Indulgence in Death

by J. D. Robb

  In the bedroom she didn’t bother to remove her weapon and harness but simply dropped facedown on the bed. She barely felt the thump on her ass when the cat landed there.

  Forty minutes later, Roarke came home.

  “The lieutenant’s sporting a bandage on her left forearm,” Summerset reported. “It doesn’t look serious.”

  “Ah, well.”

  “You need sleep.”

  “I do. Block the ’links for the next couple of hours, would you? Unless it’s an emergency or her dispatch.”

  “Already done.”

  Roarke went up, found her crossways and facedown on the bed, a position that signaled exhaustion. From his perch on Eve’s ass, Galahad blinked.

  “I’ll take over now if you’ve something else to do,” Roarke murmured. He peeled off his suit coat, his tie, his shoes. When he pulled Eve’s boots off, she didn’t budge an inch.

  Much as he had that morning in her office, he lay down beside her, closed his eyes, and slept.

  12

  SHE HUNTED. WITH A BAYONET SHEATHED AT her side, a crossbow in her hands, she stalked her prey through richly appointed rooms, glittering light, velvet shadows.

  The fragrance was drowning floral, so thick it felt like breathing blossoms. On the ornately carved desk she’d seen in Moriarity’s office, two men—hooded, stripped to the waist—turned a screaming woman on the rack.

  “Can’t help you,” Eve told her. “You’re not real, anyway.”

  The woman paused mid-scream to smile wearily. “Who is? What is?”

  “I haven’t got time for philosophy. They’ve already picked out the next.”

  “The next what? The next who? The next what?”

  “Do you mind,” one of the hooded men said. “You’re interrupting the program.”

  “Fine. Carry on.”

  She moved into the next room, sweeping her weapon, right, left. In the sleek black-and-white drama, the bold red on the floor was blood, and on the blood floated a chauffeur’s cap.

  Leaving signs, she thought. They liked leaving clues. Liked thinking they were too smart, too insulated, too rich to be caught.

  She stood in the center of the room, studying it. What was missing? What had she missed?

  She stepped through and into her own office at Central where her murder board dominated.

  Was it there? Already there?

  Limo driver, crossbow, transpo center.

  LC, bayonet, amusement park.

  Who, what, where.

  But why?

  She eased out the door, turned toward the bullpen.

  But rather than the cops, the desks, the smell of bad coffee, she stepped into what she imagined to be a room in some exclusive club. Big leather chairs, a simmering fire though the heat was fierce, deep colors, paintings on the wall of high-class hunting.

  Hounds and horses.

  The two men sat, swirling amber-colored brandy in balloon glasses. Long, slim cigars smoked on the silver tray on the table between them.

  They turned to her as one, and their smiles were sneers.

  “I’m sorry, you’re not a member. You’ll have to leave or face the consequences. It takes more than money to belong.”

  “I know what you did, and I think I know how. But I don’t know why.”

  “We don’t answer to you and your kind.”

  It was Dudley who lifted the gun, an enormous silver weapon.

  She heard the snap when it cocked.

  She jerked, and her eyes flew open. She swore she heard—even smelled—the explosion of gunfire.

  “Shh.” Beside her Roarke pulled her closer, wrapped her in. “Just a dream.”

  “What’s it telling me?” she mumbled. When she tried to shift, an annoyed Galahad dug his claws into her butt. “Ow, damn it.” She maneuvered him off, and ended up face-to-face with Roarke. “Hi.”

  “Again.” He trailed his fingers lightly over her wounded arm. “How?”

  “Idiot with a plastic knife sharpened to a shiv, right in fucking Central. The worst was Whitney made me get a medic on it while I gave him my report.”

  “Why the bastard, forcing one of his cops to have a wound tended.”

  “I’d field-dressed it. Jacket’s toast.”

  He snuggled her in on the remote chance they’d both just drift off again. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “I don’t like Dudley or Moriarity.”

  “Isn’t that handy? Neither do I, particularly.”

  “Dudley comes up smarm and charm, with that ‘I just love women’ light in his eyes, and the other’s all ‘I’m a busy and important man so move this along, peon.’ And maybe that’s what they are, on top of it. Maybe it is. But under it they were smirking.”

  He watched her face as she spoke, and decided that remote possibility didn’t exist. “I know that look,” he murmured. “You think they did this—together.”

  “It’s a theory.” She scowled at nothing. “It’s the right theory. And not just because I don’t like them. I didn’t like that little bastard Sykes either, but I didn’t look at him for murder.”

  “All right, so you know who. How?”

  She took him through it, the alibis, the lack of them, the friendship.

  “It’s not a hell of a lot, but there was . . . a tone, a feel, a sense that they’d been waiting to play those scenes. And . . . I know what I missed. Family. Family firms, right?”

  When she started to sit up, he just kept his arm hooked around her waist. “Let’s just lie here a bit. I’m listening.”

  “Well, why wasn’t there anything of or about family in their offices? They’ve got huge spaces, all fancied up. No family photos, or photos at all. No, there’s the cricket mallet my—”

  “Bat. It’s a cricket bat.”

  “It doesn’t look like a bat. Or mallet either, but it doesn’t matter. Here’s the cricket whatzit my dear old dad gave me on my tenth birthday, or yes, that’s my great-grandfather’s pocket watch. They’re generational firms without any generational tokens in their spaces. Nothing. Neither of them. They’re running a company passed down from father to son, and so on, and there’s nothing.”

  “Devil’s advocate. It might be a deliberate show that they’re their own men.”

  “That’s part of where I’m going. Legacies are a deal with those types, even if it’s for show. And family weighs. Mira’s got her family all over her office. Whitney’s got stuff, Feeney, like that, and maybe that’s a different kind of thing, but there ought to be some sort of show. It’s off, isn’t it, that neither of them has anything, at least visibly, that connects them to their family but the company itself?”

  “You think they resent being put in their positions?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Or they figure it’s their due so who gives a fuck about dear old Dad or whoever. And maybe it’s nothing. It’s just odd it’s both of them. Common ground. I think that’s how it started. They have all this common ground.”

  “It’s a long step from a similar background to a murderous partnership.”

  “There’s more than background between them.”

  “Sex?”

  She considered. “Maybe. That would certainly add a layer of connection and trust. It could be sex, even love. Or just the bond of like minds, like interests. People find each other.”

  “We did.”

  “Aw.” She exaggerated the sound as she grinned at him. She kissed him lightly, then nudged him away. “I’ve got to update my board, and do some runs. I have to keep looking for a connection between the vics, and between the vics and the company, even though I don’t think there are any. And I’ve got one that should be done on military ancestors who might’ve owned the bayonet.”

  “Red meat.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ll have steak. We could both use the boost.”

  “You’re not tired anymore. I’m looking right in your eyes, and I’d see if you were. It’s annoying.”

  “
I still want steak.”

  “Now I want it, too. But first I want a shower. Wash off this day and a half.” She sniffed at him. “How come you smell so good?”

  “Could be I’m simply blessed that way, or it could be the shower I had at the office. Go on then.” He gave her ass a friendly pat. “I’ll set up the meal.”

  She felt better, after the shower, another hit of coffee, a change of clothes. And when she walked into her home office, she smelled grilled meat, and felt better yet.

  And it reminded her of her early-morning conversation with Morris.

  “Ah, I sort of said how we might have a thing, you know with that big-ass grill of yours, and people.”

  Roarke lifted the bottle of wine he’d opened. “You want me to grill people?”

  “Only some people. But that should be done privately. Just half a glass of that for me.”

  He poured. “You’re after having a cookout.”

  “I’m not really after it, but I saw Morris this morning, and he looked so damn sad, and I said something about it before I actually thought about it, then I forgot about it until I smelled the steak.”

  He crossed to her, handed her the wineglass, then caught her chin in his hand, kissed her. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I don’t know how the hell that happened.”

  “Saturday evening?”

  “I guess. Unless—”

  “There’s always an unless, but as we’ll be entertaining cops or those associated with, it’s a given for all.”

  “You’re okay with it?”

  “Eve, I know this continues to astound and baffle you, but I actually like to socialize.”

  “I know. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be perfect.” When he laughed, she walked over, lifted the cover of a plate. “God, that really does smell good. I’m getting that boost and I haven’t even eaten it yet.”

  “Let’s see what happens when you do. How’s the arm?” he asked when they sat at the table by the window.

  “It’s okay.” She rolled her shoulder, flexed. “Hardly feel it.”

  “We should have a contest,” he decided, “to see if you can go, say, two weeks without an on-the-job injury.”

  “I was just switching glides.” She cut into the steak. “Minding my own business. And what kind of idiot thinks they’re going to get away with stabbing their ex with a plastic knife in the middle of Cop Central?”

  “One who’s only thinking of the satisfaction of the act, not the consequences.”

  “Probably toked up,” she muttered. “But not enough he didn’t feel it when I kicked his balls until they tickled his tongue.”

  It made him smile to picture it. “Is that what you did?”

  “It was the quickest and most satisfying action.”

  “That’s my girl.” He toasted her.

  “What are you going to do? Asshole with a plastic knife in Cop Central. It’s like . . .”

  He knew that look as well, and said nothing to interrupt her train of thought.

  “Make that Asshole’s Ex with a plastic knife in Cop Central.”

  “All right.”

  “Could that be it? Is it just that sick?”

  “I can’t say.” Watching her, he sipped his wine. “You tell me.”

  “It’s Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel.”

  “Hmm.” He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. “Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.”

  “Whatever. It’s that game—who was it—McNab or Peabody said something about that game sometime back.”

  “Clue.”

  “You always know this crap. But yeah, and it sounded interesting, so I brought it up on the comp one day to check it out. And that doesn’t matter.”

  “You playing a game on the comp is big news, but I’d say your brainstorm on this is bigger. You’re speculating that Dudley and Moriarity, if indeed they’re in this homicidal partnership, are in fact playing a game.”

  “The elements are all screwy—the methods. The weapon, the vic, the kill site. They come off as random kills, connected by the type of each element, which still strikes me as random. So what if it is, what if it is fucking random because they’re elements of a contest, a game, a competition? Or, if not that sick, some sort of deeply disturbed agreement?”

  “If so, the question would be why.”

  “Why does anyone play a game, enter a contest, compete? To win.”

  “Darling, while that viewpoint is one of the reasons you’re not much of a player, many play because they simply enjoy the game or the experience.”

  She stabbed another bite of steak. “Losing sucks.”

  “I tend to agree, but nonetheless. Your hypothesis is: two respected and high-powered businessmen, with no previous criminal record or reputation for violence have partnered up, not merely to kill, but to kill for . . . sport?”

  “Sport.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Look at the vics. Jamal Houston. Neither of the men or their companies used his transpo service. Nothing we’ve uncovered shows any previous connection to him. Peabody’s looking into the remote possibility one of them did use him on the QT—which isn’t probable or logical—and he saw or overheard something, then one or both of them decided to eliminate him. But just look at that convoluted mess. First, one or both had to use a service they didn’t routinely use, which limits their security. Then one or both have to do or say something incriminating, illegal, immoral, whatever, in front of a driver they don’t routinely use.”

  She scooped up some of the baked potato she’d already drowned in butter, sampled, then kept talking while she—to Roarke’s mind—buried it in salt.

  “Then one or both have to decide to kill him, and chose a method that highlights the crime when, shit, they could’ve hired the hit.”

  “Why don’t you just salt the butter and eat it with a spoon?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. All right, I agree that scenario doesn’t make sense. It’s too complicated and illogical.”

  “That doesn’t even get to Crampton. Neither of them are in her book. Now, maybe one or both of them used her services with another ID, but it’s hard for me to swallow she wouldn’t have made one or both in her vetting process. And if they were using fake ID and getting away with it, why kill her? I’ve got no evidence of blackmail, as in she learned who the client was and tried to shake him down. Which would be stupid and risk her very valuable rep for money when she was already flush, and risk her license when she didn’t have a single blemish on it. Add the method and location, and it’s too showy.”

  “Can’t argue. Eat your vegetables.”

  She rolled her eyes but ate some asparagus. “There. So, simplify it, break it down to its elements.”

  “And you have a game of Clue.”

  She circled a finger in the air as she chewed more steak. “Or their version of that sort of thing. Maybe their version of some urban hunt for really big game.”

  “Which winds back to why. It’s murder, Eve, and by your supposition the murder of innocent and personally unknown people.”

  “People important in their field. People in business or services for the upper rung of the social and financial ladder. I think that’s an element. Maybe that’s part of the why. I don’t know yet.”

  “Because anything less isn’t worthy.”

  Eve paused with a liberally salted forkful of potato halfway to her mouth. “Worthy.”

  “Just trying to follow the trail you’re breaking. You’ve described them both as arrogant, smug, wealthy, privileged, and from my limited knowledge of them I don’t disagree.”

  He poured more water in her glass as he expected she’d need to drink like the dying with that much salt in her system.

  “They’ve been steeped in that privilege all their lives,” he continued, “and have known only the best, have been able to s
elect the best in every area. That can be a heady experience when you come from nothing. Conversely, it could be a matter of considering what you deserve is only the best, and less isn’t to be tolerated.”

  He lifted his wine, gestured before he drank. “Why murder a sidewalk sleeper, for instance? Where’s the shine in that, where’s the prestige? And you’ve no truck with that sort in any case. They’re too far beneath you.”

  “But a tony chauffeur service, or the best LC in the city, while beneath you, are still people you would or could utilize.”

  “It’s logical.”

  “It damn well is,” she agreed. “An unusual weapon, or unique weapon, it adds to the shine.”

  “And perhaps the challenge.”

  “So does the location. Makes it challenging, and worthy.”

  “They’ve each completed their round, if that’s what this is,” Roarke pointed out. “Or bagged their trophy. Maybe that’s the end of it.”

  “No. It’s a tie, isn’t it? A tie doesn’t cut it, not in games, in competition, in sports. Ties suck for everybody. There has to be a winner. They have to go to the next round.”

  He turned it over in his mind. “They know you’re looking at them, checking alibis, doing background checks. That would add to the flavor, the buzz of it all, if that’s what this is about.”

  “They were ready for me.” She nodded to herself as she looked back at both interviews. “See that’s what struck me when I talked to each of them. They were ready with their performance, their script, their play. It was like another kind of round, wasn’t it? A level. Okay, we each qualified in that round, now it’s Beat the Cop time for bonus points. They had to factor that in when they used employee IDs. They had to want that element, too.”

  “A bigger bonus that it was you, with your reputation.”

  “Add my connection to you. A little more—what’s it—panache.”

  “As you’re talking me into it, consider the timing. We’re just back from holiday. It’s very easy to verify we’d both be back to work. And if any research had been done, a good bet that your name would come up on a fresh homicide when you’re just back. I’d say they wanted, hoped, and did their best to ensure it would be you. Only the best.”