Indulgence in Death (19 page)

“Okay.” Eve wondered if that was corporate speak for Dudley’s getting shuffled around, enjoying a variety of travel and partying while his father kept him on the payroll. They stepped out of the elevator into a spacious reception area, stylishly decorated with white lounging chairs equipped with miniscreens. Among the flowers, the refreshment bar, the conversation areas, three attractive women busily worked on comps.

Marissa knocked briskly—brisk seemed to be her mode—on one of the center double doors before tossing them both open.

Winston Dudley’s office was more along the lines of a snazzy hotel suite—lush and plush, staggering view, sparkling chandeliers.

A great deal of furniture helped fill the space, artfully arranged in conversational groups. He rose from behind a desk with a black mirrored surface.

He was more attractive in person than the ID shot. Eve put it down to what people called charisma—the way he smiled as he looked you directly in the eye, the way he moved, smooth as a dancer. Just a hint of flirtation in that move, that smile, those eyes, she thought—the sort that said, you’re a desirable woman, and I appreciate desirable women.

Avid eyes, she mused, that made her wonder if he’d recently sampled some of his own products.

His hair, so blond as to be nearly white, was swept back from a delicately boned face. Almost feminine, she mused. The features weren’t quite as sharp as Urich’s, but close.

His suit fit perfectly in a color she thought of as indigo. Old-fashioned links glinted at the cuffs of his pale blue shirt. His ID data, and her visual scan, put him at five feet ten and a half inches, weighing in at one-seventy.

Again, in Urich’s ballpark.

His shoes were as black and shiny as his desk, and sported no silver trim.

He took Eve’s hand, a firm grip, soft skin, and held it two flirtatious seconds after the shake.

“Lieutenant Dallas. I hoped we’d meet, but under different circumstances. I hope Roarke is well.”

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“And Detective Peabody, a pleasure.” He took her hand. “I recently finished Nadine Furst’s book. I feel I know both of you. Please sit down. Black coffee,” he said as Marissa lifted a tray, “coffee regular.” He tapped the side of his head. “Those details from the book stick. Thanks, Marissa. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

He sat on one of the wide chairs, laid his forearms on the wide arms. “I know you’re here about the murder of the driver, and our own Augustus Sweet. It’s very distressing. What can I do to help?”

“You can tell me where you were on the night in question.”

His eyes widened, briefly, then lit with fun. “Really? I’m a suspect?”

“It’s routine, Mr. Dudley—”

“Please, Winnie.”

“It’s routine, and just helps us cross things off the list.”

“Of course. I was at a dinner party with a number of friends in Greenwich—Connecticut, that is. I believe my date and I arrived at just before eight, and left around midnight. I’ll have Marissa give you the names and location. Will that do?”

“Works for me. How’d you get there?”

“My driver. I have a private car and driver. I’ll get you that information as well.”

“Good enough.” She walked him through a few standard questions—did he know the victim, had he used their services, tossed in a few more relating to Sweet.

“I have to tell you we’ve just arrested and charged two of your employees.”

“Good God, for the murder? Who—”

“No, on an unrelated matter. Mitchell Sykes and Karolea Prinz. They’ve been skimming some of your products, selling them.”

He sat back, arranged his face into sober lines. “I’d like more information on this. It’s very upsetting. This shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, I need to have meetings with my department heads, Security, Inventory. I owe you a debt.”

“No, we did our job. Another unrelated matter, just crossing off. Are you acquainted with Sylvester Moriarity?”

“Sly? Yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Why?”

“Just covering bases. Was he at this dinner party?”

“No. He’s not particularly friendly with the hosts, and it was a close-knit group.”

“Okay. Thanks for the time, the coffee.” She got to her feet, smiled as he rose. “Oh, just to tidy up. How about last night? Can you tell me where you were?”

“Yes. I had drinks with a friend about five, then went home. I wanted a quiet evening, and very much wanted to finish the book. The Icove case. Just fascinating.”

“So, nobody came by?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“Just the opposite. It was one of those nights I wanted to myself. I’m curious as to why you’d want to know?”

“I’m nosy. Part of being a cop. Thanks again.”

“You’re more than welcome, both of you. Let me walk you out, and have Marissa get you the information you need. I hope we’ll see each other again, when it’s not work related.”

Marissa had the data at her fingertips—almost, Eve thought, as if she’d been told to have it there. In the elevator, Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak.

“Good coffee.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“It helps when you get that kind of cooperation.” Eve leaned negligently against the side wall. “Saves time. I want you to check out the driver, and the dinner party, just so we can put it aside. We have to log it in, even though it’s obvious he didn’t book that limo or kill Houston. So . . . what’re you and McNab up to tonight?”

Peabody’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Ah, well, we thought we might catch a vid unless we’re on OT.”

“Probably wrap up shift on time.”

She moved across the lobby, outside. She didn’t speak again until she was behind the wheel and driving away.

“Slick bastard.”

“Yeah, I was going to say—”

“And if that elevator isn’t monitored, eyes and ears, I’m having an affair with Summerset.”

“You’re—oh. Damn, sure it is.”

“Lobby might be, too.”

“You didn’t really want to know what McNab and I were doing tonight?”

“Why the hell would I care? He’s slick,” she repeated.

“He is, but he didn’t kill Houston. And he didn’t have an alibi for The Night of the Shoe.”

Eve snorted out a laugh. “Good one. That’s right, and he’s also five ten, and a little heavier than Urich. What else did we get out of that?”

“The connection you wanted between the two companies. Just call me Winnie and Sly. Good pals. It’s the first real link we’ve found.”

“That’s right. Top-level connection. What else did we get?”

“Okay, what?”

“Who wasn’t at the famous dinner party two nights ago when Jamal Houston was getting a crossbow through the neck?”

“Sylvester Moriarity? You’re thinking . . . Like that case a while back. Where the two women killed the other’s husbands? They each took one? But why?”

“Don’t know. But it’s an interesting angle. Track down Sly, and let’s go see if he’s as slick as Winnie.”

WHILE THE TONE OF DUDLEY AND SON HIT modern and angular on the nose, Intelicore adorned itself in the heavy and ornate. Lots of curves and curlicues, Eve noted, big-ass urns, plenty of gilt.

Contacting the company en route had paved the way, and pretty damn smoothly, straight to the hallowed halls of Sylvester—The Third’s—offices.

Like his counterpart at Dudley, he reigned on the top floor, or floors in this case, as a sweep of marble steps joined the office space to what Moriarity’s admin explained were his private quarters.

They were served coffee from a silver pot and invited to wait while The Third concluded a meeting. Left alone with Peabody, Eve scanned the office area.

Fancy taste, a love of excess—well, that could have described Roarke, she mused. Except he went in for that more at home than at work. The big, carved desk held court in front of triple windows—privacy screened—and held the expected data-and-communication center as well as mementos, an antique clock, a painted box.

Thick rugs, age-faded, spread over the floor while lights with colorful glass shades adorned tables with curved legs. Art, likely worth a mid-sized fortune, covered the walls.

Moriarity strode in, exuded the aura of a busy man—sharp movements in a sharp suit. His angular, thin-lipped face held a golden tan, and with his sun-streaked hair tousled, his eyes of bright, bold green, he gave the impression of action, athleticism.

He offered Eve a firm, perfunctory handshake, then nodded to Peabody.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. Last night’s incident required a departmental meeting. I hope you have an update on the event.”

“The Crampton murder is an open and active investigation. Evidence supports that Foster Urich’s identification and credit line were compromised by the person responsible for Ava Crampton’s death.”

“Then he’s not a suspect.”

“At this time we believe Mr. Urich was at home, in the company of a friend, when Crampton was killed.”

Moriarity nodded. “If Foster says he was home, he was home. I can and do vouch for his honesty without hesitation. He’s a valued part of this company.”

“For the record, Mr. Moriarity, where were you last night between nine P.M. and one A.M.?”

His jaw went tight, drawing those thin lips into a harsh frown. “I fail to see how that could be of interest to you in this matter.”

“It’s a matter of routine and information gathering. Your employee’s identification was used, your company car service was used, your company credit line was used, all in connection with a homicide. You are head of the company, are you not, Mr. Moriarity?”

“My position hardly—” He cut himself off, held up a hand. “It’s not important in any case. I entertained a small group of friends in my box at the opera. We had cocktails prior in a private room at Shizar, then walked the two blocks to the Met for the performance. Afterward we gathered for a late supper at Carmella. This would have been from approximately six-thirty last night to after one this morning.”

“It would help our records if we could have the names in your party.”

His eyes bored into hers. “It’s difficult enough to have any sort of connection with a murder. Now you’ll contact my personal friends to verify my word? It’s insulting.”

“Murder’s a nasty business for everybody.”

Now the muscles in his jaw twitched as he reached into his pocket for an appointment book. “I don’t care for your demeanor, Lieutenant.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No doubt.” He rattled off a series of names and contacts while Peabody scrambled to key the information into her notebook.

“Thank you. Do you have any idea, any speculations as to how Urich’s identification was compromised?”

“I just completed a meeting on that subject, and have ordered a full company screening and internal investigation.”

“You believe the compromise came from inside the company.”

He took a sharp breath in and out of his nose. “If it didn’t our security is lacking, and security is the core of my company. If it did, our employee screening is lacking, and we are in the business of screening. So either way we require our own investigation.”

“I hope you’ll keep us informed of your progress and findings.”

“Believe me, Lieutenant, when we find how this was done, and by whom, we will notify you. I will not have Intelicore’s reputation smeared in this matter. Now, I have another meeting, with our public relations division. We have a media crisis on our hands with this. So if there’s nothing else at the moment . . .”

“Thank you for your time. If you could take another moment of it, and verify your whereabouts night before last, between seven P.M. and midnight, it would be very helpful.”

Color flared in his cheeks. “That’s simply outrageous.”

“It may seem so, Mr. Moriarity, but we’re pursuing a line of investigation, and it would benefit us as well as you and your company if we had that information on record.”

“I was at home that evening, if you must know. I had a headache, took some medication, and went to bed early. Am I under arrest?”

Eve answered in kind. “Not at this time. I apologize for the inconvenience, and the intrusion, but we have a body in the morgue with a connection to your company. We owe it to her to be thorough. Again, thank you for your time. Peabody, with me.”

In the elevator, Peabody cleared her throat. “I guess it’s understandable he’s upset, but we’re just doing our job.”

Eve shrugged. “He can be an asshole, as long as we have the information. Check out the alibi so we can cross him off.”

“Yes, sir. So . . . what are you and Roarke up to tonight?”

Amused, Eve cocked an eyebrow. “No plans. I’ll probably be working late anyway. I’m going to sit hard on EDD. We’ve got a hacker out there somewhere who likes to kill people. They need to find the source.”

Outside, Peabody slid into the passenger’s seat. “He’s not going to like you calling him an asshole, if he was listening.”

“Oh, he was listening, and he expected the asshole, or some similar insult. He played for it. Dudley goes slick, this one goes sharp.”

“You think that was an act.”

“At least some of it.” She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she drove. “If they’re in this, and if they’re in it together, what’s the point? What’s the purpose? I tell you this, they’re too clever for their own good. Each of them alibied tight for one night, home alone on the other. Switch-off. But why? What’s the root?”

“What if Houston driving that night was rigged. It looks random, but what if the killer knew, or maybe played the odds it would be Houston?”

“It doesn’t feel that way, but okay.” Flip of the coin, Eve thought, but then again fifty-fifty odds weren’t bad. “Keep going.”

“One of these guys has some connection to Houston. Could be way back when the vic was getting in fights, in trouble. Could be more recent. Houston sees something he’s not supposed to see, hears something he’s not supposed to hear. He’s a driver, an overheard conversation, an exchange of money for illegal goods. Whatever. With the LC, it could’ve been jealousy, unrequited passion.”