by J. D. Robb
“Taught her everything she knows,” Feeney said to Roarke. “Nice play.”
“He likes good shoes,” Eve continued, “and he can afford them. Why wear expensive shoes to a murder at an amusement park?”
“Not everyone is as dismissive of good footwear as you, darling.”
She turned a beady eye on Roarke. “No darlings from civilians. Sneaks or skids make more sense. You can move faster if you have to. It’s Coney freaking Island. It’s a playground. But he wears good shoes. He’s vain, and he likes expensive, exclusive. Or maybe he’s just used to them. He’s going to kill her, but he wants her to notice he’s got good taste and the dough to float it.
“Keep at it,” she told McNab. “I need a minute with you.” She crooked a finger at Roarke as she walked out.
When he’d followed her out, Roarke wrapped a light grip around the finger she’d crooked. “Try to remember I’m your husband, not a subordinate.”
“Jeez, sorry. If I’d thought of you as a subordinate I’d probably have told you to get your ass out here. Or words to that effect.”
“Most likely true. Still.” He gave her finger a quick squeeze. “Let’s have a walk. I’m hungry.”
“I don’t—”
“If I have to settle for something from the pitiful vending choices around here you can walk and talk.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as he turned down a corridor toward the pitiful vending choices. “While you’re at it, remember you’re the one who jumped on board with this.”
“I’m well aware.” He stood in front of one of the machines, scowling at the offerings. “I suppose the crisps are the safest.”
“Just use my code. It’s—”
“I know what your code is.” He ordered five bags.
“Jesus, I guess you are hungry.”
“You’re having one, and you’ll toss one to Peabody. The others are for my lab mates.”
While the machine, which was never quite so cooperative with her, jingled out the data on the soy chips, Roarke studied her. “What do you need?”
“I just have a couple questions. Does your control-the-global-economy corps have insurance against hacking and fraud?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, so if Sweet or Urich worked for you, and this went down, you’d be covered.”
“There’d be an investigation, which would take time, and possibly some legal wrangling, but yes. That’s good,” he added as he gathered up the bags. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
“Makes you the subordinate.”
He pinched her. “Makes me focused on the trees—or the data and imaging—rather than the forest. It would cost the companies time and some money, but it’s relatively small change. The publicity could cause more damage, but they’ll have their spinners working on that. Cooperating with the authorities, full internal investigation. And they’ll likely chop a head or two.”
“Yeah, that was Urich’s take. As emperor of all you survey, do you know or have access to the codes and passwords of your employees?”
“If you mean as head of Roarke Industries do I have full access to that data, yes.”
“Because you can out-hack the hackers, or because of your position?”
“Both. Isn’t this interesting?”
“Maybe. What do you know about Winston Cunningham Dudley the Fourth?”
“Friends call him Winnie.”
“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Do you?”
“No, but then I don’t know him, particularly. We’ve met, certainly, at charity events, that sort of thing, but don’t have anything in common.”
“You’re both really rich.”
“There’s a difference between multigenerational wealth and wealth more recently and personally acquired.”
“So he’s a fuck-headed snob?”
He laughed. “You do whittle things down. I have no idea. What I do know, and that’s more impression and passing commentary, is he seems to enjoy his privilege and socializes with his own kind. Dudley and Son is solid and run well. If you’re considering he’s gone on a murderous rampage, folding in one of his top people, I’d have to ask why would he?”
“That’s another area. I’m just trying to get a feel. What about the other company, Intelicore, and the other guy. Sylvester Bennington Moriarity the Third. And where do they come up with these names?”
“I think the fourth speaks for itself. Given our background and lineage, when we have children, we’ll have to make up impressive names. Like Bartholomew Ezekiel.”
“If we have a kid, I hope I like him better than to do that to him.”
“That would be a factor.” He turned back to the machine and ordered a citrus power drink.
“You have coffee.”
“Which is, thanks to this consultation, cold by now. I want something to wash down these crisps. I don’t know Moriarity any better than the other—I believe friends call him Sly. If memory serves, they’re both in their forties, grew up in the lifestyle one expects on that level. They play polo or squash or golf, I imagine.”
“You don’t like them.”
“I don’t know them,” he repeated. “But no, not particularly, and that would be mutual. Their type has a built-in distrust and disdain for my type. Money polishes up the street rat, darling, but it doesn’t exterminate it.”
“Then I don’t like them either.” When he raised his brows, she poked him in the belly. “It’s pretty clear one or both of them dissed my man. That’s my job.”
“Hold this?” he said and pushed the drink into her hand. Then he used his free hand to poke her in the belly in turn. “Thanks for that. But even if we deem them fuck-headed snobs, it’s a long distance to murder.”
“Gotta check the angles. Here.” She pushed the drink back at him, took the two bags of soy chips. “Go do what you do, and I’ll do the same. Thanks for the chips,” she said as she walked away.
“You bought them.”
“Right.” She turned, walked backward a moment. “You’re welcome.”
9
EVE TOSSED PEABODY THE BAG OF CHIPS AS SHE walked into the nearly empty bullpen.
“Hey, thanks!”
“Did you earn it?”
“I’ve got a series of runs and searches going. So far, I can’t find any connection between Sweet and Urich. They both belong to health clubs, but different ones. Sweet has a cabin deal upstate. Urich has a summer place in the Hamptons, but the wife got that in the settlement anyway. They didn’t grow up or go to school anywhere near each other. They have different doctors in different areas of the city. They don’t even shop in the same areas.”
“Check out the exes. Might as well be thorough.”
“I got that started, too. So far, zip. Did a secondary run on the driver tonight. Nothing there, either. She’s worked for the service seven years, clean slate, no intersects I’ve found with Sweet. She has driven Urich a number of times, but that’s to be expected. I’m looking at Urich’s admin and her assistant. Not hitting anything yet.”
“McNab’s going to send down data on a pair of shoes. I want to know venues for purchase.”
“Shoes?”
“We got a partial image from park security. It’s not much, but we can get the shoe. I’m going to check out the vic’s place, get her appointment book.”
Peabody opened the chips, took a deep sniff. “You don’t want me along?”
“We need to get this drone work done. When you’ve got a good handle on it, take an hour—two if you need it—in the crib.”
She fueled up with coffee, then headed out. She started to leave the top up, just as a matter of principle, but decided what the hell. Who was going to see her zipping around topless at four in the morning?
Added to it, when she pulled to the curb in front of the shiny building on Park Avenue, the droid doorman didn’t sneer at her. Instead, he hustled up, respect in every circuit to open her door.
“Good morning, miss. H
ow can I help you?”
“By not calling me miss.” Pleased, she pulled out her badge. “It’s Lieutenant. I’m leaving my ride here. Nobody touches it. I need access to Ava Crampton’s unit.”
“Miss—Lieutenant. Ms. Crampton hasn’t returned home this morning.”
“And she won’t be, seeing as she’s dead.”
He got that blank droid stare while he processed the unexpected information. “I’m sorry to hear that. Ms. Crampton was a valued tenant.”
“Yeah. Code me in.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need to verify your identification before admitting you.”
She held the badge up again, waited while its eyes scanned, while they processed. “Has anyone else tried to get into her place tonight?”
“No. Ms. Crampton occupied the penthouse triple, west corner, and there has been no exit or entrance to that unit since Ms. Crampton herself left at . . .” It got that droid stare again. “Twenty-two-thirty-two. At which time she took a private transportation, with driver, to an unknown to me destination. Do you require data on the transportation and/or driver?”
“No, I’ve got that.”
“I’ll pass you through to Ms. Crampton’s unit. Will you require my assistance?”
“All I require you to do is make sure my ride stays like it is, where it is.”
“Absolutely.”
Crampton had lived the high life, Eve thought as she rode a private elevator to the sixty-first floor. Three-level corner penthouse, with roof garden, on an exclusive piece of real estate.
More than sex, she mused. It took more than acrobatics and a good body to earn what it took to maintain this lifestyle.
The triple opened up into a sweeping foyer with an intricate chandelier of tangled and glinting silver draped with diamond-clear glass. Dark wood floors provided a canvas for rugs in bold colors and complicated patterns. Art maintained the theme, slashing hot, mixed colors and strange shapes against warm cream walls.
Furnishings, she noted as she wandered through the main level, managed to marry that complex style with sumptuous comfort. Deep, deep cushions and plenty of them, sparkling lights, mirrored tables, countless pillows.
A silver dining table held a huge clear vase of flowers someone with an artist’s eye had arranged—and recently. Over an ebony fireplace in that room reigned a pretty spectacular portrait of its former occupant, boldly nude as she reclined on a bed draped in red.
So, she hadn’t been the shy, modest type.
Eve swung through kitchen, powder rooms, a separate living area, admired the views more out of curiosity than necessity. It helped give her a sense of the woman. Lived full, she thought, lived well and enjoyed the fruits of her labors.
She took the clear curl of stairs rather than the elevator to the second floor.
The master—or mistress—bedroom was massive, and needed to be to accommodate the bed. Eve estimated it could sleep six, and wondered passingly if it had. She’d gone for gold tones in here, warm rather than glossy. And had spread the bed with what looked to be an acre of textured gold silk. Curvy sofas, more pillows, carved tables, lamps dripping with beads, and another, less massive arrangement of flowers continued the indulgent, sink-into-it style.
In the many drawers of the bedside tables, Eve found an expansive and efficiently organized arrangement of sex toys and enhancements.
She estimated the dressing room/closet combo to be about the size of her bullpen at Central, and also strictly organized. Full of rich fabrics, she noted, pricey labels, and enough shoes to outfit the population of a small country.
A tall, drawered case was locked and bolted to the floor. Jewelry, she decided. She’d get to that.
For now, she took a look at the bathroom, decided Crampton might just out-Roarke Roarke in some areas, then wandered the second floor.
Two guest suites, both generous and well outfitted, a second lounging area with a small, efficient kitchen . . . and an equally well-outfitted S&M room. Plenty of black leather, velvet ropes, a selection of whips and crops, restraints. Another bed, this one draped in black satin, a jeweled case of small knives with ornate handles.
She went to the third level. Here, she mused, was the business center. A CEO’s office, luxurious certainly, but designed for serious business. A full wall of screens, organized file discs, a muscular data-and-communications center. It boasted another small kitchen with a stocked AutoChef and full-sized fridge, a bar holding several bottles of good wine, liquor, mixers.
She expected the computer to be secured and passcoded, and it was. Leaving that for the moment, she rifled through drawers until she found the appointment book. She found the entries both businesslike and discreet.
On the day she died, Ava Crampton spent the afternoon in her salon for what Eve assumed was the works. At five she’d scheduled a Catrina Bigelo for two hours at the Palace. Roarke’s hotel, Eve thought. Why not fuck in the best?
She had Foster Urich listed, with a ten-thirty P.M. pickup by Elegant Transportation, for the meet at Coney Island. A four-hour date, with the option for overnight held open.
Costly, she mused.
Ava had a notation after his name. New Client, vetted and cleared.
Eve used her com to schedule an EDD team to pick up the electronics, but there was little else. The answers, she thought, weren’t here in the victim’s space. Still, they’d have to look through that space, at her, at all of her secrets.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, rubbed hard, tried to will her second wind to kick in. She glanced with longing at the AutoChef thinking of coffee. She’d bet the vic sprang for real.
But copping a cup was disrespectful.
She pushed herself to her feet. She’d just have to choke down whatever she could find on the street, get the boost if not the flavor.
By the time she came out of the building, New York was changing shifts. Those who played or worked by night started home, or to wherever they hoped to flop for the night. Those who lived by day switched on lights in their apartments, hurried to catch the early train or tram. Sanitation crawled down the streets, clanging dully about its work.
But along with the scent of garbage she caught the perfume of bakeries, pushing the sugary, yeasty smells outside through their venting to lure in that change of shift.
She remembered the chips she’d tossed on the passenger seat, and had them for breakfast as she drove to the morgue. There, she settled on a tube of cold caffeine, much safer than what passed as coffee.
She didn’t expect anyone to have started the PM on Crampton. She simply wanted another look at her victim before she went back to Central.
She walked into Morris’s suite, and there he was, putting on his protective gear with the body already prepped and on his table.
“Did you catch the night shift?” she asked. Then she saw it, the sadness, the signs of a sleepless night.
He wore black again, stark and unrelieved.
“No. But I see you did.” He sealed his hands as he studied the body. “She was particularly beautiful.”
“Yeah. Top-tier LC.”
“So I saw in your report. I don’t have anything for you. I haven’t started.”
“I was in the field, and wanted another look at her before I went in.” She hesitated, but the unhappiness on his face twisted her up. “Bad night?”
He looked up, met her eyes. “Yes.” Now he hesitated while she tried to figure out what to say, or if to say anything.
“There are times I miss her more than seems possible, or bearable. It’s better. I know it’s better because it’s not every moment of every day, or even every day, every night. But there are times I realize, again, there is no Amaryllis Coltraine in the world, in my life, and it chokes me.”
She didn’t think about what she could or should say now, but only said what came through the heart and into her mind. “I don’t know how much better it gets, Morris, or how long it takes. I don’t know how people get through it.”
; “Minute by minute, then hour by hour, then day by day. Work is solace,” he said, “friends are comfort. Life is for the living. You and I know that, even though we spend so much time with the dead—maybe because of that we know we have to live. Chale has been a great help to me.”
“That’s good,” she said, thinking of the priest she’d suggested Morris talk to. “You can . . . you know, anytime.”
“Yes.” His lips curved. “I know. You’re work, and a friend, so have been both solace and comfort.” He sighed, looked at the body again. “So.”
“I’ll let you work.”
“Tell me about her,” he said before she turned away. “What’s not in your report.”
“She lived well. She took care of herself, of her business. I think she was smart, and I think she took pride in her work, and I think she must have enjoyed it. I don’t think you can be really good at something, not for the long haul, if you don’t enjoy it. I guess she liked people, and making them feel important and desirable, and she knew how to do it. Not just the sex, I don’t see how that’s enough. She was a native New Yorker, working-class family, parents split when she was a kid. She got her first-level license at nineteen, kept her record clean, took the classes and tests for higher levels, worked her way up. I think she lived just the way she wanted to live, for as long as she had.”
“What else is there? Thank you.”
“I’ve got to get back.” She started for the door, stopped when she reached it. “Listen, Morris, maybe you could come over for dinner or something.” When he simply watched her, smiling, she shrugged. “You know, Roarke could play with that grill he got last year. We could do a summer deal, some friends, some cow meat.”
“I’d like that.”
“Well, I’ll fix it up, let you know.”
As she walked out, she heard him speak into the record. “Victim is mixed-race female.”
She pulled out her ’link as she walked outside, and set for message only on the tag.
Even so, Charles Monroe answered. “Good morning, Lieutenant Sugar.”
“What, is everybody up at dawn today?”
“We are. Louise had night duty at the clinic and just got home. I’m making breakfast. Want an omelet?”