Indulgence in Death (15 page)

His eyes narrowed, blue lightning, as she’d expected. “It’s early days yet, Lieutenant.”

“What about general park security? Have we picked her up there?”

“I’m all over that.” McNab plopped down, swiveled to a unit. “We’ve got her coming in. Limo pulls up here, see? Driver gets out.”

“Yeah, got her name. We’ll talk to her.”

“Vic gets out—some legs. Walks straight to the entrance for scan.”

“She’s looking around for him,” Eve added. “Waiting just past the scanners, looking around. There, she spots him. See how she puts on the big smile, gives the hair a toss, starts forward.”

“Yeah, and we hit another blip. Just a few seconds. Zap, zap. I’ve run through with her image as focal, picked up a couple more blips. When you cross them with the layout, you can basically follow them straight to the spook house.”

“He didn’t waste any time.”

“And he knew the layout,” Roarke added. “Of the park, and its security.

“But he missed just a nanosecond. Going into the spook house. Switching from jamming the outer cam and the inner. We’ve got a piece of him.”

She saw the partial profile, the shoulder, the side of the body as the killer stepped in, one hand lifted, palm on the back of the white dress Crampton had worn, the other in his pocket.

“Just the face, enhance it.”

McNab ordered the computer.

“Facial hair—you catch the side of a beard. Wearing the hair long. Looks heavier than Urich. A few pounds. It’s not him, but from what we can see there’s enough resemblance to his ID shot to have fooled her. She’s expecting this guy, and he’s likely told her what he’d be wearing, maybe how he’d grown the beard, the hair, gained a little weight. She saw what she’d been prepped to see. How much more can we get from this?”

“I’m working on a composite. We can get a solid spec from this. We’ve got the shape of his face, part of one eye, basic jawline.”

“The beard’s going to be fake. He’s got to convince her he’s Urich, so he’s got to have something to mask some features. Get me a composite with and without.”

“On it.”

“Tiny little mistake. He’s excited, and he slipped up, just a little bit. He’s going to be about Urich’s height. Could be wearing lifts, but he’s going to be about his height. He could be wearing some padding to add weight, but that doesn’t play for me. He’d want to be as close to Urich as possible, so he’s a little heavier, carries more pounds. Give me the shoe.”

McNab blinked, shrugged. “Okay.”

“Enhance.”

She narrowed her eyes. “They’re—what do you call them—loafers. Dark brown, look expensive. Let’s get a make on them.”

“Taught her everything she knows,” Feeney said to Roarke. “Nice play.”

“He likes good shoes,” Eve continued, “and he can afford them. Why wear expensive shoes to a murder at an amusement park?”

“Not everyone is as dismissive of good footwear as you, darling.”

She turned a beady eye on Roarke. “No darlings from civilians. Sneaks or skids make more sense. You can move faster if you have to. It’s Coney freaking Island. It’s a playground. But he wears good shoes. He’s vain, and he likes expensive, exclusive. Or maybe he’s just used to them. He’s going to kill her, but he wants her to notice he’s got good taste and the dough to float it.

“Keep at it,” she told McNab. “I need a minute with you.” She crooked a finger at Roarke as she walked out.

When he’d followed her out, Roarke wrapped a light grip around the finger she’d crooked. “Try to remember I’m your husband, not a subordinate.”

“Jeez, sorry. If I’d thought of you as a subordinate I’d probably have told you to get your ass out here. Or words to that effect.”

“Most likely true. Still.” He gave her finger a quick squeeze. “Let’s have a walk. I’m hungry.”

“I don’t—”

“If I have to settle for something from the pitiful vending choices around here you can walk and talk.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as he turned down a corridor toward the pitiful vending choices. “While you’re at it, remember you’re the one who jumped on board with this.”

“I’m well aware.” He stood in front of one of the machines, scowling at the offerings. “I suppose the crisps are the safest.”

“Just use my code. It’s—”

“I know what your code is.” He ordered five bags.

“Jesus, I guess you are hungry.”

“You’re having one, and you’ll toss one to Peabody. The others are for my lab mates.”

While the machine, which was never quite so cooperative with her, jingled out the data on the soy chips, Roarke studied her. “What do you need?”

“I just have a couple questions. Does your control-the-global-economy corps have insurance against hacking and fraud?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, so if Sweet or Urich worked for you, and this went down, you’d be covered.”

“There’d be an investigation, which would take time, and possibly some legal wrangling, but yes. That’s good,” he added as he gathered up the bags. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“Makes you the subordinate.”

He pinched her. “Makes me focused on the trees—or the data and imaging—rather than the forest. It would cost the companies time and some money, but it’s relatively small change. The publicity could cause more damage, but they’ll have their spinners working on that. Cooperating with the authorities, full internal investigation. And they’ll likely chop a head or two.”

“Yeah, that was Urich’s take. As emperor of all you survey, do you know or have access to the codes and passwords of your employees?”

“If you mean as head of Roarke Industries do I have full access to that data, yes.”

“Because you can out-hack the hackers, or because of your position?”

“Both. Isn’t this interesting?”

“Maybe. What do you know about Winston Cunningham Dudley the Fourth?”

“Friends call him Winnie.”

“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Do you?”

“No, but then I don’t know him, particularly. We’ve met, certainly, at charity events, that sort of thing, but don’t have anything in common.”

“You’re both really rich.”

“There’s a difference between multigenerational wealth and wealth more recently and personally acquired.”

“So he’s a fuck-headed snob?”

He laughed. “You do whittle things down. I have no idea. What I do know, and that’s more impression and passing commentary, is he seems to enjoy his privilege and socializes with his own kind. Dudley and Son is solid and run well. If you’re considering he’s gone on a murderous rampage, folding in one of his top people, I’d have to ask why would he?”

“That’s another area. I’m just trying to get a feel. What about the other company, Intelicore, and the other guy. Sylvester Bennington Moriarity the Third. And where do they come up with these names?”

“I think the fourth speaks for itself. Given our background and lineage, when we have children, we’ll have to make up impressive names. Like Bartholomew Ezekiel.”

“If we have a kid, I hope I like him better than to do that to him.”

“That would be a factor.” He turned back to the machine and ordered a citrus power drink.

“You have coffee.”

“Which is, thanks to this consultation, cold by now. I want something to wash down these crisps. I don’t know Moriarity any better than the other—I believe friends call him Sly. If memory serves, they’re both in their forties, grew up in the lifestyle one expects on that level. They play polo or squash or golf, I imagine.”

“You don’t like them.”

“I don’t know them,” he repeated. “But no, not particularly, and that would be mutual. Their type has a built-in distrust and disdain for my type. Money polishes up the street rat, darling, but it doesn’t exterminate it.”

“Then I don’t like them either.” When he raised his brows, she poked him in the belly. “It’s pretty clear one or both of them dissed my man. That’s my job.”

“Hold this?” he said and pushed the drink into her hand. Then he used his free hand to poke her in the belly in turn. “Thanks for that. But even if we deem them fuck-headed snobs, it’s a long distance to murder.”

“Gotta check the angles. Here.” She pushed the drink back at him, took the two bags of soy chips. “Go do what you do, and I’ll do the same. Thanks for the chips,” she said as she walked away.

“You bought them.”

“Right.” She turned, walked backward a moment. “You’re welcome.”

EVE TOSSED PEABODY THE BAG OF CHIPS AS SHE walked into the nearly empty bullpen.

“Hey, thanks!”

“Did you earn it?”

“I’ve got a series of runs and searches going. So far, I can’t find any connection between Sweet and Urich. They both belong to health clubs, but different ones. Sweet has a cabin deal upstate. Urich has a summer place in the Hamptons, but the wife got that in the settlement anyway. They didn’t grow up or go to school anywhere near each other. They have different doctors in different areas of the city. They don’t even shop in the same areas.”

“Check out the exes. Might as well be thorough.”

“I got that started, too. So far, zip. Did a secondary run on the driver tonight. Nothing there, either. She’s worked for the service seven years, clean slate, no intersects I’ve found with Sweet. She has driven Urich a number of times, but that’s to be expected. I’m looking at Urich’s admin and her assistant. Not hitting anything yet.”

“McNab’s going to send down data on a pair of shoes. I want to know venues for purchase.”

“Shoes?”

“We got a partial image from park security. It’s not much, but we can get the shoe. I’m going to check out the vic’s place, get her appointment book.”

Peabody opened the chips, took a deep sniff. “You don’t want me along?”

“We need to get this drone work done. When you’ve got a good handle on it, take an hour—two if you need it—in the crib.”

She fueled up with coffee, then headed out. She started to leave the top up, just as a matter of principle, but decided what the hell. Who was going to see her zipping around topless at four in the morning?

Added to it, when she pulled to the curb in front of the shiny building on Park Avenue, the droid doorman didn’t sneer at her. Instead, he hustled up, respect in every circuit to open her door.

“Good morning, miss. How can I help you?”

“By not calling me miss.” Pleased, she pulled out her badge. “It’s Lieutenant. I’m leaving my ride here. Nobody touches it. I need access to Ava Crampton’s unit.”

“Miss—Lieutenant. Ms. Crampton hasn’t returned home this morning.”

“And she won’t be, seeing as she’s dead.”

He got that blank droid stare while he processed the unexpected information. “I’m sorry to hear that. Ms. Crampton was a valued tenant.”

“Yeah. Code me in.”

“I’m afraid I’ll need to verify your identification before admitting you.”

She held the badge up again, waited while its eyes scanned, while they processed. “Has anyone else tried to get into her place tonight?”

“No. Ms. Crampton occupied the penthouse triple, west corner, and there has been no exit or entrance to that unit since Ms. Crampton herself left at . . .” It got that droid stare again. “Twenty-two-thirty-two. At which time she took a private transportation, with driver, to an unknown to me destination. Do you require data on the transportation and/or driver?”

“No, I’ve got that.”

“I’ll pass you through to Ms. Crampton’s unit. Will you require my assistance?”

“All I require you to do is make sure my ride stays like it is, where it is.”

“Absolutely.”

 

 

C
rampton had lived the high life, Eve thought as she rode a private elevator to the sixty-first floor. Three-level corner penthouse, with roof garden, on an exclusive piece of real estate.

More than sex, she mused. It took more than acrobatics and a good body to earn what it took to maintain this lifestyle.

The triple opened up into a sweeping foyer with an intricate chandelier of tangled and glinting silver draped with diamond-clear glass. Dark wood floors provided a canvas for rugs in bold colors and complicated patterns. Art maintained the theme, slashing hot, mixed colors and strange shapes against warm cream walls.

Furnishings, she noted as she wandered through the main level, managed to marry that complex style with sumptuous comfort. Deep, deep cushions and plenty of them, sparkling lights, mirrored tables, countless pillows.

A silver dining table held a huge clear vase of flowers someone with an artist’s eye had arranged—and recently. Over an ebony fireplace in that room reigned a pretty spectacular portrait of its former occupant, boldly nude as she reclined on a bed draped in red.

So, she hadn’t been the shy, modest type.

Eve swung through kitchen, powder rooms, a separate living area, admired the views more out of curiosity than necessity. It helped give her a sense of the woman. Lived full, she thought, lived well and enjoyed the fruits of her labors.

She took the clear curl of stairs rather than the elevator to the second floor.

The master—or mistress—bedroom was massive, and needed to be to accommodate the bed. Eve estimated it could sleep six, and wondered passingly if it had. She’d gone for gold tones in here, warm rather than glossy. And had spread the bed with what looked to be an acre of textured gold silk. Curvy sofas, more pillows, carved tables, lamps dripping with beads, and another, less massive arrangement of flowers continued the indulgent, sink-into-it style.

In the many drawers of the bedside tables, Eve found an expansive and efficiently organized arrangement of sex toys and enhancements.

She estimated the dressing room/closet combo to be about the size of her bullpen at Central, and also strictly organized. Full of rich fabrics, she noted, pricey labels, and enough shoes to outfit the population of a small country.