by J. D. Robb
“Give it to me,” Eve said and continued to work.
“Jonas used to work as a concierge at the Kennedy Hotel on Park. Started as an assistant right out of college. Moriarity’s grandfather owned the hotel along with a couple partners. They had a lot of events there like business stuff and private stuff, and put up important accounts and whatnot.”
Eve glanced up long enough to acknowledge the pop.
“When he croaked he left his share to Moriarity—the grandson—and he sold it off about ten years ago. The vic was still working there. She didn’t go out on her own until about a year after the sell. She got a write-up in The New Yorker back before she left, about how the girl from the Midwest became one of the top concierges in New York.”
“And used that capital to parlay into her own business. Smart. Good work, Carmichael. Write it up tight, attach the article and any other media.”
Coming together, she thought, crumb by crumb.
When her boards were complete, she sat at the computer to check the images and data she’d want on-screen.
“Lieutenant? Sorry to interrupt.”
“If you’ve got something, Trueheart, you’re not interrupting. If you don’t, go away.”
“It’s about the harpoon gun.”
“Spill it.”
“They’ve been running tests on it in the lab. On the mechanism and the spear, and checking on regulations. It turns out the projectile . . .”
“You’re trickling, not spilling.”
“Um. Both the spear and the gun required to shoot it exceed the limits accepted by sport fishing regulations here in the U.S. and in Europe, as well as several other countries. Baxter’s research corroborates when it comes to tours and clubs and organizations. Mr. Berenski—”
“Jesus.” She shoved back in her chair to goggle at him. “You don’t actually call him that?”
Trueheart pinked up. “Well, not always. He concludes the weapon was manufactured prior to regulations, as it’s American-made. Or that it was made in violation of the regulations, and he leans there because he believes it’s between five and ten years old. Some of the internal parts carry a manufacturer’s mark, and I traced that to a company in Florida. It’s one of Moriarity’s subsidiaries, one of its companies under its SportTec arm.”
Her legs stretched out, she smiled, and her eyes stayed flat and cold. “Is that so?”
“I have the data, sir, if you’d like to verify.”
“That was a rhetorical is that so. Keep digging. I want to put that weapon in Moriarity’s hands.” She frowned when Baxter strolled in. “I haven’t finished with your boy yet.”
“I have something to pump up what he just brought you. Both suspects did belong to both a sport fishing and a scuba club, though they’ve let their memberships lapse. But they’ve twice—five years ago, and just last winter—hosted a private island party for fifty-odd of their closest friends. A party that included scuba, sport fishing off your choice of yacht, and spear fishing. Among other assorted water sports. Several celebrities dropped in—vid stars and the like. It got a lot of play in the media.”
“Fucking A.”
“Ditto. I’ve got some lines out to bullwhip experts and instructors. There’s more of them than you’d think.”
“Go to Australia.”
“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to.”
“On the C&D. The whip was kanga-fucking-roo. Maybe Dudley took his lessons from whoever made the bastard. Add in handmade kanga-fucking-roo bullwhips.”
“I’ll run a search now, but it’s going to be close, Dallas, if you want me in here for the briefing.”
“Get it started, but be here. Put everything you’ve got together, and make it succinct. We’ve got some selling to do.”
When they left she rose to go to the room’s AutoChef for another hit of coffee and remembered she’d neglected to load it with the real thing she’d become spoiled by.
“Shit. Sometimes you just got to suck it up. Or down.”
She programmed an extralarge, black. And when the scent hit, she smiled. It was loaded with her brand. “Peabody, it really must be love.”
She gulped some down, ignored the jitter in her belly from caffeine overload, as Feeney came in. “Got your ninety percent. Ninety-point-one, and you ain’t going to get better. Give me that.”
He grabbed the coffee, drank it like a camel at an oasis. And he eyed her over the rim. “Maybe you need this more than I do. You don’t look like you’ve slept in a week.”
“Four dead, Feeney, in less than that. And those?” She gestured to the side of the board where she’d put the other victims. “All of those, too, from before. Their practice sessions. There could be another face up there tonight, or tomorrow. And what’ve I got?”
She pushed at her hair, pressed on her eyes. “It’s like weaving cobwebs together. A few strands of . . . whatever’s stronger than cobwebs. What I’ve got points to motive, method, opportunity, but it doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye. And I have to convince the PA and Whitney that it does, that it will.”
“You believe you can make it stick?” When she hesitated, he jabbed her shoulder.
“Ow.”
“You better fucking believe it or they won’t. Don’t waste my time here, or everybody else’s.”
“I know it. I know it. I’m tired. Half punchy, half twitchy.”
“I’d tell you to take a booster but you’ve probably had a cargo hold of coffee already.” He took a long, merciless study. “Go . . . do something with your face.”
“Huh?”
“Whatever it is your kind does. It’s one thing to look overworked, and another to look wrung out when you’re trying to pull a warrant this way.”
“You think because I have a vagina I cart around face enhancers?”
“Jesus, Dallas, you don’t have to use language like that. Borrow some, for Christ’s sake. You don’t want them looking at you thinking, ‘Man, Dallas needs some sleep.’ You want them focused on what you show them.”
“Fine. Fine. Crap.” She yanked out her communicator. “Peabody, put this on private.”
“What? Is there a break?”
“Are we private?”
“Yeah, what—”
“Do you have any face gunk?”
“Ah . . . sure. I got a supply in my desk for—what’s wrong with my face?”
“It’s for me. And if you say a word, if you breathe a syllable, I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands and feed it to the first rabid dog I find. Meet me in the bathroom, and bring the crap.” She clicked off. “Satisfied?” she demanded of Feeney, and stomped out.
It only took about five minutes, and that with Peabody trying to offer advice and instruction. The first thing she did was put her head in the sink, grit her teeth, and turn the water on full and cold.
It shocked the edge of fatigue away.
She toned down the circles under her eyes, added some color to cheeks she had to admit looked pasty and pale.
“That’s it.”
“I’ve got some nice lip dyes, and this mag eyeliner, and some—”
“That’s it,” Eve repeated, and raking her fingers through her wet hair, headed back to the conference room.
The scent of food hit the empty pit of her stomach. In the few minutes she’d been gone, someone had brought in another table and loaded it with paninis, subs, pizza.
Roarke picked up a panini, held it out. “Eat. You’ll think more clearly. And later, you can have a cookie.”
She didn’t argue, but took a huge bite. And just closed her eyes. “Okay. Good. You got cookies?”
“It seemed apt. Now take this blocker. No point going into this with a headache. Just a blocker,” he added, popping the little pill in her mouth, then handing her a bottle of water. “Hydrate.”
“Jesus. Cut it out.” She guzzled water, took another bite of panini. “I’m in charge here.”
He tugged a damp lock of her hair. “And it suits you. Your bullpen’s b
uzzing.”
“I need five minutes of quiet before—”
“Food!” McNab, who probably smelled pizza in EDD, led the charge.
“Take your five,” Roarke told her, and she nodded.
She settled for crossing to the windows, and blocking out the sound of cops pouncing on a bonanza of free food.
When she heard the commander’s voice, she turned. Mira came in, walked straight to her. “I wasn’t able to get away sooner.”
“Were you able to review any of what I sent you?”
“I read all of it. You make a number of persuasive points. If we could take another hour, I think we could refine several of them.”
“It’s already midday on a Friday. In July, when half the people who live here go somewhere else for the weekend. I’ve got to lay this out for Reo, have her convince a judge to issue warrants. I want to get it down before the end of business. We’re just waiting for her now, so . . . and there she is. I’m going to get started.”
She moved to the center of the room. “Officers, Detectives, take your seats. If you’re going to continue to gorge, do so quietly. Commander, thank you for taking the time.”
He nodded, took a seat. He had two slices of pizza on a plate and looked . . . guilty, she realized, and wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“The wife doesn’t like him eating between meals,” Feeney muttered in her ear.
“I thought I’d missed lunch.” Reo chose a seat, nibbled on half a panini.
Eve let the murmurs, the shifting, the laughter run on for a moment. Let them settle. She glanced at Roarke. He hadn’t sat, but stood leaning against the wall by the windows.
She walked over, shut the conference room door, then moved back to the center of the room.
“I’d like to bring everyone’s attention to the board.” She used a laser pointer, highlighting each photo. “Bristow, Melly, Zimbabwe, Africa,” she began, and named them all.
“All of these people were killed by Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I know that with absolute certainty, just as I know with absolute certainty that they will kill again if they aren’t stopped.”
She let that sink in, just two beats of silence.
“Detective Peabody and I have built a case that I believe is substantial enough for search warrants for the suspects’ homes and businesses and vehicles. With the murder of Adrianne Jonas, Detectives Reineke and Jenkinson joined the investigative team. Earlier this afternoon, I assigned every officer in this room specific tasks relating to this investigation. Together, we’ve built a stronger, wider case. We’ve correlated with EDD, Doctor Mira, and the expert consultant, civilian.
“Bristow, Melly,” she said again, and ordered the data on-screen.
It took time, but she couldn’t rush it. She walked them through every victim, every connection, every overlap. She called on each member of the team to present his or her findings, then connected those.
“The shoes.” Reo gestured. “How many sold, that size and color?”
“Peabody.”
“Three pair, from New York merchants. I’ve verified one of the buyers was in New Zealand at the time of the murder. The other lives in Pennsylvania, is eighty-three years of age. Though I can’t absolutely confirm his whereabouts at the time in question, he doesn’t fit the height or body type from the image EDD was able to access from park security. He’s six inches shorter, at least twenty pounds lighter.”
“Okay, that’s good. But worldwide there would be more, and that’s what the defense would point out.”
“Less than seventy-five pair sold as of the date of the murder,” Eve said. “Peabody’s already eliminated forty-three.”
“Forty-six now, sir.”
“I’ll take those odds.”
“The alibis,” Reo began. As she and Eve debated, Baxter’s ’link signaled. He glanced at the ID, held up a finger to Eve, and walked out of the room.
“Some people swear they were there the whole time,” Eve continued. “Some state they don’t remember seeing one or both of them for long periods. Others just don’t remember one way or the other. If you can’t break that flimsy an alibi, you’re not doing your job.”
“You don’t want to tell me my job,” Reo shot back. “I’m doing my job by questioning every aspect of this. If you go after these two before we’re solid, they could slip through. My boss isn’t going to go for arrests on this unless he believes he can convict. These are wealthy men, who can afford an army of very slick attorneys.”
“I don’t care if they’re—”
“Lieutenant.” Baxter stepped back in. “Sorry to interrupt. I need a minute.”
She walked to him, listened, nodded. “Tell the room.”
“I just got off the ’link with one of the most respected and renowned makers of whips—that’s your bull, your snake, and so on. He verifies making the murder weapon for a Leona Bloom—who was buying it as a gift for a friend. Buying the whip and a package of lessons. The whip guy keeps very specific records as he takes large pride in his work. The lessons were given to Winston Dudley the Fourth six years ago, in Sydney.”
“That’s good,” Reo said.
“Whip guy remembers Dudley,” Baxter continued. “Remembers he took the lessons seriously. He not only took the package, but added to it with another round of lessons. Whip guy says Dudley was damn good with a whip by the end of it.”
“That’s very, very good,” Reo added.
“It’s bull’s-eye,” Eve countered. “What do you need, to actually see them kill somebody? We can link the weapons to the men, the victims to the men. Moriarity’s going to have the crossbow and harpoon gun, Dudley’s still got the sheath he used for the bayonet. Believe it. A case for the whip. They’d want part of the weapon to keep, to gloat over.
“There’s no way to know who they’ve targeted next, but there will be a target.” She pressed that button, pressed it hard. “These are addictive personalities, and they won’t stop. They can’t stop,” Eve insisted. “They like it too much, and they’re at tie score. They won’t stop until one of them misses, and even then, they won’t stop. After an entire life of playing at work, at playing at sport, at just goddamn playing, they’ve found something they’re really good at, something that they can share as intimately as lovers. The people they kill are only important because they’re important—but every one of the victims lack what these men would see as their pedigree, their privilege to be important by birth.
“They’re addicts,” she repeated, “and won’t give up this drug. And they’re freaking soul mates, so they won’t give up this union. They may take it elsewhere—Europe, South America, Asia, mix their pie a little when they’re bored of New York.”
“I think they’ll stay until they’ve finished this particular contest.” Mira spoke quietly. “I agree with the lieutenant’s evaluation. These men need to feed their desires, their whims, their sense of intimacy with each other. They need to indulge themselves, and this is their ultimate competition, and partnership. They work together, even as they compete. Killing two people, one after another, using the same alibi would have been yet another kind of rush. A new thrill, and codependency. They may continue that pattern, or escalate. And once again kill together. I believe that’s how they plan to indulge themselves with you, Eve.”
21
HE’D WONDERED IF SHE’D FOLLOWED THOSE dots, but Roarke could see now she hadn’t gone there. Oh, her ego was healthy enough, but it simply hadn’t clicked how precisely she fit their victim profile.
She was the best at what she did, and well known for it, particularly well with the success of Nadine’s book. She’d made herself what she was.
She wasn’t for hire in a technical sense, but she served.
And the connection, well fuck it all, it was through him, wasn’t it?
She was going there now, and bloody buggering hell she was considering how she could use it, use herself.
“It’s your opinion I’m a target,” Eve s
aid to Mira.
“It’s my opinion that you’re not only a perfect fit, but would be, to them, the ultimate prey. Their timing of the first murder played the odds, and they were good ones, that you would catch the case,” Mira reminded her. “If you hadn’t, you would certainly have been involved in some manner by the second murder, which also connected to Roarke through its location. You fit their target requirements. You’re known to be one of the best in your field, a field of service. You’ve gained notoriety for what you do.”
“I don’t have any past connection with them.” But even as she said it, she glanced at Roarke.
“Of course you do,” he said, equably, “because I do. My business dealings and theirs have crossed in the past. They have reason, if they take such matters personally, to resent me for some of those dealings.”
She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “Why not go for you?”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t that be entertaining? I don’t fit,” he added. “I don’t provide a service, nor am I for sale. Protect and serve, Lieutenant, for which you draw a salary. And if you’d think as they do for a moment rather than grinding those gears wondering how you could set yourself up as bait, you’d see you’re an indulgence. Mine. From their perspective, I bought and paid for you. Mind you don’t sputter.”
He felt her fury, the hot burst of it, and continued to lean against the wall and watch her.
She pulled it in—he had to admire the strength of will—and simply nodded.
“I’d like to give this some thought, discuss it further, but detailing the investigation, thus far, and getting the warrants are the priority and purpose here. Do you have enough to take to your boss, Reo?”
“I’ll take it to him, and I’ll push.” Reo sat where she was, scanning the boards and screens. “You’ve got a mountain of circumstantial here that adds up to a solid argument for the search warrants. You’re shy of arrest—and you know it,” she added. “You’ve convinced me, and I’ll convince the PA. Convincing a judge to issue the warrants to search the homes of two men with no priors, with their pedigree, their connections and influence, that’s going to be work, and it’s going to take time.”