Indulgence in Death

  She drank, cleared her throat. “He enjoyed illegals. Many did, and it was recreational. Or it seemed so. Then again, recreation was what he did, what we did, so there was always a little boost of something. And he did pressure me to use, to have fun, not to be so closed in.

  “When he and Sly were together, there was a kind of wildness. And it was appealing at first, exciting at first. But then it got to be too much. Too fast, too hard, too wild because, at the core I wasn’t what I was trying to be.”

  She paused, breathed, and on the arm of the chair Anna continued to sit. A silent wall of support.

  “He started hurting me. Just a little, little accidents—accidents that left bruises, and I started to realize he liked to see me frightened. He’d always soothe me after, but I could see on his face he enjoyed frightening me—accidentally locking me in a dark room, or driving too fast, or holding me under just a bit too long when we went to the beach. And the sex got rough, too rough. Mean.”

  She stared into her iced coffee for a long moment—remembering again, Eve thought—but her hand stayed steady as she lifted the glass to drink.

  “He was so charming otherwise, and so smooth. For a time I thought it was me, that I was too closed in, not open enough to the new or the exciting. But . . .”

  “You didn’t want what he wanted,” Eve prompted. “Or to do what he pressured you to do.”

  “No, I didn’t. It just wasn’t me. I started to realize, more to accept, I was pretending to be something I wasn’t to please him and I knew I couldn’t keep it up. I didn’t want to keep it up,” she corrected. “Once I overheard him and Sly talking about it, laughing at me. I knew I had to break it off, but didn’t know how. My family adored him. He was so charming, so sweet, so perfect. Except for those movements out of the corner of the eye, except for the accidents. So I picked a fight with him, in public, because I was afraid of him. And I maneuvered him into breaking it off. He was so angry, and he said horrible things to me, but every word was a relief because I knew he didn’t want me, and he wouldn’t bother about me. He’d walk away, and I’d be free. He never spoke to me again.”

  She shook her head, let out a short, surprised laugh. “I mean that literally. Never another word. It was as if all those months hadn’t happened. We both attended my cousin’s wedding to Sly, and he didn’t even speak to me, or look at me—not, if you understand me, in a way that was a deliberate snub. It was as if I were invisible, didn’t exist. Never had. I was just no longer there for him. And that was an even bigger relief.”

  They look through you, Roarke has said, and Eve understood exactly what Felicity meant.

  “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Yeah. You have a nice place here, Doctor VanWitt. I bet you have nice kids, and a good husband, work you’re good at and enjoy, friends who matter.”

  “Yes, I do. Yes.”

  Eve rose. “Maybe you were young, maybe you were naive and dazzled and swept. But you weren’t stupid.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, they both are. I believe that.”

  “So do I. He won’t bother you or your family,” Eve promised. “You’re not in his world, and he has no reason to hurt you. I’m going to talk to your cousin.”

  “Will it help if I contact her, tell her some of this?”

  “It might.”

  “Then I will.” Felicity got to her feet, held out a hand. “I hope I helped, but I have to tell you this sort of thing is a lot more exciting, and a lot less emotionally wearing, in a book than it is in real life.”

  “You got that right.”

  14

  PEABODY STAYED QUIET FOR SEVERAL MILES while the lushly green landscape whizzed by.

  “You really don’t think there’s a chance Dudley will go at her, or her family?”

  “Not now, not while he’s into this competition. If he’d wanted to pay her back for dumping him, or maneuvering him into dumping her, he’d have done it before this.” She wanted to talk to Mira, but . . .

  “She wasn’t worthy of him. He was just using her as a toy, then he got tired of her. That’s how it plays in his head. So, just as she said, she stopped existing in his world. She’s not even a blip at this point. If they keep at it, continue to rack up points or however they’re scoring this deal, either one of them could decide to make it personal. But not now.”

  “If it is a competition, how do two men like these two come up with it? Does one of them just say, ‘Hey, let’s have a murder tournament?’ I can almost see that,” Peabody added. “Too much to drink, hanging out, maybe add in some illegals. Things you say or do under the influence that seem so brilliant or funny or insightful, and you’re never going to follow through with clean and sober. But they do, and if this is a contest, they go forward with it, with rules, with, like you said, structure.”

  She shifted, frowned at Eve. “It’s a big deal. Even if it’s just a game to them, it’s a big game. Not just the killing itself, which is way big enough, but the selections—vics, weapons, timing, venue, and cover-your-ass. Do you go into that cold? I mean, if you’re going to compete in a major competition—sports, gaming, talent, whatever, you don’t just jump in, not if you want to win. You don’t jump on a horse to compete for the blue ribbon if you’ve never ridden before, right? Because odds are pretty strong for not only losing, but humiliating yourself in the bargain. I don’t see these guys risking humiliation.”

  “Good.” Excellent, in fact, Eve noted. “Neither do I.”

  “You think they’ve killed before?”

  “I’d bet your ass on it.”

  “Why my ass?” Eyes slitted, Peabody jabbed a finger in the air. “Because it’s bigger? Because it has more padding? That’s hitting below the belt.”

  “Your ass is below your belt. I’d bet mine, too, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Let’s bet Roarke’s ass, because really, in my opinion, of the three of us his is the best.”

  “Fine. We’ll bet all the asses on it. They’ve killed before. Together most likely, impulse, accident, deliberately—that I don’t know yet. But I’d bet Mira’s shrink’s ass that the kill is what turned this corner for them. That, and getting away with it.”

  “Mira has a really nice ass.”

  “I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you think so.”

  “Jeez, don’t tell her I said that.” Peabody’s wince included a defensive hunch of shoulders. “I was just following the theme.”

  “Follow this theme,” Eve suggested. “Probability is high, factoring the prevailing theory is correct, that Dudley and/or Moriarity killed, by accident or design, within the last year. I got an eighty-nine-point-nine when I ran that last night. Take it further into the theme, and assume this is also correct, it’s very likely the kill took place when they were together, and they conspired to cover up the crime. With this success, they opted to create a competition so they could revisit the thrill of that experience.”

  “As whacked as it is, it makes more sense than the ‘Hey, let’s go out and kill people’ idea.”

  “They might’ve been traveling, business, vacation. Both of them spend more time bouncing around than pretending to work in New York. I want to track their travel over the past year, then search for missing persons or unsolved murders, unattended or suspicious deaths in the location during that time frame.”

  “It’s possible they killed someone who wouldn’t be missed.”

  “Yeah, but we start with what we can do. I think there will be two.”

  Peabody nodded slowly. “One for each of them. They’d need to start even. Jesus, it just gets sicker.”

  “And the next round’s coming up.”

  Roarke had no particular fondness for golf. He played rarely, and only as an overture and addendum to business. While he appreciated the mathematics and science of the game, he preferred sports that generated more sweat and risk. Still, he found it simple and satisfying to entertain a business partner with a round, especially when he’d arranged
it to coincide with Dudley’s and Moriarity’s morning tee time.

  He changed from his suit to khakis and a white golf shirt in one of the private dressing areas, then waiting for his guest in one of the lounge sections, passed the time with golfing highlights on the entertainment screen.

  When he spotted Dudley stepping out of a dressing area, he rose and strolled toward the refreshment bar at an angle designed to have their paths crossing. He paused, nodded casually.

  “Dudley.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Roarke. I didn’t know you were a member.”

  “I don’t get in often. Golf’s not really my game,” he said with a shrug. “But I have a business associate in town who’s mad for it. Do you play here often?”

  “Twice a week routinely. It pays to keep the game sharp.”

  “I suppose it does, and as I haven’t when it comes to golf, I doubt I’ll give Su much of a challenge.”

  “What’s your handicap?”

  “Twelve.”

  Roarke watched Dudley smirk, an expression of derision the man didn’t bother to mask. “That’s why it pays to keep the game sharp.”

  “I suppose so. You?”

  “Oh, I run at eight.”

  “I think that’s what Su hits. I should send him along with you. He’d have a better time of it.”

  Dudley let out a short laugh, then signaled. Roarke turned, gave Moriarity another casual nod as he approached.

  “I didn’t know you played here,” Moriarity said when he joined them.

  “Rarely.”

  “Roarke’s entertaining a business associate with a round, though he claims golf isn’t his game.”

  “It’s the perfect way to mix business and pleasure,” Moriarity commented, “if you possess any skill.”

  “What’s one without the other? David.” Roarke turned again, drawing the lean man with the silver-speckled black skullcap of hair into the group. “David Su, Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. David and I have some mutual interests in Olympus Resort, among others.”

  “A pleasure.” David offered his hand to both. “Would Winston Dudley the Third be your father?”

  “He would.”

  “We’re acquainted. I hope you’ll give him my best.”

  “Happy to.” Dudley angled, subtly, giving his shoulder to Roarke. “How do you know him?”

  “Other mutual business interests, and a shared passion for golf. He’s a fierce competitor.”

  “You’ve played him?”

  “Many times. I beat him the last time we played by a single stroke. We have to make arrangements for a rematch.”

  “Maybe I can stand as a surrogate. What do you say, Sly? Shall we make it a foursome?”

  “Why not? Unless Roarke objects.”

  “Not at all.” And that, Roarke thought, couldn’t have been easier.

  Shortly, they stood outside in the breeze surveying the first hole. Dudley smoothed on his golf cap.

  “I met your wife,” he said to Roarke.

  “Did you?”

  “You must have heard about the murder. A limo driver, booked by someone who, it appears, hacked into one of our security people’s accounts. A terrible thing.”

  “Yes, of course. I caught a mention of it on a screen report. I hope that’s not causing you too much trouble.”

  “A ripple.” He dismissed it with a flick of the wrist as he took his driver from the caddy. “She did me a service when she uncovered a scam being run by two of my employees.”

  “Really. Not connected to the murder?”

  “Apparently not. Just something she came across while looking into the compromised account. I should send her flowers.”

  “She’d consider it her job, and nothing more.”

  Dudley took a few practice swings. “I assumed, from reading Nadine Furst’s book, you were more involved in her work.”

  Roarke flashed an easy grin. “It plays well that way in a book, doesn’t it? Still, the Icove business had some real meat, and certainly interest in it has proven to have considerable legs. A dead limo driver, even with that loose connection to you, isn’t quite as . . . sensational.”

  “The media seems to find it meaty enough.” Turning his back on Roarke, he set at the tee.

  Annoyed, Roarke thought, and wasn’t surprised to find himself largely ignored by both men. Su was more of an interest to them as his blood was bluer and truer than an upstart from the Dublin alleyways.

  He had no doubt they’d never have spoken above two words to him, much less arranged a golf foursome, if not for their belief he had the inside track on Eve’s investigation. Now that he’d indicated otherwise, he was of no particular interest.

  The space they provided gave him the opportunity to observe them.

  They cheated, he noted, and by the fifth hole he’d deciphered their codes and signals. Smooth and subtle, he concluded, and very well practiced.

  They were a bloody pas de deux, he thought.

  Midway through the course Roarke and Su opted to send their cart ahead and walk to the next hole.

  The temperatures hadn’t yet reached their peak, and on the tree-lined green in Queens, with the occasional breeze to stir the air, the heat was pleasant enough.

  And the walk, as far as Roarke was concerned, provided more entertainment than bashing at a little white ball with a club.

  “They’re disrespectful to you,” Su said, “in the most polite of ways.”

  “That doesn’t concern me.”

  But Su shook his head. “They wear their rudeness as comfortably as their golf shoes.”

  “I expect they put more thought into the shoes. The rudeness is simply second nature.”

  “So it appears.” He gave Roarke a curious look as they walked. “In the years we’ve done business together, you’ve indulged me in a round of golf, which you dislike, but this is the first time you’ve arranged a foursome in this way. Which you did,” Su continued, “by maneuvering Dudley into suggesting it.”

  “One of the reasons I like doing business with you, David, is you see clearly no matter how thick the bullshit.”

  “A skill we share. And so seeing, I think you have other concerns here.”

  “You’d be right. It was an opportunity to ask your opinion, as you know Dudley’s father. What do you think of the son?”

  “That he and his friend aren’t the sort I would play golf with as a rule.”

  “Because they cheat.”

  Su stopped, narrowed his eyes. “Do they? I wondered. But why would they risk censure by the club for a casual game? We have no bet.”

  “For some, winning’s more important than the play.”

  “Will you report them?”

  “No. That doesn’t concern me either. I’m happy to let them win this game, in their way, as there’s a bigger one they’ll lose. This game was, for me, a way to observe, and a chance to add to their sense of entitlement, overconfidence. Should I apologize for drawing you into it?”

  “Not if you’ll give me more details.”

  “As soon as I can. How well do you know Dudley’s father?”

  “Well enough to tell you the father is disappointed in the son. And I see now he has cause.” Su sighed. “It’s a pity you don’t put more time and effort into your golf game. You have a natural ability and an excellent form, without the interest. If you had it, I think even with the cheating we could beat them.”

  Well then, Roarke mused, he was here to entertain an associate. “I can make it harder for them to cheat.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Hmm.” Roarke slipped a hand into his pocket, tapped his PPC, which boasted a number of off-the-market modifications. “In fact, it might be more to the point of the exercise to do just that. The game itself, David, will be mostly on you, but I’ll put myself into it with more . . . interest from this point.”

  Su’s smile spread sharp and fierce. “Let’s bury the bastards.”

  Eve turned toward the bullpen a
t Homicide as Baxter and Trueheart walked out.

  “You’ve got a Patrice Delaughter looking for you,” Baxter told her. “We put her in the Lounge.”

  “Huh. Word spreads fast.”

  “It does. Such as looking forward to Saturday.”

  “Appreciate the invitation, Lieutenant,” Trueheart added.

  “Right. Good. Peabody—”

  “Listen, Trueheart’s too shy to ask, but I’m not. Can the boy bring a date?”

  “I don’t care,” Eve said as Trueheart turned light pink and hunched his broad shoulders. “I guess that means you want to bring one, too.”

  “Actually no.” Baxter grinned. “A date means I’d have to pay attention to somebody, and it’s going to be all about me, brew, and cow meat. We’re due in court.” Baxter tapped a finger to his temple and strode toward the glide.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. Casey’s going to be really excited about Saturday. Um, can we bring something?”

  “Like what?”

  “A dish?”

  “We have dishes. We have lots of dishes.”

  “He means food,” Peabody interpreted. “Don’t worry about it, Trueheart. They’ve got plenty of that, too.”

  “Why would somebody bring food when they’re coming to your place to eat?” Eve wondered when Trueheart hurried after Baxter.

  “It’s a social nicety.”

  “There are too many of those, and who started them? It’s like dresses and suits.”

  “It is?”

  “Never mind. I’ll take Delaughter. Write up the interview with VanWitt, and start digging into the travel.”

  “All over it.”

  Eve headed into the Lounge with its simple, sturdy tables, vending offerings, and smell of bad coffee and meat substitute. A scatter of cops took a short break there, or conducted informal interviews.

  No one would mistake the woman at the corner table for a cop. A mass of wavy red hair with golden highlights spilled past her shoulders in a fiery waterfall. It tumbled around a porcelain face dominated by bold green eyes, such was the family resemblance to her cousin.