“The kill didn’t take more than five or ten minutes from the time he came through the gates.”
She circled one last time. “I want the timing locked down, and we’re going to find out where Moriarity was last night, if they have the nerve to start alibiing each other. Let’s go see Dudley.”
“He’s connected to the owners,” Peabody pointed out. “So, sticking to pattern, he’ll have an alibi.”
“Yeah. I want to know what it is. I want to contact them first, the owners. We need to confirm they didn’t hire the vic. The vic’s got to have an admin or assistant. Track them down, get the setup. How he was hired, how it was arranged, how he traveled. And the supplies. Did he bring them with him, and if so, where he got them. Lock down the wine. It’s going to be key.”
“Then what?”
“Then we put it all together, every step, every layer, every angle.” She felt her anger struggle to rise up, and hardened it into sheer resolve. “We’re going to put on a fucking show, Peabody, because we have to convince Whitney, the PA, and anybody else who needs convincing to issue search warrants. I want to tear these bastards’ houses, offices, playgrounds, clubrooms, and pieds-à-goddamn-terre apart.”
It was probably small, and hardly relevant, for Eve to feel such cold satisfaction when she noted Roarke’s house could’ve swallowed Dudley’s whole, then spit it out again.
It was nothing to sneeze at. From the looks of it, it had likely been a smallish hotel pre-Urbans. Someone with vision had redesigned it and turned it into a mini estate too sleek and modern for her taste.
Or, she supposed, the taste she’d developed over the past few years.
The windows, coated with a silver sheen for privacy, tossed back shimmering reflections of the city Dudley could smirk at from the other side. He’d opted for stone and metal sculptures rather than plantings at the entrance.
She supposed they were somebody’s idea of high art, but that somebody wasn’t her.
Security put her through the usual paces before a young, shapely woman in a snug red uniform opened the door.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Mr. Dudley will be with you shortly. He apologizes for the wait. He entertained last night, quite late.”
She gestured them into the wide foyer done up in silvers and red, slashes of black, and into a large living space where the walls alternated between glossy white and glossy black, and the floor formed a kind of chessboard of the same colors.
Furniture, and too much of it, gleamed in jewel tones Eve decided would make her eyes ache after twenty minutes.
“If you’d wait in here. I’ve already ordered coffee. Mr. Dudley will be with you as soon as possible.”
“So he had a party last night?”
“Yes.” The woman smiled brightly, showing perfect and whiterthan-white teeth. “A garden party. Such a lovely night for it. I don’t think the last guest left till nearly four this morning.”
“Some people just don’t know when to go home.”
Red Uniform’s laughter was as bright as her smile. “I know what you mean, but Mr. Dudley didn’t mind, I’m sure. Mr. Moriarity’s such a dear friend.”
Eve’s answering smile edged thin. “I bet.”
“I’ll just go check on your coffee.”
Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak. “I got about two hours of sleep last night myself,” she said and wandered to the windows, let out a yawn. “Couldn’t that gardener have started work at a decent hour? It’s not like the dead French guy was going anywhere.”
“I didn’t tell you about the subway deal this morning,” Peabody said, playing along. “Some sort of snafu, so I had to get off a station early and hoof it the rest of the way to the scene.”
“Screwed-up days always seem to start early. The media’s going to be all over this last murder, and the commander’s going to want us to toss them something.”
“At least the media hasn’t connected the first two. Maybe they won’t go there yet.”
“We’ve been lucky. Luck doesn’t last.”
Another woman, again young, curvy, dressed in red, wheeled in a coffee service and a silver basket of muffins.
“Please help yourself. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Be sure to try a muffin. Celia baked them this morning.”
Eve eyed the basket when the second red uniform clipped out. “I guess Celia didn’t go to the party.”
“I can have a muffin,” Peabody decided. “I had a morning power walk.”
As she chose one, Dudley came in.
He looked bright-eyed, in Eve’s opinion. Maybe just a little too bright, the sort that came from a little chemical boost. No suit today, she noted, but a rich guy’s casual wear. And the fucker was wearing the loafers, the shoes he’d worn when he’d killed Ava Crampton.
“This is an unexpected morning treat.” He beamed at them. “I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve found whoever killed that driver the other night.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Ah, well. I suppose these things take time.”
He poured himself coffee, added three little squares of brown sugar, then sat comfortably on a chair the color of a nuclear sapphire.
“What can I do for you, ladies?”
“I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you so early in the day,” Eve began, “and after, we’re told, you had a late night.”
“Wonderful party. Actually, I’m feeling very up this morning. Evenings like that are so stimulating.”
“That kind of thing wears me out, but it takes all kinds.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news,” Eve continued. “Would you object if I recorded this? And I’ll need to read you your rights. It’s official, a formality, and it would keep the record clean.”
“Not at all.”
“I appreciate that.” Eve engaged her recorder, and noticed Dudley’s eyes got just a little brighter. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, in interview with Dudley, Winston, the Fourth, in his home.” She read off the Revised Miranda. “Mr. Dudley, you employ a Meryle Simpson, correct?”
“Yes, she’s our CEO of Marketing. And a family connection . . . convolutely. No, don’t tell me something’s happened to her. I thought she and her family were away for a while.”
“They are. However, her ID, her company credit information, and her home were used in a homicide.”
“This just can’t be.” He braced his head in his hand, closed his eyes. “Not again.”
“I’m afraid it can be. It’s possible her information was compromised before your recent security checks. If not, you still have a problem.”
“It’s a nightmare.” He breathed it out, brushed a hand over his white-blond hair. “I have to assure you Meryle couldn’t be involved. She’s not only a trusted member of the Dudley team, but family.”
“We have no reason to believe she’s involved. I spoke with her and her husband this morning, and informed them of the incident. Also I advised them there’s no need for them to return to New York at this time, but I believe Mr. Frost intends to do so, to reassure them both their house is in order.”
“Yes, he’s a very responsible sort. What a terrible thing.” He aimed a sorrowful look in Eve’s direction. “Their home, you say?”
“That’s right. Ms. Simpson’s name and information were used to engage the services of a private chef. A Luc Delaflote, from Paris.”
“Delaflote!”
Dudley pressed a spread hand to his heart. Eve wondered if he’d practiced the gesture and the shocked expression in the mirror.
“No. My God, was he the victim? Is he dead?”
“You know him?”