“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 gestured 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.”