Indulgence in Death

by J. D. Robb

“No. It’s like a new, stronger drug.”

  “Yeah.” Exhausted, sickened, she rubbed her eyes. “You’re right, it’s more that. And that’s going to help me stop them. That need, that addiction, it’ll push them.”

  “Come to bed now. You need to sleep.” He turned her, slid an arm around her. “Let it rest a few hours, Eve, so you can.”

  “Can’t think anymore, anyway.” She walked out with him.

  It was after three hundred hours, she realized, and no call from Dispatch. Maybe she wouldn’t be too late. Maybe she wouldn’t put another face on her board.

  17

  AT FIRST, SHE THOUGHT THE LION GNAWING greedily on her leg woke her—which was bad enough. But when she struggled through the surface of the dream, her communicator sent out its sharp, insistent beep.

  “Fuck. Just fuck.”

  Roarke’s hand ran up and down her arm in comfort as she pushed up in bed. He ordered lights on at ten percent.

  “Block video,” she said as she snatched the communicator from the night table. “Dallas.”

  Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

  As Dispatch ordered her to report to the house on the Upper East Side, relayed the basics, she shifted to sit on the side of the bed, dropped her head in her hands. And acknowledged.

  “Before you beat yourself up,” Roarke told her, “tell me what else you could have done.”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. If I knew what else I could’ve done, I’d’ve done it. Then I wouldn’t be going to look at a body.” She scrubbed her hands over her face before she lifted her head. “And I guess I knew I would be.”

  “You’re tired, and you’re pissed off. I’m right there with you. We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we got back from holiday.” He raked a hand through his hair as he shoved himself up to sit. “I had a dream there was a bloody lion prowling through the house looking for a handy snack.”

  She turned her head, pointed at him. “He found it. I had a dream the bitch was chowing down on my leg.” And for some odd reason, the solidarity of their unconsciouses made her feel better. “I’ve got to grab a quick shower, clear my head. Fucking lions.”

  “I want one, too. The shower, that is, not the fucking lion.”

  She slitted her eyes at him.

  “Please. I think I can resist you. This once. I’ll go with you. Your scene’s not far.”

  “We barely clocked three hours down,” she pointed out. “You can go back to sleep. You’re not—”

  But he was already sliding out of bed. “I’ll be your Peabody until the real one gets there. She’s a lot farther to go than we do.”

  She dragged a hand through her hair, considered. “I could use a Peabody until Peabody shows up. And some freaking coffee.”

  “Then let’s get moving.”

  When they went downstairs fifteen minutes later, Summerset stood, dressed in his habitual and spotless black suit. Eve wondered if he slept in it, like a vampire in a coffin. But she refrained from saying so as he held a tray with two go-cups of coffee and a bag that smelled like cinnamon bagels.

  “Perhaps, at some point in the future, the two of you might consider actually living here.”

  “In this dump?” Eve snagged a coffee before he could change his mind.

  Roarke took the other coffee and the bag. “Thank you. If you’d contact Caro. She can handle the eight o’clock holo. I’ll be in touch with her if anything else needs to be shifted.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I should suggest she put ‘police assistant’ on your official bio.”

  “Well, that’s just mean.”

  But Eve grinned widely as she walked out the door, and glanced back at Summerset, and the cat who squatted at his feet. “Thanks.”

  Her vehicle was, as expected, waiting. How did he manage it all? she wondered. “Maybe I need a Summerset. God, did I just say that?”

  “I hesitate to point out you have a Summerset. He just provided us with coffee and bagels.”

  “I don’t want to think about it. I’ll drive. You can start being Peabody and find out who owns the house we’re going to, and what the connection is to Dudley. It should be a Dudley connect this time.”

  She dug out half a bagel, crunching as she drove, washed that down with coffee.

  “A house this time. That’s not particularly public. Gotta be an angle on that. Maybe there were other people around when it went down, or—”

  “The house belongs to Garrett Frost and Meryle Simpson. Simpson is the CEO of Marketing for Dudley.”

  “Well, they’re still playing by the rules. Vic’s a male, so it’s not her. Could be her housemate.”

  “Husband,” Roarke corrected. “Married nine years.”

  “Probably not him, either, unless they’re shifting pattern a bit. What does he do?”

  “Corporate law. Solid firm, and he’s been with them twelve years. Full partner, but nothing that pops out as special, according to the contest rules.”

  “So they’re probably still breathing, and have no connection to the victim. I bet Dudley’s been entertained in that house plenty. He’d know the setup.”

  “But you think Moriarity did the killing.”

  “His turn at bat.” She swung around a maxibus lumbering its way east with its load of sleepy passengers. “And yeah, that means Dudley would have to give him the layout. They want the kill as much as the win—more,” she corrected, “so they keep the playing field even. It’s logical in a really screwed-up way.”

  As Eve pushed her way across town, Roarke continued to play Peabody, in his own way. “Frost and Simpson have owned and lived in the house for six years. They also have a place on Jekyll Island, off Georgia. And two children, one of each, six and three. Simpson’s also a loose family relation on Dudley’s maternal side. A niece of his mother’s second husband.”

  “Interesting. Increasing the connection, adding another link. It just adds to the supposition he knows the house.”

  “More interesting is that Frost and Simpson bought the house from Moriarity.”

  She flashed a look at him as she blew through a yellow light. “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not, no. He owned it prior, and for five years. I’d say he already knew the basic layout without his friend’s assistance.”

  “They don’t actually give a shit about the risk of tying themselves to the murders. No, they want to.”

  “It adds levels and layers to the contest,” Roarke commented. “Gives it a more complex structure.”

  “Yeah, adds a bigger rush. It’s part of the rules, part of the contest rules,” she said. “They have to select a target that has some connection, and facilitate the kill by using another connection. It ups the stakes. What are the stakes? What does the winner get?”

  She swung in at a gate, studied the house behind it as she held up her badge for the uniform at guard.

  Mansion, she corrected. It didn’t come up to Roarke’s level, but what did? Still, it boasted three stories, took up an entire corner, sat prettily behind a low wall.

  When the uniform cleared them, she drove through, pulled up behind a pair of black-and-whites.

  “There’s going to be good security here.” Even as she climbed out of her vehicle she tracked the cams and sensors. “Maybe they kept the system Moriarity had. He just had to break their codes.”

  “Body’s in the back, LT,” a uniform told her. “There’s a patio garden deal back there. Gardener’s who found him.” The uniform gestured toward the work truck. “Said he was here to do some work, and said how the people who live here are away, down in Georgia. Been gone all week.

  “House was locked,” he continued as he walked them in and through. “No signs of break-in, no signs of struggle. Got plenty of valuables right out in plain sight. It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken.”

  “Did you clear the house?”

  “Yes, sir, we did a walk-through. The place is empty, and in order. Except for the kitchen.” He g
estured as they entered. “Somebody was cooking. There’s a whole damn chicken mostly cooked from the looks of it in the oven, and all this other stuff—food and cooking junk—on the counters.”

  “Oven on or off when you got here?”

  “Off, LT. The lights and the music were on, just like now. The vic’s wearing an apron, and I gotta say, he’s a sight to see.”

  “Where’s the gardener?”

  “We got him, and his kid—bad day to bring his kid to work—in there.” He gestured. “Looks like a maid’s or mother-in-law’s quarters.”

  “Get started on the knock-on-doors. Anybody saw anything I want to know. Keep the wits secured until I send for them.”

  “You got that.”

  She stepped outside, and had to agree. It was a sight to see.

  She sealed up, tossed the can to Roarke, but continued to stand where she was a moment. Just taking it in.

  “Garden area. Walls, sure, but it’s outdoors, people walking or driving by beyond the walls. Buildings, too. People maybe looking out the window. So it fits the rules.”

  She turned her attention to the victim. “He’s got to be a cook, right? An important cook.”

  “Chef. If I’m not mistaken that’s Delaflote of Paris. And yes,” Roarke confirmed, “he’s important. One of the top chefs in the world. He owns a restaurant by his name in Paris, and occasionally cooks there. Primarily he serves private clients. Heads of state number among them.”

  “It fits. So Moriarity gets him here, likely using either Frost’s or Simpson’s ID and info. We’ll want to check how he got here, and—”

  “He travels on his own shuttle. It’s easy enough to confirm.”

  She only nodded. “Got him here, even got him to cook—or start to. Lured or forced him out here, then . . . The chef in the garden with the—what the hell is that pinning the poor, sorry bastard to that tree.”

  “Some sort of spear?”

  She frowned at him. “What kind of spear? You’re the weapon guy.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, whatever propelled it isn’t here, is it?” But challenged, he moved closer, studied what he could see in the early-morning light. “It would have to have some velocity to go all the way through him and into the bloody tree far enough to hold the body weight. I wouldn’t think it could be done by hand. It’s metal, not wood, and coated. Thin and smooth, and . . . I think it’s a harpoon.”

  “Like for shooting whales?”

  “Smaller mammals in this case and designed for spearing game fish, I would think. It’s not thrown, but propelled from a kind of gun. But that’s best guess.”

  “The chef in the garden with the harpoon. It fits, so there’s the hat trick.”

  She walked over now, reopened her field kit. “Be Peabody.”

  “Peabody wouldn’t have recognized a harpoon spear.”

  She had to give him that, but simply pointed to the kit. “TOD and ID.”

  He’d seen it done often enough, and he had been the one to put himself into the Peabody substitute position. So he worked while Eve examined the body.

  “No other visible marks on him. No defensive wounds.” She looked down, tagged a cigarette butt for the sweepers. “Probably his. Even Moriarity isn’t arrogant enough to hand me his DNA on a butt. What’s he, about five seven? Spear goes right through the chest, another heart shot. You want to make it count, don’t want the vic wounded so he could scream. Yeah, about five seven, and right through the chest, almost dead-fucking-center of this tree trunk. Like he had a target on his chest.”

  “It’s Delaflote,” Roarke confirmed. “Luc, age fifty-two, dual citizenship, French and American, primary residence in Paris. Unmarried at the moment, with three children from various prior relationships.”

  “I don’t need all that yet.”

  “I’m being Peabody, and our girl is nothing but thorough. Time of death appears to be twenty-two-eighteenish.” He pointed when Eve frowned at him. “As it’s my first day on the job I’d like a bit of slack, Lieutenant.”

  She waved that away, walked into the kitchen, back out again. Studied the body. Repeated everything.

  “Somebody had to let him into the house, or give him the codes so he could let himself in. What kind of client would give somebody the codes to their house? More likely, somebody let him in. There’s all the food stuff. So either the vic brings that in or the killer had it.”

  “From what I understand Delaflote insisted on bringing in his own supplies.”

  “Fine, probably no chance tracking down any fancy ingredients and nailing Moriarity with the purchase. If Moriarity let him in, did the vic know him, was he expecting him? Wouldn’t he have checked, just like any other service provider, on the client? But he had to get into the house, so somebody let him in. If it’s Moriarity, why wait so long for the kill? How long does it take to cook a chicken?” she demanded.

  He simply stared at her. “How in bleeding hell would I know?”

  She sent him a thin smile. “I bet Peabody would.”

  “Bloody hell. Wait. How many pounds?”

  “I don’t know.” She scowled, held out her hands. “It’s about like this.”

  “Hmm.” He fiddled with his PPC. “Maybe two hours, according to this.”

  “You’re a pretty good Peabody. Have to figure the killer turned it off before he left. Don’t want to start the smoke or fire alarms and have the fire department here. It looks pretty much done to me, but I guess it would, like roast in the heat after it’s turned off. And it’s got to take some prep time. So it’s likely the vic was here a couple hours. Cooking and mixing and chopping away. There’s a lot of knives and cleavers and really sharp shit in there, and a fancy case for them.”

  “That would be Delaflote’s, I imagine.”

  “Moriarity doesn’t let this guy in, hang around for two hours while the cooking’s happening. It’s a waste of time, and too risky.” She circled the patio, considered the angles. “Maybe he lets him in, leaves, comes back. We’ll check security, but I don’t know why he’d leave anything on it. It had to be light out when the vic got here.”

  She walked in and out again. Seeing it, Roarke thought, letting herself see it in different ways until one clicked.

  “Late supper deal,” she said when she came out. “Had to be. There’s not enough food for a party. It looks like a fancy dinner for two, late supper. There’s an open bottle of wine, and a glass. That’ll be the vic’s, too. So where’s the wine for supper? Where’s the champagne? There’s none in the fridge in there, chilling. The owners probably have a wine cellar, or a wine bar somewhere in there. But . . .”

  “Delaflote likely selected and brought the wines he wanted for the meal,” Roarke finished.

  She nodded. “So this guy’s doing his private chef thing, having some wine while he’s at it. Gets some of it prepped. There’s some sort of fishy-smelling stuff in the fridge, sealed up. But I’m not buying the owners left fishy-smelling stuff in there, then took off for vacation. Even I know better than that. So he’s made some of the stuff, got the chicken in the cooker, he’s got salad crap washed and in this draining thing. Takes a little break, comes outside here into the garden to catch a smoke.

  “Wait, where’s the staff? Don’t fancy cooks like him have minions to do the grunt work? Peel, chop, like that?”

  Roarke glanced toward the unfortunate Delaflote. “It’s a bit late to ask him.”

  “We’ll check on that. Anyway, he’s out here, having his break. Moriarity’s either with him or comes out. He’s got the weapon hidden somewhere . . . No, he comes out because he’s got the weapon with him. If he’d hidden it, somebody—the gardener maybe comes by a day early—might find it. He gets the vic to stand in front of that tree. Step back, pal, or step over. Has to be fast at that point because the vic didn’t run. No way anybody makes a dead-on shot like that, through the middle of a tree, when the target’s running.”

  Eve stepped over, angled herself outside the kitchen doo
r, lifted her hand as if holding a weapon. She shifted a couple inches, then nodded. She’d bank the computer simulation would put the killer where she was standing.

  “Then he checks, just to make sure he’s scored his points, won his round. Does he tag Dudley to confirm? Take a picture, a short vid, something to bring his pal in. Share the moment. He goes in, shuts off the oven, and the fucker decides what the hell and takes the unopened wine, and he walks out.”

  “In and out, through the gates, without anyone seeing him. That’s a risk, too.”

  “Dudley wore a disguise at the amusement park. Moriarity would have one. Something that makes him look like what he’s not. Unless he’s an idiot, he doesn’t bring his own transpo close, take a service or a cab from right here. He has to walk awhile, put some distance in. He’s got to have the propeller thing—the mechanism for the spear—with him. He’s carrying some kind of case or bag for that, another for the wine. We can use that.”

  That was a break, she thought. A man walking carrying a case and a bag. That could be a break.

  “He’d look like some guy carrying stuff home from the market, but we can use that. He should’ve left the wine. Smug, greedy bastard.”

  “There’s a garden gate,” Roarke pointed out. “Smarter to use that, slip around the side, out the corner, than to go out the front and through the main gates.”

  “Yeah. Good thought.”

  “Sorry it took so long.” Peabody hurried out, puffing a little. “The subway was . . . oh, hi, Roarke.”

  “You can be you,” Eve said to Peabody. “And you can be you,” she said to Roarke.

  “While I’m being me, I’ll give you a few more minutes,” Roarke suggested. “I’ll find the security system, see if there’s anything on it of use to you.”

  “You could do that. The vic is Delaflote, Luc.” Eve began to catch Peabody up. “Fancy private chef, top of his field.”

  “Same pattern. What is that pinning him to the tree?”

  “We believe it’s a harpoon spear.”

  “Like for whales?”

  Eve couldn’t help herself. “Does that look big enough to bother a whale?”