“I’ll tell them it was quick, and she didn’t feel any pain.” He touched a hand to Eve’s arm briefly. “They’ll want to believe me, so they will.”
As she walked back down that white tunnel, she wished she could believe it.
20
EVE HIT THE BULLPEN AT HOMICIDE LIKE A blaster.
“Trueheart.”
He jolted in his seat, then knocked a short stack of file discs to the floor as he sprang to attention. “Sir!”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. I’m going to send you a list of weapons—images, makes, models, ID numbers where applicable. Run them. I want a complete list of vendors, outlets, collectors, and licenses. Cross-reference same with Dudley and Moriarity, personally, through their companies—Dudley and Son and Intelicore, respectively, all arms and locations—and family members, living and dead. Include ex-wives and their family members, living and dead.
“Questions?”
While his eyes were wide enough to swallow Pluto, he shook his head. “Ah . . . no, sir.”
“Good. Baxter.”
He sat as he was, smiled a little. “Yo.”
“Same weapons list. I want names and locations of hunting clubs, hunting and/or fishing venues that allow the use of crossbows and/or harpoon guns. Stick with first-class venues, extreme first-class. On and off planet.”
He straightened now. “You want every one of them in the universe?”
“And when you’ve got them, get the member list or client list. Find Dudley and/or Moriarity. They’ve practiced. More, they’re show-offs. They’ve used those weapons somewhere, sometime.”
“Reineke, Jenkinson, I want your report on the Jonas homicide on my desk ASAP. You’re going to work this case like Adrianne Jonas was your beloved mother. If Dickhead hasn’t tagged the whip yet, chew on his ass until he does. When he does, pass it to Trueheart and Baxter. Meanwhile find bullwhip experts.”
“Experts?” Jenkinson echoed.
“If I hand you a freaking bullwhip are you going to know how to wrap it around somebody’s throat? And do it strong enough to hang her by it? He had to learn somewhere, from someone. Experts, venues, trainers. Find them, contact them, dig until somebody remembers Dudley or Moriarity. Or both. Dig. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jenkinson answered as Reineke gave a thumbs-up.
“Carmichael.” As Eve turned, two voices answered.
“Detective Carmichael,” she specified, and the uniform Carmichael looked faintly disappointed. “I’m going to give you a list of names, invites to Dudley’s alibi party last night.”
“Lieutenant, I’m not caught up with the details and particulars of this investigation.”
“Catch her up,” Eve ordered Peabody. “When you are,” she continued, “contact the names. Both suspects left the premises at some point: Moriarity most likely shortly before twenty-two hundred and likely returned before twenty-three hundred; Dudley between two and two-thirty, returning sometime after three hundred hours. Dudley may have been in the company of the last vic. Find somebody who noticed, somebody who missed them. When you’re done with the guest list, start on the staff, permanent and any hired for the event.
“New guy.” Eve pointed at a young, broad-shouldered man who’d transferred in the days before she’d left for vacation.
“Detective Santiago, Lieutenant.”
“Right. Work with Carmichael.” She tried to think what went into it when Roarke threw a fancy party. “Dudley probably had some valets for parking. Some of the guests likely came and went with private car services. He’d have had catering, servers, people who don’t have any particular reason to be overly loyal. Service providers are invisible to these people, and that’s a vulnerability because they don’t consider those service providers to have the wit to notice, or the balls to talk. Find somebody with wit and balls.”
With one glance she targeted uniforms.
“Newkirk, Ping, the other Carmichael, do whatever the detectives need you to do. Anything pops, anything even breaks the most discreet of wind, I hear about it. Full briefing and all reports in two hours. Conference room . . . Peabody?”
“C.”
“Conference room C, two hours. Sweat,” she ordered. “These cocksuckers are killing people the same way a kid steps on ants. Because they want to see them squish. More, they think we’re stupid, too stupid to bring them down. We’re going to prove them wrong. Peabody, with me.”
Eve headed straight to the AutoChef in her office for coffee, then jerked a thumb at the machine.
“I better not.” Peabody’s voice signaled sincere regret. “I was fading so I took a boost. Now I feel like my eyes are glued open and my nerves are all twitchy. I haven’t found the connection to the last vic and Moriarity.”
“Pass it to Carmichael. Uniform Carmichael. And why do they have to have the same name? One of them needs to change it. Anyway, he’s a vicious bastard on details. And, yeah, you’d find it,” Eve added before Peabody could protest. “But he’ll come with a fresh eye, and without the twitches. Plus I need you on other angles. Hold on a minute.”
She sat, copied the relevant files, and transferred them to the relevant cops.
“French guy’s wine and supplies.”
“Bought in gay Paree.” With so many details crowded in her head, Peabody took out her notebook to keep them straight. “He got the booking five weeks ago.”
“Five weeks. That’s good, that’s a confirmation of long-term planning. Dudley would know Simpson and her family would be in Georgia. She’d have to clear the vacation time in advance, and this is an annual family summer thing. They’d want to lock Delaflote in, had to suss out and plan the alibi, the timing. Probably practiced that, too.”
“Booking was done by e-mail, through what I’ve already checked was a temp account, assigned to Simpson for billing. The vic’s assistant has it listed as a surprise for the husband, for Frost. Intimate, romantic dinner for two, alfresco.”
“The garden. All set up for the garden,” Eve added, nodding.
“Late supper,” Peabody continued. “Delaflote’s travel fee—and he came in on his own shuttle—paid early this week, through Simpson’s account. Delaflote personally shopped for the food supplies and the wine on the day of departure. He has a major interest in a vineyard, and selected three bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé, a bottle of Sauternes, three bottles of champagne. All from the Chateau Delaflote label. I have the vintages for all of them, as the vic kept a kind of spreadsheet for jobs.”
She paused, and pleasure moved onto her face. “And Dallas, as the client hyped this as such a special deal, expense no object, the champagne’s from a limited edition label and vintage. They’re freaking numbered. He took numbers forty-eight, forty-nine, and fifty from the private reserve he kept back for special clients.”
Eve’s smile spread slowly, a reflection of Peabody’s pleasure. “Maybe I do love you.”
“Aww.”
“We find one of those bottles, we’ll nail them with it. Clean that report up. You’ll be presenting that to the ADA and the commander in a couple hours.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Tag Feeney, and tell him when and where. I want a solid report from him for same. I want everybody ready and in the conference room on time. No excuses. I’ll set the commander and Reo for ten minutes after. Brief Carmichael—both of them. I’ll send you a report on Jonas as soon as I put it in order. Now go away. Shut the door.”
Before it shut, she was contacting Whitney’s office. She locked him in, then Reo, then moved onto Mira. If she’d had time, she’d have cheered when the temp came on-screen.
“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Gee, the doctor’s in a session right now.”
“I’m going to send her a number of files, starting now and over the next hour. I need her to give them her immediate attention, and report to conference room C, Homicide Division, with her conclusions, at fourteen hundred and fifteen.”
“Oh, well, golly, I think she has an appointment at—”
“This is priority one. Commander Whitney and an ADA will also be attending. Doctor Mira’s presence is mandatory.”
“Oh, gosh. I’ll cancel her appointment, and—”