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 door, 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?”
“But a harpoon’s for whales, right? Like in that book with the crazy guy and the ship and the whale. With the other guy named Isaac or Istak or . . . wait a minute . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open. “Ishmael. Call me Ishmael.”
“Any guy who goes out in a ship with a spear to take on a whale’s automatically crazy. And I’m going to stick with calling you Peabody. This deal is, most likely, from a harpoon gun, which propels it. It’s used for fish and for killing fancy French chefs.”
Lips pursed, Peabody studied Delaflote. “It works.”