporary whore. We should’ve killed you first.”

“Yeah, guess so. Missed that shuttle.”

“Winston, I don’t want you to say another word. Do you hear me, not another word.”

“Going to listen to your paid servant, Winnie?” She put a taunting sneer into her voice. “Does he tell you what to do?”

“No one tells me what to do. I’m walking out of here, and I’ll ruin you. You think because you married money you’re safe? I have a name, I have influence. I can crush you with a word.”

“Which word? Because I need more than one, and here they are. Winston Dudley the Fourth, in addition to the charges already on record against you, you are hereby charged with five additional counts of murder and conspiracy to murder the following: Bristow, Melly, a human being . . .”

Behind her as Eve continued the litany of names and charges, Peabody opened the door for two uniforms. Because she’d already decked him once, Eve stepped aside when he charged and left it to the uniforms to restrain him.

“Lieutenant!” Sorenson came after her. “It’s obvious my client is emotionally and mentally distressed, and may be suffering from illegals abuse. I—”

“Take it up with the PA. I’ve done my job.”

She kept walking, and as she passed Observation Roarke came out, fell into step with her. “Nice work, Lieutenant, for a temporary whore.”

“That’s saying something from a conniving, social-climbing nobody.”

“What a good fit we are.” He took her hand. “Ready for the weekend?”

“Oh, boy, howdy. I need lemon meringue pie and strawberry shortcake.”

“Aren’t you the greedy one?”

“Hey, sometimes you’ve just got to go for a little indulgence.” She turned toward the conference room. “I need about thirty to deal with the paperwork. And I’m going to need a couple hours tomorrow morning on Moriarity.”

He only nodded, and kept her hand in his as they looked at the board. “No more faces,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.”

He understood, she thought, that she’d needed to ensure that. And understood, as she did, there would be other faces on other nights.

But not tonight.

She turned to him, slid her arms around him, laid her head on his shoulder, and breathed clear.

He was right. What a good fit they were.