by J. D. Robb
“But a harpoon’s for whales, right? Like in that book with the crazy guy and the ship and the whale. With the other guy named Isaac or Istak or . . . wait a minute . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open. “Ishmael. Call me Ishmael.”
“Any guy who goes out in a ship with a spear to take on a whale’s automatically crazy. And I’m going to stick with calling you Peabody. This deal is, most likely, from a harpoon gun, which propels it. It’s used for fish and for killing fancy French chefs.”
Lips pursed, Peabody studied Delaflote. “It works.”
“TOD,” Eve began again, and ran it through.
“Cold” was Peabody’s opinion. “Having the vic come all the way from Paris, spend all that time cooking, then zap, impale him before the chicken’s even done.”
“I think the chicken’s the least of the vic’s problems right now. He probably brought the supplies with him, probably bought them in Paris because he’s a French chef and would likely prefer his own suppliers. Run that down. I want to ID the wines he brought with him. No way it’s just the one open bottle. Also run down his travel. Did he come alone? How did he get here from the shuttle? I want the times. We need EDD to scope out the security, and we might as well bring in the sweepers and the ME. The owners need to be notified. We’ll—”
She broke off when Roarke stepped out. “Lieutenant? You should see this.”
“Is he on the fucking system?”
“No,” he said as she strode over. “But there’s something else that is.”
She followed him in and to a small, well-equipped security station.
“There’s no activity until this point. Seventeen-thirty hours.”
As he’d already cued it up, he simply hit the replay.
Eve watched the car stop at the gate. “Late-model sedan, New York plates. Peabody, run it.”
The gates opened smoothly. “He had the code, or a bypass, rode right in.” House security picked up the car in front of the house. The driver stepped out, walked to the front door, and coded in.
“That’s not Dudley or Moriarity. Back it up, enhance. I want a better look at . . .” She trailed off again, leaned in to the screen. “It’s a damn droid. Okay, that’s smart. They’re not idiots. Use a droid, program him with the codes. He goes in, waits for the vic, lets the vic in. He’s programmed to be there, to be . . . who or whatever they want him to be. Staff most likely.”
“No other activity until Delaflote arrives at twenty hundred, on the dot, with a driver.” Again, Roarke ran it through. “You can see the droid does indeed let them in. And fifteen minutes later, the security was turned off. Cams, alarms, locks. Shut down, which should have alerted the security company if they’d been informed the owners were away. I’m going to assume the owners had the good sense for that, so they’d need to use a bypass, a clone that would run on an alternate and make it appear there was no interruption in service.”
“Intelicore’s in the data-and-security business,” Peabody commented. “Moriarity could get his hands on a clone.”
“And with the security off, Moriarity can walk right up to the door and never risk being captured by the cams. He doesn’t even have to code in because the door’s unsecured.”
Eve paced one way, then the other. “And he’d leave by the vehicle, not on foot. Why walk when you can slide into the backseat and have the droid take you where you want to go? We’ll still check, but that possible break just closed.”
“The vehicle belongs to a Willow Gantry,” Peabody told her. “I’m doing a run.”
“It’s going to be stolen.” Eve watched the break cement shut. “They only needed it for a few hours, and they’ve got the droid to snag a vehicle for them. They didn’t even bother to take the disc or try to screw with the hard drive. They didn’t care if we made the vehicle or the droid. The vehicle’s back where it came from or ditched elsewhere, and the droid’s dismantled and recycled.”
“I can do a diagnostic on the system here, see if I can find the bypass.”
Eve looked at Roarke, shook her head. “I’ll get EDD on it.”
“Well then, I need to go. A moment first, Lieutenant. Good luck, Peabody.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Eve demanded as Roarke drew her out of the room.
“Saturday.”
“How can it be Saturday already?”
“Blame Friday.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed there until her eyes met his. “You couldn’t have saved him.”
“I know that in my head. I’m working on getting the rest of me there.”
“Work harder on that.” He tipped her face up, kissed her.
He knew what was inside her, in her head and in the rest of her. Because he knew, some of the sorrow eased. Eve framed his face, kissed him back.
“Thanks for the help.”
She walked back, found Peabody in the kitchen studying the chicken in the oven.
“You know, that looks like it would’ve been really good. So, Willow Gantry, sixty-three-year-old child-care provider. No record. I went ahead and checked with the day care company she works for. She and her husband of thirty-eight years left two days ago to visit their daughter and her husband, who are expecting baby number two any minute. They drove to the transpo station themselves.”
“Busted it from long-term parking. Probably left it parked on the street somewhere when they were done. Go ahead and have airport security try to locate it,” Eve told her. “If it’s not there, let’s do the Gantrys a solid and put out an alert on it. We can get it back to them.”
“It would suck to come home, find your car stolen.”
“Worse things happen, but why should this? Let’s take the gardener and his kid.”
“There’s a kid?” Distress jumped into Peabody’s eyes. “A kid saw that?”
“Yeah, there’s a kid. Did I leave that out?” Grateful Peabody was there to deal with the kid factor, Eve opened the door.
Eve tagged it as staff quarters, probably a live-in housekeeper or Summerset type. Nice, attractive living area, roomy, nicely appointed.
The uniform sat in one of the oversized chairs, talking to the kid about baseball. A good touch from Eve’s point of view, and had her second grateful in a row when she saw the kid was about sixteen.
He sat with his father on a high-armed sofa, arguing with the cop over a call at third base in the previous night’s game.
The kid was spare and trim, with skin like rich, creamy cocoa and just an inch away from beautiful. She imagined girls’ hearts fluttered if he aimed those liquid brown eyes in their direction.
The father, also spare and trim, held a ball cap in his hands, and turned it round and round with nervous fingers. He didn’t have the kid’s beauty, but a weathered, sculpted face, and dark glossy hair that sprang in tiny ringlets.
He looked up as Eve stepped in, that face both pained and hopeful.
“Officer, I’ll need the room.”
“Yes, sir. A Mets fan.” The uniform shook his head in mock pity as he rose. “You meet all kinds.”
“Ah, come on!” The kid laughed, but his eyes darted to Eve, too, and he inched a little closer to his father.
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve gestured them down when both father and son started to stand. “This is Detective Peabody.”
“I’m James Manuel, and my son, Chaz.”
“Hard day for you,” she said, and sat in the chair the uniform had vacated. “You work for Mr. Frost and Ms. Simpson.”
“Yes. I do their gardens, tend the pond. I have several customers in this neighborhood. They’re away. They weren’t here when . . . this happened.”
“So I understand. Why were you and your son here this morning?”
“We were going to refill the fish feeder—koi need to be fed more in hot weather—and freshen the mulch, deadhead—”
“Sorry, do what?”
“You need to cut the dead blooms from the plants, the shrubs. You don’t wan
t them to go to seed. This—”
“Okay, I get it.”
“And we were to add food to the soil. My son came with me today, to help. We have—had—a job nearby. Some planting, and a small build. We came early to do this maintenance since the owners are away and wouldn’t be disturbed. It was just before dawn when we came. The lady, she gave me a code for the gate. I’ve had this code for five years, since I began to work for her. And this also allows us to come through the gate to the garden. Not into the house,” he said quickly. “We didn’t go inside.”
“I understand. So you came to do your job, through the gate. You parked your truck, then you and your son came in through the garden.”
“Yes.” He took a long breath. “Yes, ma’am, this is just what we did.”
“We were laughing,” the boy said. “I told a joke, and we were laughing. I went through first. We didn’t even see, not at first. We were laughing, and Papa turned to lock the gate, and I saw him. I saw the man, the dead man.”
“You must’ve been scared.” In the way she had, Peabody moved over, leaned on the high arm of the couch by the boy.
“I yelled.” Chaz looked down. “I think I screamed, like a girl. Then I laughed again, because I thought it wasn’t real. I didn’t think it could be.”
“What did you do then?” Eve asked.
“I dropped my tools.” James shuddered. “It sounded like an explosion, in my head anyway. And I ran to the man. I think I was yelling. And Chaz grabbed me, pulled me away.”
“It was the tools. It was so loud when Papa dropped them. Like a slap, I guess. And he was going to try to pull the man off the tree. God.” The boy pressed a hand to his belly.
“Do you need a minute?” Peabody laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want some water?”
“No. Thanks, no. I know you’re not supposed to touch anything. It always says so on the cop shows. I watch a lot of screen, and it always says so. I don’t know how I remembered. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just didn’t want my father to touch. It was . . . awful.”
“We left. I mean we didn’t stay in the garden. I was afraid someone might still be there, and my boy . . . my son.”
“You did right. It’s okay,” Eve told him.
“We got the tools. I don’t know why, except I always get the tools. And we ran to the truck. We called nine-one-one and said what we saw, and where we were. And we locked the doors and stayed until the police came.”
“Had you ever seen the man before?”
“No, ma’am.” James shook his head. “I don’t think so. Ma’am, Ms. Simpson, Mr. Frost, they’re good people. I’ve worked for them for five years. They have children. This isn’t them. They didn’t do this. They’re not even here.”
“I know. Don’t worry about them. Where is the staff? Where’s the person who lives in these rooms?”
“Oh, that’s Hanna, Ms. Wender. She’s with them in Georgia. And so is Lilian who helps with the children. They go for a month in the summer to their other house.”
“Do they have a droid?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen one here. They have Hanna and Lilian, and cleaning people who come twice a week. And me.”
“And do others have a code to access the gate and the garden?”
“I don’t know. I think Hanna would, and Lilian. Lilian takes the children to the park, so they have to go in and out. And Hanna markets and does other things, so she would go in and out. But they’re not here. This was someone else. I don’t know why that man was here, how he got here. Why would someone kill him here? This is a good place, a good home. These are good people.”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. You did everything right, both of you. We’ll take it from here.”
“We can go now?”
“Yeah. Did the officer get your contact information, in case we have to talk to you again?”
“Yes. He has everything. Should I tell Mr. Frost? Ms. Simpson? Should I tell them what we found?”
“We’ll take care of it.”
They rose as Eve did, and Peabody moved to walk them out. The boy turned, met Eve’s eyes. “It’s not like it is on-screen. It’s not really like that at all.”
She thought of Sean standing over a young girl’s body in the Irish woods. “People are always saying that. They’re right.”
18
EVE DID A WALK-THROUGH HERSELF, TO GET A feel for the house, the people who lived there. And to make absolutely certain there were no droids in residence.
She found the wine cellar, well stocked and secured. She’d have EDD check the log, determine the last time a bottle had been removed, but she held the opinion they’d confirm the vic had brought the wine with him from France, and the killer had taken it with him.
She went back to the kitchen. What she knew about cooking wouldn’t fill a teaspoon, but she could gauge the general concept.
She imagined herself back in the kitchen of the farmhouse in Ireland, watching Sinead fix breakfast.
There was an order to these things, she mused
“What would he do first? Take out his supplies, that’s what I’d do. Supplies and tools. Some of the stuff must need refrigeration, so he’d put that in the chiller until he needed it. Put his music on, maybe pour a glass of wine.
“Get everything all organized. Has he worked here before? We’ll want to find out. If he already knew the lay of the land, it wouldn’t take him as long to get set up.”
She opened the oven, studied the fatal chicken. “Roarke said the bird would take a couple hours. It’s probably the longest deal, so he’d do that first.”
“Roarke knows how to roast a chicken?”
“No. He looked it up.”
Peabody poked her head in the oven again, nodded. “A good ninety minutes anyway, less for the veggies, so he’d arrange them in the pot a little later. I actually know how to roast a chicken, but not so fancy. It’s got this sauce, and see he’s trussed it up?”
“Yeah, it’s real pretty. How long to get it in the oven?”
“Hmm. He’s a pro, so maybe not as long as your average. Or maybe longer due to fancy. Maybe half an hour. He’d have to peel and chop the veggies, so that’s a little more time once the bird was in.”
“He’s got this fishy thing in here.” Eve opened the fridge.
Peabody poked in again, sniffed. “It’s like a mousse deal. That probably took some time. And there are artichokes. I guess he was going to do something with them. Caviar, too—mega-fancy. And all those greens over there. It’s too bad they’re all wilted now.”
“Put it all together, and he worked here at least two hours. From the looks of the bottle, he had a couple glasses of wine. ME can confirm.”
“You know what else?” Hands on her hips, Peabody took a long survey. “It’s tidy. No spills, no jumble. When my granny cooks it’s like a hurricane’s been through. So either he or the killer cleaned up.”
“I think we can eliminate the killer. No point, and wiping off a counter or sticking something in the washer isn’t something Moriarity would consider his job.”
But Peabody’s observation helped her see it more clearly. “The pro liked an organized workspace, so he cleaned or had the droid do it. We’re going to feed all this into the computer, get the most probable timing. Which is likely what Moriarity did. Then, with the security down, all he has to do is have the droid drive him away, and wherever he wanted to go.
“Didn’t drive himself here.” Eve shook her head. “He wouldn’t want to deal with two vehicles. Maybe the droid again. Otherwise he’d have to walk, at least for several blocks. So he’d have to disguise himself somewhat. Carting that harpoon in some sort of case or bag. If it went that way, the droid lets him in through the gate, and he sends it out to the car.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets. “That’s just sloppy. Why walk when you’ve got a droid and a stolen car at your disposal, and you’ll be the one with an alibi according to the pattern? He wouldn’t want
to waste time.”
“Vehicle gives him cover, saves him the disguise,” Peabody added.
“And there’s a nice safe place to go, just about five-six minutes’ drive from here.”
“Dudley’s primary New York residence.”
“That’s the one. Droid picks him up there, brings him here. He’d figure the vic’s busy in the kitchen, or taking a break in the garden. All Moriarity has to do is walk through the house. If the vic’s in the kitchen, he just has to talk him outside. If the vic’s outside, which he was, having his smoke, Moriarity just walks out, gets the vic in position, and spears him. Puts the mechanism back in the case, bags the wine, walks out, and the droid drives him away.
“The kill didn’t take more than five or ten minutes from the time he came through the gates.”
She circled one last time. “I want the timing locked down, and we’re going to find out where Moriarity was last night, if they have the nerve to start alibiing each other. Let’s go see Dudley.”
“He’s connected to the owners,” Peabody pointed out. “So, sticking to pattern, he’ll have an alibi.”
“Yeah. I want to know what it is. I want to contact them first, the owners. We need to confirm they didn’t hire the vic. The vic’s got to have an admin or assistant. Track them down, get the setup. How he was hired, how it was arranged, how he traveled. And the supplies. Did he bring them with him, and if so, where he got them. Lock down the wine. It’s going to be key.”
“Then what?”
“Then we put it all together, every step, every layer, every angle.” She felt her anger struggle to rise up, and hardened it into sheer resolve. “We’re going to put on a fucking show, Peabody, because we have to convince Whitney, the PA, and anybody else who needs convincing to issue search warrants. I want to tear these bastards’ houses, offices, playgrounds, clubrooms, and pieds-à-goddamn-terre apart.”
It was probably small, and hardly relevant, for Eve to feel such cold satisfaction when she noted Roarke’s house could’ve swallowed Dudley’s whole, then spit it out again.
It was nothing to sneeze at. From the looks of it, it had likely been a smallish hotel pre-Urbans. Someone with vision had redesigned it and turned it into a mini estate too sleek and modern for her taste.