by J. D. Robb
“We’re not responsible for—”
“Cut the crap. You’ve confessed, on the record. I don’t need your sob stories and justifications.”
“You can’t seriously believe I killed that driver.”
“Oh, hell no. I just said that so you’d spill your guts on the rest. Good job.” She checked the time. “Now we can both get out of here. Me to work, you to your cell.”
“But . . . I want a lawyer.”
“No problem. They’ll let you contact one on your way to booking. Thank you for your cooperation. Interview end.”
She rose, opened the door, and hailed the waiting uniforms. “Walk him through, let him contact his lawyer.”
She walked into Observation and watched Peabody wrap up a weeping Karolea Prinz.
“She cried a lot,” Peabody said when they headed down to the garage. “I mean a lot. She says, or thinks, she’s in love with the asshole. Didn’t want to roll, but—”
“Push comes to shove, love goes down.”
“I guess, except when it’s really love. Do we get to go look at shoes now?”
“We’re not looking at shoes. We know the shoe already. I want to make this quick.”
“Shoes are fun.” Peabody gave a little bounce of enthusiasm on her own. “It’ll be good to have the side benefit of fun after all that crying. See, it’s a nice combo. Shutting down a small, yet profitable prescription drug scam, running down a lead on the investigation, and getting to gaze longingly at shoes I’ll never be able to afford, but imagining I could.”
“You know what happens to people who longingly imagine having things they can’t afford?”
“Happy dreams?”
“A life of crime.”
As she drove, Eve considered that possibility as applied to the case. “Maybe this guy gazes longingly at fancy limos and high-priced LCs, and it just pisses him off he can’t order them up like pizza. So he vents the anger and frustration by killing them. Which isn’t bad as theories go except for the shoes. When you’ve got three thousand to spend on a pair of designer loafers, you’re not hurting.”
“Maybe he stole them,” Peabody suggested. “Or got them as a gift, or blew a wide chunk of his savings just to have them for his own.”
“All possible, and ors that shouldn’t be dismissed. But he’d also have to spend a chunk on a crossbow and bolts—pricey ones, and an antique bayonet. Unless he scammed someone else’s ID to acquire those. He still has to connect somewhere to the two corporations. Otherwise, why go through all the layers on the security there?”
It kept coming back to the companies, Eve concluded. “If he’s just a homicidal hacker, he could’ve accessed any IDs and credit lines—and he could afford all the fancy limos and high-priced LCs he wanted anyway, so it doesn’t jell.”
Eve twitched her head toward the dash comp when it signaled incoming data.
“It’s from the lab,” Peabody told her. “A report on the weapon. Antique is right. It’s mid-twentieth century. Dickhead’s got make, manufacturer, even a serial number. Pretty thorough.”
“You be thorough, start a search. Find us the owner.”
It gave Eve a few minutes of quiet. Who was next on his list? she wondered. What type? Maybe a top-drawer salon tech, private shuttle pilot, some hot, exclusive designer.
She thought of Leonardo, her oldest friend’s husband. And Mavis herself, Eve thought with a clutch in her belly. Famous music vid star. She’d make a point of checking in with them, putting them on alert.
No private gigs until she cleared it.
“It’s not registered.” Peabody looked up as Eve hunted for a parking spot. “It hasn’t been sold by any legit vendor in the last twenty years. Something that old could’ve been bought twice that long ago, before weapons of that kind had to be registered. It could’ve been passed down through a family or something. It’s military, and there’s no way to trace the original owner back a hundred years. There’s no records on that kind of thing.”
“Okay.” She hit vertical, causing Peabody to yelp, and squeezed into a second-level spot. “So he already owned it, skipped the registration—thousands do—or he picked it up on the shady side. More thousands do.”
They walked down to street level, and the half block to the shoe boutique. As they passed the display window Peabody let out a distinctive yummy noise.
“Don’t do that. For God’s sake, you’re a cop on a homicide investigation, not some tourist window-shopping.”
“But look at the blue ones with the silver heels with the little butterflies.”
Eve gave the shoes a narrowed stare. “Ten minutes on the feet, two hours in traction.” She pushed through the door.
The air smelled like the sort of flowers shoe butterflies probably rocked on. Shoes and bags were displayed under individual sparkling lights, like art or jewelry. Seating spread in chocolate-colored low-backed sofas and cream-colored chairs.
Customers or lookie-loos browsed while others sat, a few surrounded by colorful rivers of shoes. Some of the few wore expressions that put Eve in mind of chemi-heads on a high.
One woman strutted from mirror to mirror in a pair of towering heels the color of iridescent eggs.
The staff stood out from the browsers and strutters as everyone was stick thin and dressed in snug urban black.
Eve heard the gurgle sound in the back of Peabody’s throat, and snarled.
“Sorry.” Peabody tapped her collarbone. “It’s reflex.”
“You’ll have another reflex when you’re on the ground with my boot on your neck.”
“Ladies.” The man who strolled over boasted a blinding smile and a jacket with sleeves that ended in points as sharp as razors. “What can I do to make your day special?”
Eve pulled out her badge. “Funny you should ask. You can give me the customer list on this shoe, size ten or ten and a half.” She held up the printout.
“Really? Is it evidence? How exciting!”
“Yeah, we’re thrilled. I want to know who bought this shoe in either of those sizes.”
“Absolutely. What fun. How far back would you like me to go?”
“How far back is there?”
“That particular shoe debuted in March.”
“Okay, go back to March.”
“This store or citywide?”
Eve gave him a cautious stare. “Aren’t you the cooperative shoe guy.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had all day.”
“Citywide to start.”
“Citywide it is! Give me a few minutes. Have a seat. Would you like some sparkling water?”
“No, we’re good.”
“That’s why people who can afford magilicious shoes shop in these places and pay the full freight.” Peabody nodded after the salesman. “You get offered fizzy water by people who look like vid stars.”
“And who are so freaking bored they’re delirious with joy when you tell them to do a customer search.”
“But that’s good for us.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Peabody clasped her hands together. “Please, you don’t need me until he comes back. Five minutes is all I ask to worship at the altar of the shoe.”
“Don’t drool on any of them.” Eve turned her back, and for the hell of it, tried out her wrist unit in a tag to EDD.
“Any progress?” she asked Feeney.
“We’re going to be able to give you that projection on the rest of the killer’s face. But there’s nothing on the other discs at this point.” He pursed his lips. “You got a new ’link.”
“Sort of.”
“Trans is crystal.”
“It’s my wrist unit.”
“Get out. Those kinds of toys have crap trans.”
“New model.”
“Roarke didn’t mention it. I want a look at that when you come in.”
“Maybe.” She saw the salesclerk walking back, a little spring in his step. “Gotta go.”
“And
here we are.” He handed her a disc. “We sold a pair in that color choice in size ten last March, by the way, and another pair in a ten and a half just last month. In Raven, we sold—”
“I didn’t ask about Raven. You sold two pair of those in four months?”
“In those sizes, in that color, in this store. Citywide includes several department stores and boutiques.”
“The ones bought here? Regular customers?”
“As a matter of fact.” He nodded. “So I’m afraid they’re probably not who you’re looking for. Sampson Anthony—the producer—last month, and Winston Dudley, the pharma king—in March.”
“Just for fun, because my partner’s getting juiced drooling over the shoes in here, who sold those two pair?”
“Patrick’s down for Mr. Anthony. And Mr. Dudley only works with Chica.”
Eve made a show of glancing over at Peabody. “I can stall another couple minutes. Why don’t I take a run at Chica while I’m here, it’ll give me something to put in the report and jibe the time she’s having a little fun.”
“You bet. She’s right over there, just finishing with a customer. Aubergine hair.”
Aubergine, Eve thought. It looked purple to her. “Appreciate it.”
She walked over, sat, gestured.
“And what can I slip on you today?”
“I’ll stick with what I got.” She held up her badge.
“Okay. Those are good boots for a cop. A good investment, and classic style.”
“If you say so. What can you tell me about Winston Dudley?”
“Winnie? Size ten, medium. Slightly high in the arch, but a nice easy fit. He likes what’s right off the runway. Favors classic styles, but he’ll get crazy now and then.”
“Does he come in a lot?”
“It depends on his schedule. Sometimes I take a selection to him.”
“You make house calls with shoes?”
“Shoes, belts, ties, bags, other accessories. It’s a service we provide to our upper clientele.”
“Are you booked to see him anytime soon?”
“No. He was just in, actually, a few days ago. Bought six pair. I probably won’t see him, either way, until next month, and then only if he’s in town.”
Eve took out a card. “Do us both a favor. If he contacts you for an at-home session, you get in touch.”
Chica studied the card and for the first time looked concerned. “Why?”
“Because I’m a cop with good boots.”
Chica laughed, but turned the card in her hands. “Listen, he’s a really good client. I get a nice commission and a generous tip with the at-your-door service, and I’d really hate to do anything to mess that up.”
“It won’t mess that up.”
“I guess it’s no skin off mine.”
“Good enough.” Eve rose, started out. “Peabody, dry your adoring tears. We’re done.”
“Oh, God!” Peabody beamed as they climbed to the car. “That was the best time. Did you see those—”
“Do not describe a pair of weird-looking, overpriced shoes to me.”
“But they were—”
“You’ll be crying tears of pain and misery any second. Dudley bought that shoe, right in that store, in March. Size ten.”
“No shit?”
“Not a single scoop of shit. We’ll run the other name—just one other sale—on the list—and the others citywide, global, too, just to cover bases, but that’s just too damn good. Circumstantial, but damn good. Let’s go screw with his day. Verify with his HQ he’s there. If not, find out where he is.”
This time when they arrived at Dudley’s, they were met in the lobby by a woman in a dark, pinstriped suit that showed a lot of leg and showcased excellent breasts. She wore her hair pulled back in a long, curly tail from a face boasting a perky, pointed nose, full lips, and wide, deep blue eyes.
“Lieutenant, Detective.” She shot out a hand. “I’m Marissa Cline, Mr. Dudley’s personal assistant. I’ll escort you directly to his office.”
“Appreciate the service,” Eve said.
Marissa gestured, and began to walk, briskly, on her candy-red heels. Eve wondered if she considered them a good investment.
“Mr. Dudley’s very concerned with the situation,” Marissa continued, “and the company’s indirect involvement in a crime.”
She palm-printed a pad, swiped a card in the security slot, then again gestured for Eve and Peabody to step into the elevator.
“Marissa, carrying two, to sixty.”
Verified, the computer responded. Proceeding.
“So, is Mr. Dudley active in the running of the company?” Eve asked.
“Oh, yes, of course. When Mr. Dudley’s father semi-retired three years ago, Mr. Dudley took over the reins, primarily from this HQ.”
“Before that?”
Marissa smiled, blankly. “Before?”
“Before he took over the reins?”
“Oh, ah, Mr. Dudley traveled extensively to various other HQs and outlets, gaining a wide range of experience in all levels of the company.”
“Okay.” Eve wondered if that was corporate speak for Dudley’s getting shuffled around, enjoying a variety of travel and partying while his father kept him on the payroll. They stepped out of the elevator into a spacious reception area, stylishly decorated with white lounging chairs equipped with miniscreens. Among the flowers, the refreshment bar, the conversation areas, three attractive women busily worked on comps.
Marissa knocked briskly—brisk seemed to be her mode—on one of the center double doors before tossing them both open.
Winston Dudley’s office was more along the lines of a snazzy hotel suite—lush and plush, staggering view, sparkling chandeliers.
A great deal of furniture helped fill the space, artfully arranged in conversational groups. He rose from behind a desk with a black mirrored surface.
He was more attractive in person than the ID shot. Eve put it down to what people called charisma—the way he smiled as he looked you directly in the eye, the way he moved, smooth as a dancer. Just a hint of flirtation in that move, that smile, those eyes, she thought—the sort that said, you’re a desirable woman, and I appreciate desirable women.
Avid eyes, she mused, that made her wonder if he’d recently sampled some of his own products.
His hair, so blond as to be nearly white, was swept back from a delicately boned face. Almost feminine, she mused. The features weren’t quite as sharp as Urich’s, but close.
His suit fit perfectly in a color she thought of as indigo. Old-fashioned links glinted at the cuffs of his pale blue shirt. His ID data, and her visual scan, put him at five feet ten and a half inches, weighing in at one-seventy.
Again, in Urich’s ballpark.
His shoes were as black and shiny as his desk, and sported no silver trim.
He took Eve’s hand, a firm grip, soft skin, and held it two flirtatious seconds after the shake.
“Lieutenant Dallas. I hoped we’d meet, but under different circumstances. I hope Roarke is well.”
“Yeah, he’s good.”
“And Detective Peabody, a pleasure.” He took her hand. “I recently finished Nadine Furst’s book. I feel I know both of you. Please sit down. Black coffee,” he said as Marissa lifted a tray, “coffee regular.” He tapped the side of his head. “Those details from the book stick. Thanks, Marissa. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
He sat on one of the wide chairs, laid his forearms on the wide arms. “I know you’re here about the murder of the driver, and our own Augustus Sweet. It’s very distressing. What can I do to help?”
“You can tell me where you were on the night in question.”
His eyes widened, briefly, then lit with fun. “Really? I’m a suspect?”
“It’s routine, Mr. Dudley—”
“Please, Winnie.”
“It’s routine, and just helps us cross things off the list.”
“Of course. I was at a dinn
er party with a number of friends in Greenwich—Connecticut, that is. I believe my date and I arrived at just before eight, and left around midnight. I’ll have Marissa give you the names and location. Will that do?”
“Works for me. How’d you get there?”
“My driver. I have a private car and driver. I’ll get you that information as well.”
“Good enough.” She walked him through a few standard questions—did he know the victim, had he used their services, tossed in a few more relating to Sweet.
“I have to tell you we’ve just arrested and charged two of your employees.”
“Good God, for the murder? Who—”
“No, on an unrelated matter. Mitchell Sykes and Karolea Prinz. They’ve been skimming some of your products, selling them.”
He sat back, arranged his face into sober lines. “I’d like more information on this. It’s very upsetting. This shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, I need to have meetings with my department heads, Security, Inventory. I owe you a debt.”
“No, we did our job. Another unrelated matter, just crossing off. Are you acquainted with Sylvester Moriarity?”
“Sly? Yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Why?”
“Just covering bases. Was he at this dinner party?”
“No. He’s not particularly friendly with the hosts, and it was a close-knit group.”
“Okay. Thanks for the time, the coffee.” She got to her feet, smiled as he rose. “Oh, just to tidy up. How about last night? Can you tell me where you were?”
“Yes. I had drinks with a friend about five, then went home. I wanted a quiet evening, and very much wanted to finish the book. The Icove case. Just fascinating.”
“So, nobody came by?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Just the opposite. It was one of those nights I wanted to myself. I’m curious as to why you’d want to know?”
“I’m nosy. Part of being a cop. Thanks again.”
“You’re more than welcome, both of you. Let me walk you out, and have Marissa get you the information you need. I hope we’ll see each other again, when it’s not work related.”
Marissa had the data at her fingertips—almost, Eve thought, as if she’d been told to have it there. In the elevator, Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak.