“Yes, I do. I certainly do. The man’s an artist, a genius. We’ve—myself, friends, family—hired him many times for events, for special occasions. Why, I dined in his restaurant the last time I was in Paris. How did this happen?”
“I’m not free to give you the details, as yet. As the employer, and a family connection, and now with your personal acquaintance with the victim, I have to ask for your whereabouts last night between the hours of nine and midnight. Obviously you were entertaining,” Eve continued. “If I could have your guest list, even a partial, to verify, it would put that matter aside so we can focus in on viable lines of investigation.”
“Of course, of course. This is such a shock. I’m going to contact our security, and have this checked yet again.”
“I think that would be wise. Again, we’re sorry to disturb you at home, and with such distressing news. Thank you for your time.”
“I’m more than happy to give you my time under these tragic circumstances. This is a terrible business.”
He chose a grim expression this time, and Eve thought he selected his facial reactions the way a man might pick the correct tie.
“I want to contact Meryle, offer my support and sympathy. That won’t be a problem, officially, will it?”
“Not at all. We won’t keep you any longer. If we could have that guest list, or even a handful of names, we’ll get out of your way.”
“Let me just tell Mizzy to make you a copy.” He rose, walked to a house ’link.
“Nice shoes,” Eve said with a casual smile. “The silver accessory gives them some jump, but they look comfortable.”
“Thank you, and they are. Stefani invariably marries comfort and style. Mizzy, would you make a copy of last night’s guest list for Lieutenant Dallas? Yes, dear. Thank you.”
He walked back, picked up his coffee again. “It won’t take a minute. Have you ever dined on Delaflote?” he asked her.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Ah, if you had, you could and would say.” He forgot to look grim or sorrowful as delight twinkled over his face. “I’m surprised Roarke wouldn’t have indulged you.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad since we’ve missed our chance there. Still, I lean toward Italian,” she said, thinking of the pizza she’d shared with Roarke the night before.
Mizzy, yet another red uniform, strode in, brisk on toothpick heels. “Here you are, Lieutenant. The guest list, with contact data. Is there anything else I can do?”
“This should cover it. Thanks again.” Eve rose, held out a hand to Dudley. “Shoot, sorry, lost track. Interview end.”
“Mizzy will show you out. Please keep me up to date on these matters.”
“You’ll be first in line.”
After they’d walked out, gotten into their vehicle, Eve let her own smirk free. “You caught the footwear?”
“Oh, yeah, and now we’ve got them on record, with his murdering feet in them.”
“Murdering feet?”
“Well, he’s a murderer and the feet are attached to him. Solid alibi,” Peabody added. “And the first red-suited bombshell mentioned Moriarity was at the party, so it’s looking like he’ll have one, too.”
“Easy drive from here to the Simpson place. I clocked it at six minutes. Maybe shave off a minute that time of night, but stick with twelve for the round-trip, ten to do the kill, add another two at most to gloat and pack up the wine.”
Eve gave a last glance at the Dudley house in the rearview as she drove away. “Big party, drinks flowing, people wandering around outside, in the house. Who’s going to notice one guest slipping out for under a half hour?”
“It’s a little squishy. But they’re all really rich people, and people of the same type tend to stick together. I bet more than half the people who were there will swear Moriarity was.”
“Then we’d better prove he wasn’t, for at least the time needed to skewer Delaflote. Next, there’s going to be a past connection between the vic and Dudley. We find it. The vic’s got about ten years on him, so they didn’t go to school together. We’ll search the society and gossip shit first. And we dig into the vic, see what he had in common with Dudley. If they traveled to the same places, had any common interests.”
She engaged the dash ’link, contacted Feeney.
“Yo,” he said.
“I’ve got an image of Dudley in the same fucking shoes he wore on Coney Island. Can you compare images, get me a match?”
“Bring it in. Amusement park’s image isn’t pristine, but we ought to be able to give you a solid probability.”
“Heading in now. I’m going to need you and that match later today. I need ammo, and plenty of it, to talk my way into search warrants.”
“We’ll take our best shot. What time later?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
She clicked off. “Book us a conference room.”
“For when?”
“For starting now until I’m damn well finished with it. I need more room to spread this out. I need a bigger board while you’re at it and a second comp, and I need Baxter and Trueheart.”
“I need a million dollars and a smaller ass. I was just throwing that in the pot.” Peabody shrugged off Eve’s snarl, and got to work.
A block from Central her communicator signaled. She used her wrist unit to answer.
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
“No fucking way.”
Obscenities over official communication can result in a reprimand. Report to Central Park, Great Hill Jogging Track. See Detectives Reineke and Jenkinson.
“On what matter?” Eve demanded.
Possible homicide, possible connection to previous ongoing investigations. Urgent request for you from your detectives. Acknowledged.
“Acknowledged. Goddamn it,” she said as soon as she cut off the transmission. “Tag one of those guys now.” Eve cut west, cursing all the way, then headed back uptown.
“Reineke,” Peabody told her, on dash ’link.
“This better be damn good,” Eve warned him.
“We think it’s one of yours, Lieutenant. It looked like a suicide first glance, then when we got here, took a better look, it smelled of homicide. We ran the vic. Adrianne Jonas. She was what they call a facilitator for the rich. They want it, she finds a way to get it. She’s number one, get it?”
Yeah, she thought as her stomach sank. She got it. “Keep going.”
“She’s hanging from a tree right off the track here, by a freaking bullwhip. You don’t see bullwhips every day, and you don’t usually see some skirt in a party dress hanging by one. We figured it fit your vic profile pretty much down the line. Public place, vic considered the tops, screwy weapon.”
“Keep the scene secure.” She swung toward the curb, ignored the blare of horns. “Get the recording to Feeney, get the rest set up. Get what you can started. Run the list, Peabody. Work it. I’ll take this with the detectives on scene.”
“Dallas, how the hell did he do it? How’d he—”
“Just work it. Out. Out, now.”
Peabody had barely slammed the door before Eve hit the sirens, swung out, and headed uptown running hot.
She imagined Adrianne Jonas had been a beauty, but hanging victims just didn’t stay pretty. The whip had bloodied her throat, and she’d had time to claw at the constriction before she’d been yanked off her feet.
She’d lost her shoes, probably from her body jerking, twisting, legs kicking. They lay sparkling in the grass.
“Couple early joggers spotted her, called it in.” Reineke wiggled his thumb toward a pair of women huddled together talking to Jenkinson. “They said some woman hanged herself, and were pretty hysterical. Hard to blame. Uniforms got here, took a gander, and sent out for Homicide to take our sweep. Once we ID’d the vic, got the skinny on her, got a good look at what she’s hanging by, we figured, well, fuck us sideways, this is Dallas’s.”
“Yeah, you figured right. TOD’s going to be early this morning. Not last night. Last night was Moriarity’s round. Dudley just hit his early.”
“You’re on it. About three A.M. We went ahead and established TOD. You wanna talk to the wits? I can tell you we’ve gone round with them. They jog here three times a week, together for safety. They’re both clean. Live in the same building over on Hundred and Fifth.”
“No, if you’ve got their information, spring them. Give me five here, Detective.”