“Not now, not while he’s into this competition. If he’d wanted to pay her back for dumping him, or maneuvering him into dumping her, he’d have done it before this.” She wanted to talk to Mira, but . . .
“She wasn’t worthy of him. He was just using her as a toy, then he got tired of her. That’s how it plays in his head. So, just as she said, she stopped existing in his world. She’s not even a blip at this point. If they keep at it, continue to rack up points or however they’re scoring this deal, either one of them could decide to make it personal. But not now.”
“If it is a competition, how do two men like these two come up with it? Does one of them just say, ‘Hey, let’s have a murder tournament?’ I can almost see that,” Peabody added. “Too much to drink, hanging out, maybe add in some illegals. Things you say or do under the influence that seem so brilliant or funny or insightful, and you’re never going to follow through with clean and sober. But they do, and if this is a contest, they go forward with it, with rules, with, like you said, structure.”
She shifted, frowned at Eve. “It’s a big deal. Even if it’s just a game to them, it’s a big game. Not just the killing itself, which is way big enough, but the selections—vics, weapons, timing, venue, and cover-your-ass. Do you go into that cold? I mean, if you’re going to compete in a major competition—sports, gaming, talent, whatever, you don’t just jump in, not if you want to win. You don’t jump on a horse to compete for the blue ribbon if you’ve never ridden before, right? Because odds are pretty strong for not only losing, but humiliating yourself in the bargain. I don’t see these guys risking humiliation.”
“Good.” Excellent, in fact, Eve noted. “Neither do I.”
“You think they’ve killed before?”
“I’d bet your ass on it.”
“Why my ass?” Eyes slitted, Peabody jabbed a finger in the air. “Because it’s bigger? Because it has more padding? That’s hitting below the belt.”
“Your ass is below your belt. I’d bet mine, too, if it makes you feel better.”
“Let’s bet Roarke’s ass, because really, in my opinion, of the three of us his is the best.”
“Fine. We’ll bet all the asses on it. They’ve killed before. Together most likely, impulse, accident, deliberately—that I don’t know yet. But I’d bet Mira’s shrink’s ass that the kill is what turned this corner for them. That, and getting away with it.”
“Mira has a really nice ass.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you think so.”
“Jeez, don’t tell her I said that.” Peabody’s wince included a defensive hunch of shoulders. “I was just following the theme.”
“Follow this theme,” Eve suggested. “Probability is high, factoring the prevailing theory is correct, that Dudley and/or Moriarity killed, by accident or design, within the last year. I got an eighty-nine-point-nine when I ran that last night. Take it further into the theme, and assume this is also correct, it’s very likely the kill took place when they were together, and they conspired to cover up the crime. With this success, they opted to create a competition so they could revisit the thrill of that experience.”
“As whacked as it is, it makes more sense than the ‘Hey, let’s go out and kill people’ idea.”
“They might’ve been traveling, business, vacation. Both of them spend more time bouncing around than pretending to work in New York. I want to track their travel over the past year, then search for missing persons or unsolved murders, unattended or suspicious deaths in the location during that time frame.”
“It’s possible they killed someone who wouldn’t be missed.”
“Yeah, but we start with what we can do. I think there will be two.”
Peabody nodded slowly. “One for each of them. They’d need to start even. Jesus, it just gets sicker.”
“And the next round’s coming up.”
Roarke had no particular fondness for golf. He played rarely, and only as an overture and addendum to business. While he appreciated the mathematics and science of the game, he preferred sports that generated more sweat and risk. Still, he found it simple and satisfying to entertain a business partner with a round, especially when he’d arranged it to coincide with Dudley’s and Moriarity’s morning tee time.
He changed from his suit to khakis and a white golf shirt in one of the private dressing areas, then waiting for his guest in one of the lounge sections, passed the time with golfing highlights on the entertainment screen.
When he spotted Dudley stepping out of a dressing area, he rose and strolled toward the refreshment bar at an angle designed to have their paths crossing. He paused, nodded casually.
“Dudley.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “Roarke. I didn’t know you were a member.”
“I don’t get in often. Golf’s not really my game,” he said with a shrug. “But I have a business associate in town who’s mad for it. Do you play here often?”
“Twice a week routinely. It pays to keep the game sharp.”
“I suppose it does, and as I haven’t when it comes to golf, I doubt I’ll give Su much of a challenge.”
“What’s your handicap?”
“Twelve.”
Roarke watched Dudley smirk, an expression of derision the man didn’t bother to mask. “That’s why it pays to keep the game sharp.”
“I suppose so. You?”
“Oh, I run at eight.”
“I think that’s what Su hits. I should send him along with you. He’d have a better time of it.”
Dudley let out a short laugh, then signaled. Roarke turned, gave Moriarity another casual nod as he approached.
“I didn’t know you played here,” Moriarity said when he joined them.
“Rarely.”
“Roarke’s entertaining a business associate with a round, though he claims golf isn’t his game.”
“It’s the perfect way to mix business and pleasure,” Moriarity commented, “if you possess any skill.”
“What’s one without the other? David.” Roarke turned again, drawing the lean man with the silver-speckled black skullcap of hair into the group. “David Su, Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. David and I have some mutual interests in Olympus Resort, among others.”
“A pleasure.” David offered his hand to both. “Would Winston Dudley the Third be your father?”
“He would.”
“We’re acquainted. I hope you’ll give him my best.”
“Happy to.” Dudley angled, subtly, giving his shoulder to Roarke. “How do you know him?”
“Other mutual business interests, and a shared passion for golf. He’s a fierce competitor.”
“You’ve played him?”
“Many times. I beat him the last time we played by a single stroke. We have to make arrangements for a rematch.”
“Maybe I can stand as a surrogate. What do you say, Sly? Shall we make it a foursome?”
“Why not? Unless Roarke objects.”
“Not at all.” And that, Roarke thought, couldn’t have been easier.
Shortly, they stood outside in the breeze surveying the first hole. Dudley smoothed on his golf cap.
“I met your wife,” he said to Roarke.
“Did you?”
“You must have heard about the murder. A limo driver, booked by someone who, it appears, hacked into one of our security people’s accounts. A terrible thing.”
“Yes, of course. I caught a mention of it on a screen report. I hope that’s not causing you too much trouble.”
“A ripple.” He dismissed it with a flick of the wrist as he took his driver from the caddy. “She did me a service when she uncovered a scam being run by two of my employees.”
“Really. Not connected to the murder?”
“Apparently not. Just something she came across while looking into the compromised account. I should send her flowers.”
“She’d consider it her job, and nothing more.”
Dudley took a few practice swings. “I assumed, from reading Nadine Furst’s book, you were more involved in her work.”
Roarke flashed an easy grin. “It plays well that way in a book, doesn’t it? Still, the Icove business had some real meat, and certainly interest in it has proven to have considerable legs. A dead limo driver, even with that loose connection to you, isn’t quite as . . . sensational.”