by J. D. Robb
Or, she supposed, the taste she’d developed over the past few years.
The windows, coated with a silver sheen for privacy, tossed back shimmering reflections of the city Dudley could smirk at from the other side. He’d opted for stone and metal sculptures rather than plantings at the entrance.
She supposed they were somebody’s idea of high art, but that somebody wasn’t her.
Security put her through the usual paces before a young, shapely woman in a snug red uniform opened the door.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Mr. Dudley will be with you shortly. He apologizes for the wait. He entertained last night, quite late.”
She gestured them into the wide foyer done up in silvers and red, slashes of black, and into a large living space where the walls alternated between glossy white and glossy black, and the floor formed a kind of chessboard of the same colors.
Furniture, and too much of it, gleamed in jewel tones Eve decided would make her eyes ache after twenty minutes.
“If you’d wait in here. I’ve already ordered coffee. Mr. Dudley will be with you as soon as possible.”
“So he had a party last night?”
“Yes.” The woman smiled brightly, showing perfect and whiterthan-white teeth. “A garden party. Such a lovely night for it. I don’t think the last guest left till nearly four this morning.”
“Some people just don’t know when to go home.”
Red Uniform’s laughter was as bright as her smile. “I know what you mean, but Mr. Dudley didn’t mind, I’m sure. Mr. Moriarity’s such a dear friend.”
Eve’s answering smile edged thin. “I bet.”
“I’ll just go check on your coffee.”
Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak. “I got about two hours of sleep last night myself,” she said and wandered to the windows, let out a yawn. “Couldn’t that gardener have started work at a decent hour? It’s not like the dead French guy was going anywhere.”
“I didn’t tell you about the subway deal this morning,” Peabody said, playing along. “Some sort of snafu, so I had to get off a station early and hoof it the rest of the way to the scene.”
“Screwed-up days always seem to start early. The media’s going to be all over this last murder, and the commander’s going to want us to toss them something.”
“At least the media hasn’t connected the first two. Maybe they won’t go there yet.”
“We’ve been lucky. Luck doesn’t last.”
Another woman, again young, curvy, dressed in red, wheeled in a coffee service and a silver basket of muffins.
“Please help yourself. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Be sure to try a muffin. Celia baked them this morning.”
Eve eyed the basket when the second red uniform clipped out. “I guess Celia didn’t go to the party.”
“I can have a muffin,” Peabody decided. “I had a morning power walk.”
As she chose one, Dudley came in.
He looked bright-eyed, in Eve’s opinion. Maybe just a little too bright, the sort that came from a little chemical boost. No suit today, she noted, but a rich guy’s casual wear. And the fucker was wearing the loafers, the shoes he’d worn when he’d killed Ava Crampton.
“This is an unexpected morning treat.” He beamed at them. “I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve found whoever killed that driver the other night.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Ah, well. I suppose these things take time.”
He poured himself coffee, added three little squares of brown sugar, then sat comfortably on a chair the color of a nuclear sapphire.
“What can I do for you, ladies?”
“I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you so early in the day,” Eve began, “and after, we’re told, you had a late night.”
“Wonderful party. Actually, I’m feeling very up this morning. Evenings like that are so stimulating.”
“That kind of thing wears me out, but it takes all kinds.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news,” Eve continued. “Would you object if I recorded this? And I’ll need to read you your rights. It’s official, a formality, and it would keep the record clean.”
“Not at all.”
“I appreciate that.” Eve engaged her recorder, and noticed Dudley’s eyes got just a little brighter. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, in interview with Dudley, Winston, the Fourth, in his home.” She read off the Revised Miranda. “Mr. Dudley, you employ a Meryle Simpson, correct?”
“Yes, she’s our CEO of Marketing. And a family connection . . . convolutely. No, don’t tell me something’s happened to her. I thought she and her family were away for a while.”
“They are. However, her ID, her company credit information, and her home were used in a homicide.”
“This just can’t be.” He braced his head in his hand, closed his eyes. “Not again.”
“I’m afraid it can be. It’s possible her information was compromised before your recent security checks. If not, you still have a problem.”
“It’s a nightmare.” He breathed it out, brushed a hand over his white-blond hair. “I have to assure you Meryle couldn’t be involved. She’s not only a trusted member of the Dudley team, but family.”
“We have no reason to believe she’s involved. I spoke with her and her husband this morning, and informed them of the incident. Also I advised them there’s no need for them to return to New York at this time, but I believe Mr. Frost intends to do so, to reassure them both their house is in order.”
“Yes, he’s a very responsible sort. What a terrible thing.” He aimed a sorrowful look in Eve’s direction. “Their home, you say?”
“That’s right. Ms. Simpson’s name and information were used to engage the services of a private chef. A Luc Delaflote, from Paris.”
“Delaflote!”
Dudley pressed a spread hand to his heart. Eve wondered if he’d practiced the gesture and the shocked expression in the mirror.
“No. My God, was he the victim? Is he dead?”
“You know him?”
“Yes, I do. I certainly do. The man’s an artist, a genius. We’ve—myself, friends, family—hired him many times for events, for special occasions. Why, I dined in his restaurant the last time I was in Paris. How did this happen?”
“I’m not free to give you the details, as yet. As the employer, and a family connection, and now with your personal acquaintance with the victim, I have to ask for your whereabouts last night between the hours of nine and midnight. Obviously you were entertaining,” Eve continued. “If I could have your guest list, even a partial, to verify, it would put that matter aside so we can focus in on viable lines of investigation.”
“Of course, of course. This is such a shock. I’m going to contact our security, and have this checked yet again.”
“I think that would be wise. Again, we’re sorry to disturb you at home, and with such distressing news. Thank you for your time.”
“I’m more than happy to give you my time under these tragic circumstances. This is a terrible business.”
He chose a grim expression this time, and Eve thought he selected his facial reactions the way a man might pick the correct tie.
“I want to contact Meryle, offer my support and sympathy. That won’t be a problem, officially, will it?”
“Not at all. We won’t keep you any longer. If we could have that guest list, or even a handful of names, we’ll get out of your way.”
“Let me just tell Mizzy to make you a copy.” He rose, walked to a house ’link.
“Nice shoes,” Eve said with a casual smile. “The silver accessory gives them some jump, but they look comfortable.”
“Thank you, and they are. Stefani invariably marries comfort and style. Mizzy, would you make a copy of last night’s guest list for Lieutenant Dallas? Yes, dear. Thank you.�
�
He walked back, picked up his coffee again. “It won’t take a minute. Have you ever dined on Delaflote?” he asked her.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Ah, if you had, you could and would say.” He forgot to look grim or sorrowful as delight twinkled over his face. “I’m surprised Roarke wouldn’t have indulged you.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad since we’ve missed our chance there. Still, I lean toward Italian,” she said, thinking of the pizza she’d shared with Roarke the night before.
Mizzy, yet another red uniform, strode in, brisk on toothpick heels. “Here you are, Lieutenant. The guest list, with contact data. Is there anything else I can do?”
“This should cover it. Thanks again.” Eve rose, held out a hand to Dudley. “Shoot, sorry, lost track. Interview end.”
“Mizzy will show you out. Please keep me up to date on these matters.”
“You’ll be first in line.”
After they’d walked out, gotten into their vehicle, Eve let her own smirk free. “You caught the footwear?”
“Oh, yeah, and now we’ve got them on record, with his murdering feet in them.”
“Murdering feet?”
“Well, he’s a murderer and the feet are attached to him. Solid alibi,” Peabody added. “And the first red-suited bombshell mentioned Moriarity was at the party, so it’s looking like he’ll have one, too.”
“Easy drive from here to the Simpson place. I clocked it at six minutes. Maybe shave off a minute that time of night, but stick with twelve for the round-trip, ten to do the kill, add another two at most to gloat and pack up the wine.”
Eve gave a last glance at the Dudley house in the rearview as she drove away. “Big party, drinks flowing, people wandering around outside, in the house. Who’s going to notice one guest slipping out for under a half hour?”
“It’s a little squishy. But they’re all really rich people, and people of the same type tend to stick together. I bet more than half the people who were there will swear Moriarity was.”
“Then we’d better prove he wasn’t, for at least the time needed to skewer Delaflote. Next, there’s going to be a past connection between the vic and Dudley. We find it. The vic’s got about ten years on him, so they didn’t go to school together. We’ll search the society and gossip shit first. And we dig into the vic, see what he had in common with Dudley. If they traveled to the same places, had any common interests.”
She engaged the dash ’link, contacted Feeney.
“Yo,” he said.
“I’ve got an image of Dudley in the same fucking shoes he wore on Coney Island. Can you compare images, get me a match?”
“Bring it in. Amusement park’s image isn’t pristine, but we ought to be able to give you a solid probability.”
“Heading in now. I’m going to need you and that match later today. I need ammo, and plenty of it, to talk my way into search warrants.”
“We’ll take our best shot. What time later?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
She clicked off. “Book us a conference room.”
“For when?”
“For starting now until I’m damn well finished with it. I need more room to spread this out. I need a bigger board while you’re at it and a second comp, and I need Baxter and Trueheart.”
“I need a million dollars and a smaller ass. I was just throwing that in the pot.” Peabody shrugged off Eve’s snarl, and got to work.
A block from Central her communicator signaled. She used her wrist unit to answer.
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
“No fucking way.”
Obscenities over official communication can result in a reprimand. Report to Central Park, Great Hill Jogging Track. See Detectives Reineke and Jenkinson.
“On what matter?” Eve demanded.
Possible homicide, possible connection to previous ongoing investigations. Urgent request for you from your detectives. Acknowledged.
“Acknowledged. Goddamn it,” she said as soon as she cut off the transmission. “Tag one of those guys now.” Eve cut west, cursing all the way, then headed back uptown.
“Reineke,” Peabody told her, on dash ’link.
“This better be damn good,” Eve warned him.
“We think it’s one of yours, Lieutenant. It looked like a suicide first glance, then when we got here, took a better look, it smelled of homicide. We ran the vic. Adrianne Jonas. She was what they call a facilitator for the rich. They want it, she finds a way to get it. She’s number one, get it?”
Yeah, she thought as her stomach sank. She got it. “Keep going.”
“She’s hanging from a tree right off the track here, by a freaking bullwhip. You don’t see bullwhips every day, and you don’t usually see some skirt in a party dress hanging by one. We figured it fit your vic profile pretty much down the line. Public place, vic considered the tops, screwy weapon.”
“Keep the scene secure.” She swung toward the curb, ignored the blare of horns. “Get the recording to Feeney, get the rest set up. Get what you can started. Run the list, Peabody. Work it. I’ll take this with the detectives on scene.”
“Dallas, how the hell did he do it? How’d he—”
“Just work it. Out. Out, now.”
Peabody had barely slammed the door before Eve hit the sirens, swung out, and headed uptown running hot.
She imagined Adrianne Jonas had been a beauty, but hanging victims just didn’t stay pretty. The whip had bloodied her throat, and she’d had time to claw at the constriction before she’d been yanked off her feet.
She’d lost her shoes, probably from her body jerking, twisting, legs kicking. They lay sparkling in the grass.
“Couple early joggers spotted her, called it in.” Reineke wiggled his thumb toward a pair of women huddled together talking to Jenkinson. “They said some woman hanged herself, and were pretty hysterical. Hard to blame. Uniforms got here, took a gander, and sent out for Homicide to take our sweep. Once we ID’d the vic, got the skinny on her, got a good look at what she’s hanging by, we figured, well, fuck us sideways, this is Dallas’s.”
“Yeah, you figured right. TOD’s going to be early this morning. Not last night. Last night was Moriarity’s round. Dudley just hit his early.”
“You’re on it. About three A.M. We went ahead and established TOD. You wanna talk to the wits? I can tell you we’ve gone round with them. They jog here three times a week, together for safety. They’re both clean. Live in the same building over on Hundred and Fifth.”
“No, if you’ve got their information, spring them. Give me five here, Detective.”
“You got it, LT.”
She pressed her fingers to her eyes a moment, ordered herself to clear everything else out of her head. Work it, she ordered herself just as she’d ordered Peabody.
Lured her here, she thought. Hired her, false ID to keep his name out of her books. Facilitator. That sort would be used to going to odd places at odd times. Catering to the rich and eccentric. He’d be here first, waiting. She probably knows him, yeah, probably he’s used her before. His sort would. She’d be surprised to see him, wouldn’t she? Not expecting him, but not worried.
She circled the body. No tears in the clothing, she noted. One lash of the whip then, he’d practiced. One lash wraps it around her throat. Painful, shocking, strangling.
Frowning, Eve crouched, studying the ground.
She fell . . . maybe hands and knees. Eve detected what looked like faint grass stains on the heels of the victim’s hands, on the knees just below the skirt of her suit.
“But he’s got to get the whip over the limb. It’s not high. It doesn’t have to be. She’s what, five three in her bare feet?”
“Five two and a half on her ID. Sorry, Lieutenant.” Jenkinson shrugged when she turned to frown at him. “I thought you were talking to me.”
“Just thinking out loud. He’s got to hoist her up. He’s in good shape, and he’s tall enou
gh to manage it. But that takes some solid muscle. Or some chemical help,” she considered.
Zeus made gods out of men—or at least gave them the adrenaline rush to think so.
“He’s a user. A couple tokes to get his juices up. Maybe he brought a collapsible ladder. Hell, maybe he told her to bring one. Drag her up while she’s choking, kicking, clawing. Secure the butt end of the whip, wait until she stops kicking. Wouldn’t take long, then go home and tell your pal it’s a tie.”
“We got word there was another one last night.”
“Yeah, they’re all revved up.”
“Me and Reineke want in, Dallas. These fuckers need some ass-kicking.”
“You’re in. Get her to Morris. Have crime scene go over this area like it was sprinkled with diamonds. Let me have her address. Where’s her purse?”
“There wasn’t one. Might be some mope came by and snatched it. People will do any damn thing.”
“And leave those shoes? I bet you could sell them for a grand easy. He took her bag. She’d have a bag. For face stuff, credit, ’link. Probably had some sort of repel spray, panic button, too. He took the bag, like his pal took the wine. Sloppy, getting sloppy,” she murmured. “Cocky bastards.”
“She’s got a place on Central Park West. Didn’t have to come far to die. You want one of us with you?”
“No.” She took the address. “Finish up here. Dot every ‘i.’ And write it up. Work with Peabody on this. Sylvester Moriarity is going to have some past connection to her. You need to find it. Peabody will bring you up to date. If you’ve got anything else hot, pass it to another detective. This is priority.”
“No problem.”
She stood another moment, looking at the no longer pretty Adrianne Jonas, then turned her back and walked away.
Walking across the park, she pulled out her ’link. She just needed to talk to him for a minute, she told herself. Thirty seconds. Maybe she just needed to see his face.
God. She needed something.
“Hello, Lieutenant.” Caro, Roarke’s admin, smiled out of the screen. “If you’d just hold one moment, I’ll put him on.”