by J. D. Robb
“I’m heading to the morgue. When I’m done, I’ll be in. Polish it up, Peabody.”
“I think it’s starting to shine. I really do.”
Eve clicked off. “I have to go.”
“What about the shoe?” he demanded as she jumped in her car.
“The bastard was wearing the same shoes we caught on security when I interviewed him this morning. Cookie crumbs.”
He watched her go, and decided he’d pick up a few dozen cookies before he met her at Central.
Peabody tagged her back as she strode down the white tunnel of the morgue. “I’m still at ‘very fond,’ ” Eve said.
“You may be ready for ‘sweet on,’ at least. Unofficially, McNab says if it’s not the same damn shoe, he’ll eat it with barbecue sauce.”
“He’ll eat anything with barbecue sauce. I need official.”
“Feeney just confirmed, officially, that the shoe Dudley was wearing this morning is the same size, the same make, the same color as the shoe on the amusement park security.”
“Close but not sweet enough.”
“He can’t state unequivocally it’s the same shoe. He can give that an eighty-eight-point-seven probability.”
“I want ninety plus. See if he can enhance the images any more, or squeak that out. Ninety’s better than eighty-eight.”
“I’ll relay.”
Eve stuck the ’link in her pocket, and pushed through the autopsy suite’s doors.
Morris looked up from his work. “Well, Dallas, we’re having a hell of a summer.”
“It’s going to be hell for two smug bastards before it’s done.”
“Before we get into this, I want to thank you for arranging this gathering tomorrow.”
“Oh. I think—”
“I find myself pulling back, too often, from friends. It’s easier, and more self-indulgent, to be alone. I need a nudge out of that cycle from time to time.”
“Yeah.” And there went her very rational, reasonable plan to postpone the whole deal. “Well.”
“Can I ask a favor? I’d like to bring someone.”
Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Ah, sure . . . I didn’t realize you were . . .”
“Not that sort of someone. Chale—Father Lopez. He’s a good friend now, and I know you think highly of him. He’s fond of you.”
A lot of fondness going around, she thought. A priest at a cop party. Mostly cops, she corrected. What the hell. “No problem. It’ll be good to see him again.”
“Thanks. And now for your doubleheader.”
“Ha. I called it a two-for-one sale. We’re both sick.”
“How else do you get through a hell of a summer? Our Frenchman is actually from Topeka, by the way. Born Marvin Clink.”
“No shit?”
“Peabody did the run, which included the full data, and legal name change. In any case, your supposition on scene was correct. Death by harpoon. It’s been identified as such, and you’ve had the weapon—the gun, I think it’s called—ID’d by the lab.”
“That’s not your usual line. You verified with Dickhead?”
“We’re all pulling a bit more. And I was curious. He’s in love, you know.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“It’s a bit disturbing.”
“Yes!” She gave him a shove of solidarity. “Thank God. It gave me the serious creeps.”
Humor lit his dark eyes, and gave Eve her first lift of the day. “Which is unkind, but I confess to the same. You have the weapon ID on your office unit by now. This was another heart wound. In simple terms the barb pierced the chest, ripped straight through the heart and out the back. Your spear’s been removed, as you see, logged and sent to the lab. There are no other wounds. He had consumed just shy of eight ounces of white wine. I’m having the type analyzed.”
“I have the bottle.”
“And we’ll confirm. He’d eaten a light meal several hours before death. A salad, grilled shrimp, asparagus in wine sauce, and a small amount of vanilla bean crème brûlée.”
Despite the circumstances, her stomach yearned. “Sounds pretty good.”
“I hope it was. He did have more current stomach contents that from the variety and amount I’d say came from sampling what he was cooking, along with a little cheese, a couple of crackers. There were no drugs in his system. He was a smoker.”
“It all fits.”
“He’s had some face and body work,” Morris continued. “Minimal. He kept in good shape, his muscles are nicely toned.”
“What about her?” Eve moved to Adrianne’s body.
“She didn’t die as quickly. She’d consumed about sixteen ounces of champagne, and neutralized the effects with Sober-Up. We’ll get you the timing on that. Some party food in her stomach. Caviar, toasted bread, some berries, some raw vegetables, and so on—very light amounts—consumed over a period of two to four hours before death. No sign of sexual activity, forced or consensual.”
He lifted her hand. “There’s some light bruising on the heels of her hands, on her knees, consistent with a fall, these deep scrapes on her throat—consistent with the blood and flesh under her own nails. She’d clawed at her throat, and you see she broke three of her nails, snapping two below the quick.”
“Dragging at the whip.”
“It circled her neck three times, and with force. Tearing the skin in these patterns here, constricting her airway, bruising her larynx.”
“She couldn’t have screamed.”
“No. And if you look . . . Do you want goggles?”
“No, I can see.” But she bent down closer. “He jerked her—maybe even pulled her off her feet. Then jerked again, but upward—that would be dragging her up, hoisting her on the branch. Her neck’s not broken.” She glanced at Morris for confirmation, got a shake of the head. “So it would’ve been painful and terrifying, and endless. Just a minute, maybe two, but endless.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” With Eve, he looked down at the body. “She would have suffered.”
“Her parents will be contacting you.”
“I’ll tell them it was quick, and she didn’t feel any pain.” He touched a hand to Eve’s arm briefly. “They’ll want to believe me, so they will.”
As she walked back down that white tunnel, she wished she could believe it.
20
EVE HIT THE BULLPEN AT HOMICIDE LIKE A blaster.
“Trueheart.”
He jolted in his seat, then knocked a short stack of file discs to the floor as he sprang to attention. “Sir!”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. I’m going to send you a list of weapons—images, makes, models, ID numbers where applicable. Run them. I want a complete list of vendors, outlets, collectors, and licenses. Cross-reference same with Dudley and Moriarity, personally, through their companies—Dudley and Son and Intelicore, respectively, all arms and locations—and family members, living and dead. Include ex-wives and their family members, living and dead.
“Questions?”
While his eyes were wide enough to swallow Pluto, he shook his head. “Ah . . . no, sir.”
“Good. Baxter.”
He sat as he was, smiled a little. “Yo.”
“Same weapons list. I want names and locations of hunting clubs, hunting and/or fishing venues that allow the use of crossbows and/or harpoon guns. Stick with first-class venues, extreme first-class. On and off planet.”
He straightened now. “You want every one of them in the universe?”
“And when you’ve got them, get the member list or client list. Find Dudley and/or Moriarity. They’ve practiced. More, they’re show-offs. They’ve used those weapons somewhere, sometime.”
“Reineke, Jenkinson, I want your report on the Jonas homicide on my desk ASAP. You’re going to work this case like Adrianne Jonas was your beloved mother. If Dickhead hasn’t tagged the whip yet, chew on his ass until he does. When he does, pass it to Trueheart and Baxter. Meanwhile find bullwhip experts.”
“If I hand you a freaking bullwhip are you going to know how to wrap it around somebody’s throat? And do it strong enough to hang her by it? He had to learn somewhere, from someone. Experts, venues, trainers. Find them, contact them, dig until somebody remembers Dudley or Moriarity. Or both. Dig. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jenkinson answered as Reineke gave a thumbs-up.
“Carmichael.” As Eve turned, two voices answered.
“Detective Carmichael,” she specified, and the uniform Carmichael looked faintly disappointed. “I’m going to give you a list of names, invites to Dudley’s alibi party last night.”
“Lieutenant, I’m not caught up with the details and particulars of this investigation.”
“Catch her up,” Eve ordered Peabody. “When you are,” she continued, “contact the names. Both suspects left the premises at some point: Moriarity most likely shortly before twenty-two hundred and likely returned before twenty-three hundred; Dudley between two and two-thirty, returning sometime after three hundred hours. Dudley may have been in the company of the last vic. Find somebody who noticed, somebody who missed them. When you’re done with the guest list, start on the staff, permanent and any hired for the event.
“New guy.” Eve pointed at a young, broad-shouldered man who’d transferred in the days before she’d left for vacation.
“Detective Santiago, Lieutenant.”
“Right. Work with Carmichael.” She tried to think what went into it when Roarke threw a fancy party. “Dudley probably had some valets for parking. Some of the guests likely came and went with private car services. He’d have had catering, servers, people who don’t have any particular reason to be overly loyal. Service providers are invisible to these people, and that’s a vulnerability because they don’t consider those service providers to have the wit to notice, or the balls to talk. Find somebody with wit and balls.”
With one glance she targeted uniforms.
“Newkirk, Ping, the other Carmichael, do whatever the detectives need you to do. Anything pops, anything even breaks the most discreet of wind, I hear about it. Full briefing and all reports in two hours. Conference room . . . Peabody?”
“C.”
“Conference room C, two hours. Sweat,” she ordered. “These cocksuckers are killing people the same way a kid steps on ants. Because they want to see them squish. More, they think we’re stupid, too stupid to bring them down. We’re going to prove them wrong. Peabody, with me.”
Eve headed straight to the AutoChef in her office for coffee, then jerked a thumb at the machine.
“I better not.” Peabody’s voice signaled sincere regret. “I was fading so I took a boost. Now I feel like my eyes are glued open and my nerves are all twitchy. I haven’t found the connection to the last vic and Moriarity.”
“Pass it to Carmichael. Uniform Carmichael. And why do they have to have the same name? One of them needs to change it. Anyway, he’s a vicious bastard on details. And, yeah, you’d find it,” Eve added before Peabody could protest. “But he’ll come with a fresh eye, and without the twitches. Plus I need you on other angles. Hold on a minute.”
She sat, copied the relevant files, and transferred them to the relevant cops.
“French guy’s wine and supplies.”
“Bought in gay Paree.” With so many details crowded in her head, Peabody took out her notebook to keep them straight. “He got the booking five weeks ago.”
“Five weeks. That’s good, that’s a confirmation of long-term planning. Dudley would know Simpson and her family would be in Georgia. She’d have to clear the vacation time in advance, and this is an annual family summer thing. They’d want to lock Delaflote in, had to suss out and plan the alibi, the timing. Probably practiced that, too.”
“Booking was done by e-mail, through what I’ve already checked was a temp account, assigned to Simpson for billing. The vic’s assistant has it listed as a surprise for the husband, for Frost. Intimate, romantic dinner for two, alfresco.”
“The garden. All set up for the garden,” Eve added, nodding.
“Late supper,” Peabody continued. “Delaflote’s travel fee—and he came in on his own shuttle—paid early this week, through Simpson’s account. Delaflote personally shopped for the food supplies and the wine on the day of departure. He has a major interest in a vineyard, and selected three bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé, a bottle of Sauternes, three bottles of champagne. All from the Château Delaflote label. I have the vintages for all of them, as the vic kept a kind of spreadsheet for jobs.”
She paused, and pleasure moved onto her face. “And Dallas, as the client hyped this as such a special deal, expense no object, the champagne’s from a limited edition label and vintage. They’re freaking numbered. He took numbers forty-eight, forty-nine, and fifty from the private reserve he kept back for special clients.”
Eve’s smile spread slowly, a reflection of Peabody’s pleasure. “Maybe I do love you.”
“Aww.”
“We find one of those bottles, we’ll nail them with it. Clean that report up. You’ll be presenting that to the ADA and the commander in a couple hours.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Tag Feeney, and tell him when and where. I want a solid report from him for same. I want everybody ready and in the conference room on time. No excuses. I’ll set the commander and Reo for ten minutes after. Brief Carmichael—both of them. I’ll send you a report on Jonas as soon as I put it in order. Now go away. Shut the door.”
Before it shut, she was contacting Whitney’s office. She locked him in, then Reo, then moved onto Mira. If she’d had time, she’d have cheered when the temp came on-screen.
“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Gee, the doctor’s in a session right now.”
“I’m going to send her a number of files, starting now and over the next hour. I need her to give them her immediate attention, and report to conference room C, Homicide Division, with her conclusions, at fourteen hundred and fifteen.”
“Oh, well, golly, I think she has an appointment at—”
“This is priority one. Commander Whitney and an ADA will also be attending. Doctor Mira’s presence is mandatory.”
“Oh, gosh. I’ll cancel her appointment, and—”
“Good. If she has any questions, she can contact me.”
Cutting the temp off, Eve shot Mira the report Peabody had written on Delaflote, the reports her other detectives had written on Jonas. She pushed through the ME’s reports, the labs, the prelim from the sweepers.
Then she cleared her head and began to write her own on each.
Twice she rose for more coffee, to check her time lines, to consult the computer on the time required to travel the distances from Dudley’s home to each crime scene—on foot, and by transpo. She brought up her map, studied it, then confirmed with the computer the most direct routes to and from each.
With nearly an hour left, she loaded up everything she could carry to take it to the conference room. She turned out of the office just as Jenkinson turned toward it.
“If you’ve got something, walk and talk.”
“Let me give you a hand.”
“I got it. It’s balanced.”
“Okay.” He fell into step with her. “We checked with the vic—our vic’s—usual car service. They took her to Dudley’s, and she told the driver she’d contact them for a time of return, which was booked to include travel home, then to the park location and back, or—depending on the time—straight to the park. She left it open.”
“Figuring if the party was a dud, she could take off, go home awhile before her appointment. Okay.”
“Yeah, but what she did was cancel pickup altogether, about two A.M.”
Eve felt that slow smile cross her face again. “Because she copped another ride.”
“We checked with every freaking legit cab company in Manhattan. Nobody picked up a fare at that location between two and three A.M. And nobody dropped off a fare bet
ween those times at the logical entrance to the park for the Great Hill. We gotta figure—”
“She got a lift,” Eve finished, and jerked her head at the conference room door, “with Dudley.”
“That’s our take.” He opened the door, followed her in. “So far Carmichael and the new guy haven’t hit on anybody, but they’re asking if anybody saw the vic and Dudley hanging together between the two A.M. and the two-thirty mark.”
“Okay.” She dumped her things on the conference table. “She sure as hell didn’t walk from the party to that point in the park in those shoes. No reason to cancel her pickup unless she had alternate transpo, and we’ve covered she didn’t book alternate transpo.”
A lot of other guests at the party, she thought, a lot of other alternatives for a lift. That would be the argument, but she would damn well knock it down.
“We’re going to push for a warrant to search all Dudley’s vehicles for her DNA. We find her prints, a stray hair, it adds more weight.”
“I think the other Carmichael hit something, because he started making those noises in his throat like he does.”
“Yeah, the grunting. Good.”
“Reineke gave Dickhead a shove, and Dickhead came through. It’s an Australian deal—the whip—made out of freaking kangaroo.”
“The hopping things, with the pouches?”
“Yeah. Freaking kangaroo. It’s seven feet long, eleven with the handle or grip, and that’s lead-loaded steel. Dickhead said it had a coating of some sort of leather cream, and he’s working on IDing the brand, and he’s still working on dating it, but says it ain’t no antique or anything. He’s saying the sucker’s handmade. So we’ve got Trueheart checking out Aussie whip makers. Dickhead comes through with the rest, that’ll narrow it.
“You know that fuckhead’s in love?” he added.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“It’s creepy.”
“So say we all. Get back to it, Jenkinson.”
Alone, she began with the murder board.
She’d worked her way halfway through the time lines when the other Carmichael came in, making grunting noises in his throat. “Boss, I got something.”