“Dudley killed Crampton,” Eve pointed out, “and while he probably fucked her that night, the connection’s with Moriarity. He hired her. His wife. His place.”
“Another kind of switch-off.”
“Yeah, or,” Eve considered as she kept moving, “another flag of friendship. Let me do that for you, pal.”
“It’s not friendship, it’s . . . Mira would have a word for it. A fancy word.”
“Whatever the word, there’s going to be some connection between Dudley and Houston. Maybe back a couple decades, too. Probably where you were going before, when Houston was getting in trouble. Illegals,” Eve said when she turned into Homicide. “Dudley and Moriarity used and I’m betting Dudley, at least, still does. They had to buy them somewhere. Houston used and sold, and they’re all of an age. They might have done a few deals before Houston straightened out.”
She angled it, turned in. “Patrice said their families spent a lot of money greasing palms, keeping them out of jail, off the books. Houston maybe gets busted for a deal, and the deal’s with Dudley say. Dudley’s father has to pony up to keep his son out of it, but he was probably pissed, punished the son some other way.”
“It plays for me. Another pay-it-back factor. Both the vics serviced them in some way,” Peabody proposed, and followed Eve into her office. “Then became successful, got the cache, but still offered services.”
“It could be enough. Both vics played to what Delaughter called their underlayment.” Eve stood, studying the board. Saying nothing, Peabody moved to the AutoChef, programmed two coffees. “Who they are beneath the surface, and now what they can and do command. They bought them then, they buy them now.”
Eve took the coffee, eased a hip onto her desk, continued to study the board. “Who’s going to put them together with an LC they booked in their twenties? That’s what they think. They’re not in her book. And who’d put them together with a limo driver who dealt illegals when they were all hardly more than kids?”
“Even connecting them this way doesn’t lock it in.”
“No, but it will. Another mistake of arrogance—their little private joke.”
“And maybe, like you said, they still use.”
“No maybe about it. Dudley’s got the whole toy store, and he’d never resist taking samples. And with this twisted relationship they have, I’d say Moriarity would share.”
“The sex is another angle. They weren’t in the vic’s book, but they might be in someone else’s.”
Again, Eve shook her head. “Too much ego to pay for sex or more to risk anyone finding out they did. They’re above that, too high on the food chain to have to pay at this stage. Women are supposed to be eager to give it to them. It’s not about sex anyway. It never was. It was, and is, about power, dominance, violence, privilege. Expensive thrills. A man drugs his wife so he can watch his best friend rape her? That’s not about sex. It’s about their own amusement, and still is. About their connection to each other. She was just another knot in the rope that ties them together. They’re fucking soul mates.”
“If they drugged Delaughter so they could share, they could have done it again. If they use sex as a kind of bond.”
“Yeah. They’d be a lot more careful since she found them out. What have you got on the travel?”
“Enough to tell you they’re all over the damn place. They may be based in New York, but they’re not here half the time. Maybe less than half. I’m putting together trips they’ve either taken together or ended up in the same place but traveled separately. They’ve both got private transpo—multiple transpos—so it’s tricky. Added to it they’ve each got homes or villas or pieds-à-terre or however you say it all over. We’re going to have a lot to go through, even keeping it to a year.”
“Send me a chunk of it, and I’ll start scrolling for missing persons or unsolveds.”
She sat at her desk, considered her board. Then contacted Charles Monroe.
“I just sent you an e-mail,” he told her. “We’re looking forward to seeing everyone on Saturday.”
“Saturday . . . right.” What the hell had she done? “Good.”
“And this isn’t about asking if we’d bring potato salad.”
“No. It’s about Ava Crampton. Did she ever mention an incident from her early days. Hired for a threesome, husband and wife. Young, rich. During the book, the husband slips the wife a Whore/Rabbit combo, and adds a friend to the mix. Husband and pal take turns with the wife.”
“No, and she wouldn’t have. She could’ve lost her license, or had it suspended for not reporting the illegals use, particularly if the wife wasn’t aware or in full prior agreement. That would’ve added rape, and Ava could’ve been charged. And that’s a career ender. Reporting it afterward would have covered her, as she’d have had a strong case for participating under duress or out of fear, but it would’ve gone in her file.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“If this happened, how did you find out about it?”
“She told the wife.”
On-screen, he smiled. “That sounds like her. Direct and clean.”
“Give me a quick overview of the husband’s motives. Just a general opinion.”
“Without having the background or dynamics I can’t be anything but general. The use of a rape drug indicates a need or desire to control and debase. By bringing another man into the event, without the wife’s prior knowledge or permission, he expands that control, deepens the debasement while at the same time demonstrating to the other male the female is his property. He can do as he pleases to or with her. Basically he’s saying use her, that’s what she’s here for. By sharing her they make her a kind of commodity, little more than a platter of meat they might split for dinner. It may also be a way of releasing latent homosexuality.”
“By fucking her in tandem, they metaphorically fuck each other.”
“You could put it that way.”
“Interesting. Thanks.”
“Anything I can do.”
For a few moments she sat, letting pieces settle in her mind. After updating her notes she streamlined them into a report, including both interviews, her impressions, the generalized opinion from a sex therapist, and the directions she intended to pursue.
She sent copies to Whitney and Mira.
She updated her murder book, her board, then sat with her feet on her desk, another cup of coffee in her hand, and let it all settle again.
Tonight, she thought, or tomorrow. Not much time before the next round. If the pattern she was seeing was a pattern, Moriarity would be up, which meant the vic would be connected most closely to Dudley’s past, and the lure would be through Dudley and Sons.
“And it could be anyone,” she said aloud.
No, not accurate. The anyone had to be in New York, as both Dudley and Moriarity were in New York. So the target lived here or worked here or was currently visiting here.
The target was important in his or her field—some field of service most probably. Humble beginnings? she considered. Both vics had that in common, starting low on the ladder and climbing high.
Did that play?
Still active in their field. Someone who could be hired or called in, consulted, booked.
Shit.
Someone was going to die because a couple of arrogant whacked-out assholes wanted to bond over blood, and she couldn’t prove it.
No point obsessing about what had yet to happen, she reminded herself. Better to dig into what already had. Opening the file Peabody had sent her, she began a slow, systematic search for death.
She had grids of data on-screen when Peabody stepped back in.
“Dallas.”
Eve looked over in time to catch the Power Bar Peabody tossed at her.
“These are disgusting.”
“Nah. A num-nummy treat. Vending says so. Besides if you’ve generated as many missings and unsolveds as I have, you need the boost.”
“Maybe.” With some reluctance Eve tore the wrapping. Focus had smothered the low-grade headache that now made itself known behind her eyes. She took a bite, winced. “Jesus, what do they put in these things?”