by J. D. Robb
“Fuck.” Now she scrubbed her hands over her face. “It could’ve been part of the inspiration.”
“They’d have come to this sooner or later. What I do think is the case, the book, the upcoming vid made him, or them, consider how exciting it might be to become a book or vid. To have their competition, then generate all the interest, the notoriety of a major case.”
“The thrill would last a long time. Might be able to play that, too,” she mused. “Just maybe.”
He pulled into a private underground lot, the sort she, on principle, refused to pay the price for.
“You could’ve found a street spot.”
“Live a little, darling. There’s a place a few blocks from here. It’s a nice evening for a bit of a walk, and I can guarantee the pizza’s excellent.”
He took her hand as they walked outside.
“You own the place.”
“Since my wife tends to live on pizza half the time, it seemed a good idea to have a spot close to home that serves exceptional pie.”
“Hard to argue.”
The bright evening sun brought people out in droves. Strolling tourists hauling shopping bags and gawking up at the buildings and sky traffic. And getting in the way, Eve thought, so the people with somewhere to go weaved, dodged, and kept moving. It was a kind of weird and chaotic ballet, she decided, punctuated by the blare of horns, the chatter of the sidewalk hawkers, the pips and pings of ’links and headsets.
A couple of kids surfed by on airboards, laughing like hyenas. And on the corner, the glide cart vendor broke out in song.
“I guess this was a pretty good idea,” Eve decided.
“It’s cleared your headache—sorry, eye ache.” And he paused, selected a sleeve of flowers in bold red and blue from a sidewalk display. He passed the price to the merchant, handed the flowers to Eve while the cart operator’s voice soared in some Italian aria.
It was a damn nice moment, Eve thought. A damn nice New York moment.
“I guess this makes it a date.”
Roarke laughed, circled her waist, and tugged her in for a showy kiss that had the flower vendor applauding. “Now it’s a date.”
A half block down he showed her to a little sidewalk table outside a bustling pizzeria. She tapped the Reserved sign. “You booked ahead.”
“It pays to be prepared. I also ordered ahead, so they’ll know what to bring us. Now that I’ve told you about my day, you can tell me about yours.”
“It was a little rough.”
“I don’t see any bruises.”
“Not that kind of rough.”
She started with the interview in Greenwich. Before she was done, a waiter brought a bottle of red, another of sparkling water, and an artful tray of antipasto.
“I’d say she made a wise decision, and had a lucky escape.”
“She had this little pocket of fear tucked away, away deep enough I expect she forgot about it for long stretches of time. Then something reminded her, or she just had a bad day and it opened up. But there was something about him, once she got close enough to see it—and I think she’s wired with that shrink circuit—to create that fear.”
“Well, he’s a monster, isn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your man who abducted women and tortured them to death was a monster. The Icoves with their twisted egos and science were as well. He’s no less of one. He uses his position, which he’s never earned, to intimidate or humiliate or frighten because it makes him feel more important. And now he’s escalated that and kills for sport, for amusement. He’s been handed his wealth and position, and rather than do something with it, or simply coast on it for that matter, he uses it as a weapon and considers the weapon his due, and the killing his right.”
“And again, hard to argue.” She studied the pizza the waiter set between them. “That looks pretty damn great. The second interview was rougher than the first. Are you sure you want to hear about it over dinner?”
“That’s our way, isn’t it?” But he saw something in her eyes. “It can wait if you’d rather.”
“I guess I’d rather not. Wait, I mean.”
So she told him, over pizza, of betrayal and cruelty and rape. It was better, really, to get it out, say it all with the city buzzing around them, with the comfort of food, with his hand reaching over to cover hers in a gesture of absolute understanding.
“You feel a connection to them, especially Patrice Delaughter.”
“Maybe more than I should.”
“No.” He covered her hand again. “Not more than you should.”
“They didn’t have to tell me, neither of them. They chose to. Like Ava chose to tell Patrice what had been done to her when she could’ve just walked away from the whole deal. They did the right thing, and it couldn’t have been easy.”
“For the two who are alive and well and with their families, I think it will be easier now. I think when you’re done, those pockets of fear you spoke of will be empty.”
She drank some wine, and thought: No, fear pockets are never really empty. But she didn’t say it.
“They’re both monsters. Killers aren’t always,” she added. “Some kill, and for terrible and selfish reasons, but they aren’t monsters. The idiot in Ireland was stupid and selfish and ended Holly Curlow’s life because what, she hurt his feelings? Because he was drunk and pissed off? But he’ll never really get over what he did. He’ll replay those moments in his head the rest of his life, because he’s not a monster.”
And you’ll remember her name, Roarke thought, and her face.
“Some kill because they’re misdirected, bent, scared, greedy. But these two kill because, I think in some way, they feel entitled. More, under the polish is the monster, but under the monster is a kind of spoiled, ugly child.”
“You know them better now.”
“Know them,” she agreed with her eyes cop-flat. “Know some of their weaknesses, the flaws in the polish. Their next target. . . there’ll be a connection somewhere, sometime—Peabody was right about that, and we’ll find it. I don’t know if it’ll help us stop them, but it’ll help me lock the cage door after we do.”
“I’ll help you when we get home. We’ll divvy up those searches and see what we can make of them.” He poured her a little more wine. “I think you’re right. They’ve had practice.”
“I can’t do anything about the ones they’ve done, except use them to stop them from killing more. But, Roarke, I don’t have enough to stop them before the next. I know in my gut I’m already too late. Someone’s clock is ticking down right now.”
She looked around at the bustle, at the tourists, at the others sitting at pretty outdoor tables drinking wine.
“Maybe they’re having dinner, too, maybe some nice wine. Or they’re working late, or getting ready to go out for the evening. They’re probably doing something ordinary, just what they do on a summer evening in New York. They don’t know how little time they have left. They don’t know the monsters are at the door, and I’m going to be too late.”
“Maybe that’s true, and I know you’ll suffer for it if it is. But, Eve, the monsters don’t know you’re even now breathing down their necks. They don’t know their clock is ticking down as well. That’s for you to remember now, for you to know.”
He lifted her hand, kissed it. “We’ll go home, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to the door first.”
16
LUC DELAFLOTE ARRIVED AT THE ELEGANT HOME on the Upper East Side at precisely eight P.M. He was, after all, a man who prided himself on precision. The dignified droid met him at the door, escorted him and the driver, who carried carefully packed ingredients, to the spacious kitchen with its views of the patio, little koi pond, and gardens.
Delaflote carried his own tools, as he believed it demonstrated their import and his own eccentricity.
Fifty-two years before, he’d been born Marvin Clink in Topeka. Through talent, study, work, and towering ambition young Ma
rvin had formed himself into Delaflote de Paris, maître cuisinier. He’d designed and prepared meals for kings and presidents, sautéed and flambéed for emirs and sultans. He’d bedded duchesses and kitchen maids.
It was said—he knew, as he’d said it himself—that those fortunate enough to taste his pâté de canard en croûte knew how the gods dined.
“You may go.” He dismissed the driver with a single turn of his wrist. “You.” He pointed at the droid. “You will show me now the pots.”
“One moment, please,” the droid said to the driver. The droid opened several deep drawers holding a variety of pots, pans, and skillets. “I will show the driver out, then come back to assist you.”
“Assistance I don’t want from you. Keep out of my kitchen. Shoo.”
Alone, Delaflote opened his case of knives, spoons, and other tools. He took out a corkscrew, and opened the bottles of wine he’d personally selected. After opening, he searched the polished steel cabinets for a worthy wineglass.
Sipping, he studied his temporary realm, the stove, ovens, sinks, prep counters, and deemed it would do.
For the client who had paid him handsomely for the trip to New York to prepare a romantic, late-night supper for two, he would create a selection of appetizers highlighted by the caviar he’d chosen and served on a bed of clear, crushed ice. When the appetite was whetted, the fortunate pair would enjoy an entrée of salmon mousse along with his signature baguettes and thin slices of avocado. His main, poulet poêle de Delaflote, would be served with glazed baby vegetables and garnished with generous sprigs of fresh rosemary from his own herb garden.
Ah, the fragrance.
This he would follow with a salad of field greens harvested only an hour before he’d boarded his private shuttle, then his selection of well-aged cheeses. For the finale he would prepare his far-famed soufflé au chocolat.
Satisfied, he set up his music—romantic ballads—in French, bien sûr, for a romantic meal. Donning his apron, he got down to business.
As he sometimes did, he acted as his own sous-chef, chopping, slicing, peeling. The shapes, the textures, the scents pleased and excited him. For Delaflote, peeling a potato could be as sensuous and pleasurable as peeling the clothes from a lover.
He was a man of small stature and trim build. His hair, a dramatic and carefully styled mane of glossy chestnut, flowed back from a face dominated by large, heavily lidded brown eyes. They gave him the look of a romantic, a dreamer, and were often the first element in the seduction of women.
He adored women, treated them like queens, and enjoyed having several lovers revolving through his life at the same time.
He lived life fully, wringing every drop of flavor from it and savoring every morsel.
With the chicken in the oven, the mousse chilling, he poured another glass of wine. Enjoying it, he sampled one of his own stuffed mushrooms, approved.
He cleaned his area, washed the greens, vegetables, and herbs for the salad, then set that to chill. This he would lightly toss with a tarragon dressing while his client and the fortunate husband dined on the main course. Pleased with the scents perfuming the air, he basted the chicken with sauce—the recipe a secret guarded as fiercely as the Crown Jewels—added the pretty little vegetables.
Only then did he step out into the walled garden where, according to the client’s wishes, the meal would be served. Again he approved. Lush roses, big-headed hydrangeas, arching trees, starry lilies rose and spread and speared around the paved courtyard. The night held clear and warm, and he would see that dozens of candles were arranged and lit to add the sparkle of romance.
He checked the time. The servers would be arriving any moment, but in the meanwhile he would call the droid, have it set out the table, show him the selection of linens and dinnerware.
He took out one of his herbal cigarettes to smoke while he set the scene.
The table just there, little tealights glittering in clear holders. Roses from the garden in a shallow bowl. More candles ringing the courtyard—all white. He would send one of the servers out to get more if there weren’t enough on hand.
Ah, there, nasturtium. He’d toss some of the flowers with the salad for color and interest.
Crystal stemware, mais oui.
The sounds of the city, of traffic crept over the garden walls, but he would mask that with music. The droid would have to show him where the system was kept so he could make the appropriate selections.
He turned a circle, stopped when he saw a man step out of the lights of the kitchen into the shadows of the garden.
“Ah, you are arrived. There is much work to be . . .” He stopped, eyebrows lifting when he recognized the man.
“Monsieur, you I was not expecting.”
“Good evening, Delaflote. I apologize for the subterfuge. I didn’t want it known I was your client tonight.”
“Ah, so, you wish to be incognito, oui?” Smiling a knowing smile, Delaflote tapped the side of his nose. “To have your rendezvous with a lady, what would it be, on the q.t. You can trust Delaflote. I am nothing if not discreet. But we are not complete. You must give me time to create the ambience as well as the meal.”
“I’m sure the meal would be extraordinary. It already smells wonderful.”
“Bien sûr.” Delaflote made a slight bow.
“And you came alone? No assistants?”
“Everything is prepared only by my hands, as requested.”
“Perfect. Would you mind standing just over there a bit? I want to check something.”
With a Gallic shrug he’d perfected over the years, Delaflote moved a few steps to the right.
“Yes, just there. One moment.” He backed into the kitchen, retrieved the weapon he’d leaned against the wall. “It does smell exceptional,” he said as he stepped back out. “It’s a pity.”
“What is this?” Delaflote frowned at the weapon.
“It’s my round.” And he pulled the trigger.
The barb went through the heart as if the organ had been ringed like a target. With its keen, merciless edge, it continued out the back to dig into the trunk of an ornamental cherry tree.
Moriarity studied the chef, pinned there, legs and arms twitching as body and brain died. He stepped closer to take the short recording as proof he’d completed the round.
With the ease of a man who knew all was in place, he walked back inside, replaced the weapon in its case. He opened the oven for a moment, breathed in the rich aroma before shutting it off.
“It really is a pity.”
So as not to waste the entire business, he rebagged the wine, found the champagne Delaflote had chilling. He took one last glance around to be sure all was as it should be, and satisfied, walked back through the house and out the front. The droid he’d programmed for the event waited in a black, four-door sedan.
He checked the time, smiled.
The entire business had taken hardly more than twenty minutes.
He didn’t speak to the droid; it already had instructions. As programmed it pulled into Dudley’s garage.
“Put these in Mr. Dudley’s private quarters,” he ordered, “then return the car. After you return to base, shut down for the night.”
In the garage, Moriarity retrieved the martini he’d left on a bench less than thirty minutes before, then slipped out the side door. He strolled toward the house, circled, and joined the loud, crowded party already in progress.
“Kiki.” He chose a woman at random, slipping an arm around her waist. “I was just telling Zoe how wonderful you look tonight, and had to track you down to tell you myself.”
“Oh, you darling.”
“Tell me, is it true what I heard when I was inside a few minutes ago? About Larson and Kit?”
“What did you hear?” She looked up at him, all eyes. “Obviously I’m not mingling enough if I’m not getting the gossip.”
“Let’s both get another drink, then I’ll tell you all.”
As he walked with her, his g
aze met Dudley’s through the sea of people. When he inclined his head in a faint nod, they both smiled.
Eve rubbed a hand on the back of her neck to ease the crick.
“People go missing, or end up dead. That’s why we have cops, but . . .”
“You have something?” Roarke worked at the auxiliary in her office rather than in his own so they could easily relay impressions.
“About nine months ago, the two of them went to Africa, a private hunting club. It costs a mint and a half, and you’re only allowed one kill of an animal on the approved list. You have guides, a cook, assorted servants, various modes of transpo, including copters. You sleep on gel beds in big, white, climate-controlled tents that other people haul around, eat on china plates, drink fine wine, blah blah. The brochure here hypes it as adventurous elegance. You can have a gourmet breakfast, then go out and shoot an elephant or whatever.”
“Why?” Roarke wondered.
“My thought, but some people like to shoot things, especially if the things can’t shoot back. Melly Bristow, a grad student from Sydney, working on her master’s—wildlife photog—signs on as a cook. One fine morning she isn’t there to whip up that gourmet breakfast. They figure she’s gone off on her own to take pictures and vids, which she’s done occasionally according to the statements I’ve got here, and her camera shit’s gone, and so’s her daypack. But she doesn’t answer the ’link everyone’s required to carry at all times. Everybody’s a little ticked because she’s holding up the hunt.”
Eve swiveled in her chair. “Somebody else makes breakfast, and when she still isn’t back, they triangulate her ’link, and one of the guides heads out to bring her back. All he finds is her ’link. Worried now, contacts camp, and we’ve got a search party forming. They find her camera stuff, or most of it, and they find a blood trail. Eventually they track a pride of lions, and the female and young are snacking on what’s left of her.”
“Christ, that’s an ugly end. Even if she’d been ended beforehand.”
“I think she was spared being eaten alive or mauled while she was still breathing.” Though Eve had to agree. Even if, it was ugly.