Indulgence in Death (12 page)

“In those sizes, in that color, in this store. Citywide includes several department stores and boutiques.”

“The ones bought here? Regular customers?”

“As a matter of fact.” He nodded. “So I’m afraid they’re probably not who you’re looking for. Sampson Anthony—the producer—last month, and Winston Dudley, the pharma king—in March.”

“Just for fun, because my partner’s getting juiced drooling over the shoes in here, who sold those two pair?”

“Patrick’s down for Mr. Anthony. And Mr. Dudley only works with Chica.”

Eve made a show of glancing over at Peabody. “I can stall another couple minutes. Why don’t I take a run at Chica while I’m here, it’ll give me something to put in the report and jibe the time she’s having a little fun.”

“You bet. She’s right over there, just finishing with a customer. Aubergine hair.”

Aubergine, Eve thought. It looked purple to her. “Appreciate it.”

She walked over, sat, gestured.

“And what can I slip on you today?”

“I’ll stick with what I got.” She held up her badge.

“Okay. Those are good boots for a cop. A good investment, and classic style.”

“If you say so. What can you tell me about Winston Dudley?”

“Winnie? Size ten, medium. Slightly high in the arch, but a nice easy fit. He likes what’s right off the runway. Favors classic styles, but he’ll get crazy now and then.”

“Does he come in a lot?”

“It depends on his schedule. Sometimes I take a selection to him.”

“You make house calls with shoes?”

“Shoes, belts, ties, bags, other accessories. It’s a service we provide to our upper clientele.”

“Are you booked to see him anytime soon?”

“No. He was just in, actually, a few days ago. Bought six pair. I probably won’t see him, either way, until next month, and then only if he’s in town.”

Eve took out a card. “Do us both a favor. If he contacts you for an at-home session, you get in touch.”

Chica studied the card and for the first time looked concerned. “Why?”

“Because I’m a cop with good boots.”

Chica laughed, but turned the card in her hands. “Listen, he’s a really good client. I get a nice commission and a generous tip with the at-your-door service, and I’d really hate to do anything to mess that up.”

“It won’t mess that up.”

“I guess it’s no skin off mine.”

“Good enough.” Eve rose, started out. “Peabody, dry your adoring tears. We’re done.”

“Oh, God!” Peabody beamed as they climbed to the car. “That was the best time. Did you see those—”

“Do not describe a pair of weird-looking, overpriced shoes to me.”

“But they were—”

“You’ll be crying tears of pain and misery any second. Dudley bought that shoe, right in that store, in March. Size ten.”

“No shit?”

“Not a single scoop of shit. We’ll run the other name—just one other sale—on the list—and the others citywide, global, too, just to cover bases, but that’s just too damn good. Circumstantial, but damn good. Let’s go screw with his day. Verify with his HQ he’s there. If not, find out where he is.”

This time when they arrived at Dudley’s, they were met in the lobby by a woman in a dark, pinstriped suit that showed a lot of leg and showcased excellent breasts. She wore her hair pulled back in a long, curly tail from a face boasting a perky, pointed nose, full lips, and wide, deep blue eyes.

“Lieutenant, Detective.” She shot out a hand. “I’m Marissa Cline, Mr. Dudley’s personal assistant. I’ll escort you directly to his office.”

“Appreciate the service,” Eve said.

Marissa gestured, and began to walk, briskly, on her candy-red heels. Eve wondered if she considered them a good investment.

“Mr. Dudley’s very concerned with the situation,” Marissa continued, “and the company’s indirect involvement in a crime.”

She palm-printed a pad, swiped a card in the security slot, then again gestured for Eve and Peabody to step into the elevator.

“Marissa, carrying two, to sixty.”

Verified,
the computer responded.
Proceeding.

“So, is Mr. Dudley active in the running of the company?” Eve asked.

“Oh, yes, of course. When Mr. Dudley’s father semi-retired three years ago, Mr. Dudley took over the reins, primarily from this HQ.”

“Before that?”

Marissa smiled, blankly. “Before?”

“Before he took over the reins?”

“Oh, ah, Mr. Dudley traveled extensively to various other HQs and outlets, gaining a wide range of experience in all levels of the company.”

“Okay.” Eve wondered if that was corporate speak for Dudley’s getting shuffled around, enjoying a variety of travel and partying while his father kept him on the payroll. They stepped out of the elevator into a spacious reception area, stylishly decorated with white lounging chairs equipped with miniscreens. Among the flowers, the refreshment bar, the conversation areas, three attractive women busily worked on comps.

Marissa knocked briskly—brisk seemed to be her mode—on one of the center double doors before tossing them both open.

Winston Dudley’s office was more along the lines of a snazzy hotel suite—lush and plush, staggering view, sparkling chandeliers.

A great deal of furniture helped fill the space, artfully arranged in conversational groups. He rose from behind a desk with a black mirrored surface.

He was more attractive in person than the ID shot. Eve put it down to what people called charisma—the way he smiled as he looked you directly in the eye, the way he moved, smooth as a dancer. Just a hint of flirtation in that move, that smile, those eyes, she thought—the sort that said, you’re a desirable woman, and I appreciate desirable women.

Avid eyes, she mused, that made her wonder if he’d recently sampled some of his own products.

His hair, so blond as to be nearly white, was swept back from a delicately boned face. Almost feminine, she mused. The features weren’t quite as sharp as Urich’s, but close.

His suit fit perfectly in a color she thought of as indigo. Old-fashioned links glinted at the cuffs of his pale blue shirt. His ID data, and her visual scan, put him at five feet ten and a half inches, weighing in at one-seventy.

Again, in Urich’s ballpark.

His shoes were as black and shiny as his desk, and sported no silver trim.

He took Eve’s hand, a firm grip, soft skin, and held it two flirtatious seconds after the shake.

“Lieutenant Dallas. I hoped we’d meet, but under different circumstances. I hope Roarke is well.”

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“And Detective Peabody, a pleasure.” He took her hand. “I recently finished Nadine Furst’s book. I feel I know both of you. Please sit down. Black coffee,” he said as Marissa lifted a tray, “coffee regular.” He tapped the side of his head. “Those details from the book stick. Thanks, Marissa. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

He sat on one of the wide chairs, laid his forearms on the wide arms. “I know you’re here about the murder of the driver, and our own Augustus Sweet. It’s very distressing. What can I do to help?”

“You can tell me where you were on the night in question.”

His eyes widened, briefly, then lit with fun. “Really? I’m a suspect?”

“It’s routine, Mr. Dudley—”

“Please, Winnie.”

“It’s routine, and just helps us cross things off the list.”

“Of course. I was at a dinner party with a number of friends in Greenwich—Connecticut, that is. I believe my date and I arrived at just before eight, and left around midnight. I’ll have Marissa give you the names and location. Will that do?”

“Works for me. How’d you get there?”

“My driver. I have a private car and driver. I’ll get you that information as well.”

“Good enough.” She walked him through a few standard questions—did he know the victim, had he used their services, tossed in a few more relating to Sweet.

“I have to tell you we’ve just arrested and charged two of your employees.”

“Good God, for the murder? Who—”

“No, on an unrelated matter. Mitchell Sykes and Karolea Prinz. They’ve been skimming some of your products, selling them.”

He sat back, arranged his face into sober lines. “I’d like more information on this. It’s very upsetting. This shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, I need to have meetings with my department heads, Security, Inventory. I owe you a debt.”

“No, we did our job. Another unrelated matter, just crossing off. Are you acquainted with Sylvester Moriarity?”

“Sly? Yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Why?”

“Just covering bases. Was he at this dinner party?”

“No. He’s not particularly friendly with the hosts, and it was a close-knit group.”

“Okay. Thanks for the time, the coffee.” She got to her feet, smiled as he rose. “Oh, just to tidy up. How about last night? Can you tell me where you were?”

“Yes. I had drinks with a friend about five, then went home. I wanted a quiet evening, and very much wanted to finish the book. The Icove case. Just fascinating.”

“So, nobody came by?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“Just the opposite. It was one of those nights I wanted to myself. I’m curious as to why you’d want to know?”

“I’m nosy. Part of being a cop. Thanks again.”

“You’re more than welcome, both of you. Let me walk you out, and have Marissa get you the information you need. I hope we’ll see each other again, when it’s not work related.”

Marissa had the data at her fingertips—almost, Eve thought, as if she’d been told to have it there. In the elevator, Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak.

“Good coffee.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“It helps when you get that kind of cooperation.” Eve leaned negligently against the side wall. “Saves time. I want you to check out the driver, and the dinner party, just so we can put it aside. We have to log it in, even though it’s obvious he didn’t book that limo or kill Houston. So . . . what’re you and McNab up to tonight?”

Peabody’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Ah, well, we thought we might catch a vid unless we’re on OT.”

“Probably wrap up shift on time.”

She moved across the lobby, outside. She didn’t speak again until she was behind the wheel and driving away.

“Slick bastard.”

“Yeah, I was going to say—”

“And if that elevator isn’t monitored, eyes and ears, I’m having an affair with Summerset.”

“You’re—oh. Damn, sure it is.”

“Lobby might be, too.”

“You didn’t really want to know what McNab and I were doing tonight?”

“Why the hell would I care? He’s slick,” she repeated.

“He is, but he didn’t kill Houston. And he didn’t have an alibi for The Night of the Shoe.”

Eve snorted out a laugh. “Good one. That’s right, and he’s also five ten, and a little heavier than Urich. What else did we get out of that?”

“The connection you wanted between the two companies. Just call me Winnie and Sly. Good pals. It’s the first real link we’ve found.”

“That’s right. Top-level connection. What else did we get?”

“Okay, what?”

“Who wasn’t at the famous dinner party two nights ago when Jamal Houston was getting a crossbow through the neck?”

“Sylvester Moriarity? You’re thinking . . . Like that case a while back. Where the two women killed the other’s husbands? They each took one? But why?”

“Don’t know. But it’s an interesting angle. Track down Sly, and let’s go see if he’s as slick as Winnie.”

11

WHILE THE TONE OF DUDLEY AND SON HIT modern and angular on the nose, Intelicore adorned itself in the heavy and ornate. Lots of curves and curlicues, Eve noted, big-ass urns, plenty of gilt.

Contacting the company en route had paved the way, and pretty damn smoothly, straight to the hallowed halls of Sylvester—The Third’s—offices.

Like his counterpart at Dudley, he reigned on the top floor, or floors in this case, as a sweep of marble steps joined the office space to what Moriarity’s admin explained were his private quarters.

They were served coffee from a silver pot and invited to wait while The Third concluded a meeting. Left alone with Peabody, Eve scanned the office area.

Fancy taste, a love of excess—well, that could have described Roarke, she mused. Except he went in for that more at home than at work. The big, carved desk held court in front of triple windows—privacy screened—and held the expected data-and-communication center as well as mementos, an antique clock, a painted box.

Thick rugs, age-faded, spread over the floor while lights with colorful glass shades adorned tables with curved legs. Art, likely worth a mid-sized fortune, covered the walls.

Moriarity strode in, exuded the aura of a busy man—sharp movements in a sharp suit. His angular, thin-lipped face held a golden tan, and with his sun-streaked hair tousled, his eyes of bright, bold green, he gave the impression of action, athleticism.

He offered Eve a firm, perfunctory handshake, then nodded to Peabody.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. Last night’s incident required a departmental meeting. I hope you have an update on the event.”

“The Crampton murder is an open and active investigation. Evidence supports that Foster Urich’s identification and credit line were compromised by the person responsible for Ava Crampton’s death.”

“Then he’s not a suspect.”

“At this time we believe Mr. Urich was at home, in the company of a friend, when Crampton was killed.”

Moriarity nodded. “If Foster says he was home, he was home. I can and do vouch for his honesty without hesitation. He’s a valued part of this company.”

“For the record, Mr. Moriarity, where were you last night between nine P.M. and one A.M.?”

His jaw went tight, drawing those thin lips into a harsh frown. “I fail to see how that could be of interest to you in this matter.”

“It’s a matter of routine and information gathering. Your employee’s identification was used, your company car service was used, your company credit line was used, all in connection with a homicide. You are head of the company, are you not, Mr. Moriarity?”

“My position hardly—” He cut himself off, held up a hand. “It’s not important in any case. I entertained a small group of friends in my box at the opera. We had cocktails prior in a private room at Shizar, then walked the two blocks to the Met for the performance. Afterward we gathered for a late supper at Carmella. This would have been from approximately six-thirty last night to after one this morning.”

“It would help our records if we could have the names in your party.”

His eyes bored into hers. “It’s difficult enough to have any sort of connection with a murder. Now you’ll contact my personal friends to verify my word? It’s insulting.”

“Murder’s a nasty business for everybody.”

Now the muscles in his jaw twitched as he reached into his pocket for an appointment book. “I don’t care for your demeanor, Lieutenant.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No doubt.” He rattled off a series of names and contacts while Peabody scrambled to key the information into her notebook.

“Thank you. Do you have any idea, any speculations as to how Urich’s identification was compromised?”

“I just completed a meeting on that subject, and have ordered a full company screening and internal investigation.”

“You believe the compromise came from inside the company.”

He took a sharp breath in and out of his nose. “If it didn’t our security is lacking, and security is the core of my company. If it did, our employee screening is lacking, and we are in the business of screening. So either way we require our own investigation.”

“I hope you’ll keep us informed of your progress and findings.”

“Believe me, Lieutenant, when we find how this was done, and by whom, we will notify you. I will not have Intelicore’s reputation smeared in this matter. Now, I have another meeting, with our public relations division. We have a media crisis on our hands with this. So if there’s nothing else at the moment . . .”

“Thank you for your time. If you could take another moment of it, and verify your whereabouts night before last, between seven P.M. and midnight, it would be very helpful.”

Color flared in his cheeks. “That’s simply outrageous.”

“It may seem so, Mr. Moriarity, but we’re pursuing a line of investigation, and it would benefit us as well as you and your company if we had that information on record.”

“I was at home that evening, if you must know. I had a headache, took some medication, and went to bed early. Am I under arrest?”

Eve answered in kind. “Not at this time. I apologize for the inconvenience, and the intrusion, but we have a body in the morgue with a connection to your company. We owe it to her to be thorough. Again, thank you for your time. Peabody, with me.”

In the elevator, Peabody cleared her throat. “I guess it’s understandable he’s upset, but we’re just doing our job.”

Eve shrugged. “He can be an asshole, as long as we have the information. Check out the alibi so we can cross him off.”

“Yes, sir. So . . . what are you and Roarke up to tonight?”

Amused, Eve cocked an eyebrow. “No plans. I’ll probably be working late anyway. I’m going to sit hard on EDD. We’ve got a hacker out there somewhere who likes to kill people. They need to find the source.”

Outside, Peabody slid into the passenger’s seat. “He’s not going to like you calling him an asshole, if he was listening.”

“Oh, he was listening, and he expected the asshole, or some similar insult. He played for it. Dudley goes slick, this one goes sharp.”

“You think that was an act.”

“At least some of it.” She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she drove. “If they’re in this, and if they’re in it together, what’s the point? What’s the purpose? I tell you this, they’re too clever for their own good. Each of them alibied tight for one night, home alone on the other. Switch-off. But why? What’s the root?”

“What if Houston driving that night was rigged. It looks random, but what if the killer knew, or maybe played the odds it would be Houston?”

“It doesn’t feel that way, but okay.” Flip of the coin, Eve thought, but then again fifty-fifty odds weren’t bad. “Keep going.”

“One of these guys has some connection to Houston. Could be way back when the vic was getting in fights, in trouble. Could be more recent. Houston sees something he’s not supposed to see, hears something he’s not supposed to hear. He’s a driver, an overheard conversation, an exchange of money for illegal goods. Whatever. With the LC, it could’ve been jealousy, unrequited passion.”

“Neither of them are in her book.”

“Well, we know they—if it’s they—can diddle with ID. Maybe one or both of them used her services with a false ID. And okay, it’s all reaching way out,” Peabody admitted, “but why do a couple of really, really rich guys without any priors hook up to kill a couple of complete strangers?”

Damn good question, Eve thought. “Maybe they’re bored.”

“Jeez, Dallas.”

Eve glanced over at the dismay in Peabody’s voice, saw it reflected on her partner’s face. “You’ve been a cop for a while now, and in Homicide for a couple years. And you still don’t get people are just fucked up?”

“Boredom as motive is more than fucked up. I’ll buy maybe for the thrill, in part, but it just seems there has to be something under that. Jealousy, revenge, profit.”

“Then look into it. Seriously,” she added when Peabody frowned at her. “Maybe you’re right, and there’s some concrete motive here, some connection between killer or killers and victims we haven’t found. Find it. If you do, it opens things up. If you don’t, it narrows the focus. Either way it’s progress.”

“My own fork in the investigative road?”

“Whatever. Work on it, at Central, or take what you need and work at home. Carve out some downtime before your brain goes to mush.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?”

“I’m going to try to grab Mira, run some things by her, then I need to take what we have to Whitney. After that, yeah, I’m thinking I’ll work at home.”

They separated at Central, with Eve heading toward Mira’s office as she contacted the commander’s with a request for a report meeting. She geared herself up to confront Mira’s fierce gatekeeping admin but found a young, perky woman in the dragon’s place.

“Who are you?” Eve demanded.

“I’m Macy. Doctor Mira’s administrative assistant is out today. What can I do for you?”

“You can give me five minutes with Doctor Mira.”

“Let me see what I can do. Who should I say would like to speak with her?”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Oh!” She bounced a little in her chair, and actually clapped her hands as if one of them had won a prize. “I know who you are! I read Nadine Furst’s book. It’s all just amazing.”

Eve started to dismiss it, rethought. “Thanks. Being able to consult with Mira made a huge difference in the Icove case. I’m working on a pretty hot one now. I could really use that five.”

“Give me one minute!” She all but sang it as she turned to her com. “Doctor Mira, Lieutenant Dallas would like five minutes with you if you’re available. Of course, yes, ma’am.” Macy beamed at Eve. “You can go right in.”

“Thanks. Ah, how long are you on the desk?”

“Oh, just for a couple days. I wish it was longer. It’s fun!”

“Yeah.”

Mira started to rise from her desk when Eve came in. “No, don’t get up. Five minutes tops. Could there be two?”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, my sorry. I’m thinking ahead of myself. Two murders, two killers. My cases.”

Mira frowned. “With the pattern, the repeat of element types, I have to conclude these murders are connected.”

“Connected, yeah, but two killers, working in tandem, working a set pattern.”

“Interesting. Again, the elements, the executions are so very similar, even the tone.”

“Yeah, and that could be deliberate. Involve number one through an employee, but you’re alibied because number two’s on that one. Then repeat, switching off.”

“A partnership.”

“Maybe even a business deal. I don’t know, not yet, but both Dudley and Moriarity ring my bell. They’re different types.” Despite telling Mira to stay seated, Eve paced the pretty office. “At least they projected different types when we interviewed them. But under it, they’re not that different. Rich, privileged, inherited wealth, inherited positions in major, long-standing corporations. And they’re friends.”

“Are they?” Mira queried.

“Yeah. Dudley confirmed that. Friends, but neither of them mentioned discussing this very similar situation they find themselves in with the other. That’s bogus. Both are alibied tight for the night of the murder connected to their company, and home alone on the other.”

“Mirrors then.” Mira pursed her lips, nodded. “And perhaps reflecting too close, which raised your instincts to suspect.”

“Even the alibis rang the same. Out with friends, multiple, covering the entire evening. Smarter if one of them had a woman over, or a business meeting, some wider variation. But they’ve stuck with the same pattern throughout. And they’re smug. I don’t like smug.” She shrugged it off. “I’m about to report to Whitney. I wanted your take before I did.”

“What you’re theorizing is certainly possible. I would have to conclude that, if this is the case, the two men have a deep and strong level of trust or mutual need. If either one of them had failed or changed his mind, or otherwise impacted the partnership, the other would suffer the consequences as well.”

“Okay. I’ll look into that. Thanks.”

“Eve, if you’re right, they could be finished. Each has done their part.”

“No.” She thought of the sparkle in Dudley’s eyes, the hard, superior gleam in Moriarity’s. “No, they’re not finished. They think they’ve done their parts too well to be finished.”

Organizing her thoughts, Eve made her way to Commander Whitney’s office. She recognized the low throb behind her eyes as caffeine buzz warring with fatigue. Peabody wasn’t the only one who could use a little downtime.

She stepped off the glide, turned to switch to the next, barely registering the weeping behind her. Crying, cursing, whining, shouting were all ambient noise in a cop shop. But she caught the move, the man directly in front of her drawing a hand from his pocket. She saw the eyes, the baring of teeth, the hot rage.

She laid a hand on her weapon, shifted to block him.

The knife was out of his pocket before she could clear her weapon, and slicing out at her. She felt the sting of the tip across her forearm. Heard the weeping turn to high, terrified screams.

She said, “Goddamn it,” and kicked the assailant hard in the balls even as she yanked her weapon clear. “You son of a fucking bitch.”

Since he was curled on the floor, retching, he didn’t respond.

“Lieutenant. Jesus, Lieutenant, he cut you.”

“I know he cut me. I’m the one bleeding. Why is she screaming?” Eve demanded as she lowered, put a knee in the small of the retching man’s back, then restrained him. “Let me repeat: I’m the one bleeding.”

“He was going for her when you got in the way. Way it looks. Detective Manson,” he said, “Special Victims. The asshole on the floor is her ex, who paid her a visit last night, beat the crap out of her, raped her, and told her he’d cut her heart out if she left. He went out for brew, she left. He must’ve trailed her here or something. We’ll find out.”

“How the hell did he get a knife through?” As she asked, Manson used a pair of tweezers to pick it up off the floor.

“Christ, it’s one of those plastic deals from the Eatery. He sharpened it with something. I’d say he was waiting out here to go at her. In goddamn Cop Central. Crazy bastard.”