“We should have a contest,” he decided, “to see if you can go, say, two weeks without an on-the-job injury.”
“I was just switching glides.” She cut into the steak. “Minding my own business. And what kind of idiot thinks they’re going to get away with stabbing their ex with a plastic knife in the middle of Cop Central?”
“One who’s only thinking of the satisfaction of the act, not the consequences.”
“Probably toked up,” she muttered. “But not enough he didn’t feel it when I kicked his balls until they tickled his tongue.”
It made him smile to picture it. “Is that what you did?”
“It was the quickest and most satisfying action.”
“That’s my girl.” He toasted her.
“What are you going to do? Asshole with a plastic knife in Cop Central. It’s like . . .”
He knew that look as well, and said nothing to interrupt her train of thought.
“Make that Asshole’s Ex with a plastic knife in Cop Central.”
“All right.”
“Could that be it? Is it just that sick?”
“I can’t say.” Watching her, he sipped his wine. “You tell me.”
“It’s Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel.”
“Hmm.” He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. “Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.”
“Whatever. It’s that game—who was it—McNab or Peabody said something about that game sometime back.”
“Clue.”
“You always know this crap. But yeah, and it sounded interesting, so I brought it up on the comp one day to check it out. And that doesn’t matter.”
“You playing a game on the comp is big news, but I’d say your brainstorm on this is bigger. You’re speculating that Dudley and Moriarity, if indeed they’re in this homicidal partnership, are in fact playing a game.”
“The elements are all screwy—the methods. The weapon, the vic, the kill site. They come off as random kills, connected by the type of each element, which still strikes me as random. So what if it is, what if it is fucking random because they’re elements of a contest, a game, a competition? Or, if not that sick, some sort of deeply disturbed agreement?”
“If so, the question would be why.”
“Why does anyone play a game, enter a contest, compete? To win.”
“Darling, while that viewpoint is one of the reasons you’re not much of a player, many play because they simply enjoy the game or the experience.”
She stabbed another bite of steak. “Losing sucks.”
“I tend to agree, but nonetheless. Your hypothesis is: two respected and high-powered businessmen, with no previous criminal record or reputation for violence have partnered up, not merely to kill, but to kill for . . . sport?”
“Sport.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Look at the vics. Jamal Houston. Neither of the men or their companies used his transpo service. Nothing we’ve uncovered shows any previous connection to him. Peabody’s looking into the remote possibility one of them did use him on the QT—which isn’t probable or logical—and he saw or overheard something, then one or both of them decided to eliminate him. But just look at that convoluted mess. First, one or both had to use a service they didn’t routinely use, which limits their security. Then one or both have to do or say something incriminating, illegal, immoral, whatever, in front of a driver they don’t routinely use.”
She scooped up some of the baked potato she’d already drowned in butter, sampled, then kept talking while she—to Roarke’s mind—buried it in salt.
“Then one or both have to decide to kill him, and chose a method that highlights the crime when, shit, they could’ve hired the hit.”
“Why don’t you just salt the butter and eat it with a spoon?”
“What?”
“Never mind. All right, I agree that scenario doesn’t make sense. It’s too complicated and illogical.”
“That doesn’t even get to Crampton. Neither of them are in her book. Now, maybe one or both of them used her services with another ID, but it’s hard for me to swallow she wouldn’t have made one or both in her vetting process. And if they were using fake ID and getting away with it, why kill her? I’ve got no evidence of blackmail, as in she learned who the client was and tried to shake him down. Which would be stupid and risk her very valuable rep for money when she was already flush, and risk her license when she didn’t have a single blemish on it. Add the method and location, and it’s too showy.”
“Can’t argue. Eat your vegetables.”
She rolled her eyes but ate some asparagus. “There. So, simplify it, break it down to its elements.”
“And you have a game of Clue.”
She circled a finger in the air as she chewed more steak. “Or their version of that sort of thing. Maybe their version of some urban hunt for really big game.”
“Which winds back to why. It’s murder, Eve, and by your supposition the murder of innocent and personally unknown people.”
“People important in their field. People in business or services for the upper rung of the social and financial ladder. I think that’s an element. Maybe that’s part of the why. I don’t know yet.”
“Because anything less isn’t worthy.”
Eve paused with a liberally salted forkful of potato halfway to her mouth. “Worthy.”
“Just trying to follow the trail you’re breaking. You’ve described them both as arrogant, smug, wealthy, privileged, and from my limited knowledge of them I don’t disagree.”
He poured more water in her glass as he expected she’d need to drink like the dying with that much salt in her system.
“They’ve been steeped in that privilege all their lives,” he continued, “and have known only the best, have been able to select the best in every area. That can be a heady experience when you come from nothing. Conversely, it could be a matter of considering what you deserve is only the best, and less isn’t to be tolerated.”
He lifted his wine, gestured before he drank. “Why murder a sidewalk sleeper, for instance? Where’s the shine in that, where’s the prestige? And you’ve no truck with that sort in any case. They’re too far beneath you.”
“But a tony chauffeur service, or the best LC in the city, while beneath you, are still people you would or could utilize.”
“It’s logical.”
“It damn well is,” she agreed. “An unusual weapon, or unique weapon, it adds to the shine.”
“And perhaps the challenge.”
“So does the location. Makes it challenging, and worthy.”
“They’ve each completed their round, if that’s what this is,” Roarke pointed out. “Or bagged their trophy. Maybe that’s the end of it.”
“No. It’s a tie, isn’t it? A tie doesn’t cut it, not in games, in competition, in sports. Ties suck for everybody. There has to be a winner. They have to go to the next round.”
He turned it over in his mind. “They know you’re looking at them, checking alibis, doing background checks. That would add to the flavor, the buzz of it all, if that’s what this is about.”
“They were ready for me.” She nodded to herself as she looked back at both interviews. “See that’s what struck me when I talked to each of them. They were ready with their performance, their script, their play. It was like another kind of round, wasn’t it? A level. Okay, we each qualified in that round, now it’s Beat the Cop time for bonus points. They had to factor that in when they used employee IDs. They had to want that element, too.”
“A bigger bonus that it was you, with your reputation.”
“Add my connection to you. A little more—what’s it—panache.”