Indulgence in Death (30 page)

He checked the time. The servers would be arriving any moment, but in the meanwhile he would call the droid, have it set out the table, show him the selection of linens and dinnerware.

He took out one of his herbal cigarettes to smoke while he set the scene.

The table just there, little tealights glittering in clear holders. Roses from the garden in a shallow bowl. More candles ringing the courtyard—all white. He would send one of the servers out to get more if there weren’t enough on hand.

Ah, there, nasturtium. He’d toss some of the flowers with the salad for color and interest.

Crystal stemware,
mais oui.

The sounds of the city, of traffic crept over the garden walls, but he would mask that with music. The droid would have to show him where the system was kept so he could make the appropriate selections.

He turned a circle, stopped when he saw a man step out of the lights of the kitchen into the shadows of the garden.

“Ah, you are arrived. There is much work to be . . .” He stopped, eyebrows lifting when he recognized the man.

“Monsieur, you I was not expecting.”

“Good evening, Delaflote. I apologize for the subterfuge. I didn’t want it known I was your client tonight.”

“Ah, so, you wish to be incognito,
oui
?” Smiling a knowing smile, Delaflote tapped the side of his nose. “To have your rendezvous with a lady, what would it be, on the q.t. You can trust Delaflote. I am nothing if not discreet. But we are not complete. You must give me time to create the ambience as well as the meal.”

“I’m sure the meal would be extraordinary. It already smells wonderful.”

“Bien sûr.”
Delaflote made a slight bow.

“And you came alone? No assistants?”

“Everything is prepared only by my hands, as requested.”

“Perfect. Would you mind standing just over there a bit? I want to check something.”

With a Gallic shrug he’d perfected over the years, Delaflote moved a few steps to the right.

“Yes, just there. One moment.” He backed into the kitchen, retrieved the weapon he’d leaned against the wall. “It does smell exceptional,” he said as he stepped back out. “It’s a pity.”

“What is this?” Delaflote frowned at the weapon.

“It’s my round.” And he pulled the trigger.

The barb went through the heart as if the organ had been ringed like a target. With its keen, merciless edge, it continued out the back to dig into the trunk of an ornamental cherry tree.

Moriarity studied the chef, pinned there, legs and arms twitching as body and brain died. He stepped closer to take the short recording as proof he’d completed the round.

With the ease of a man who knew all was in place, he walked back inside, replaced the weapon in its case. He opened the oven for a moment, breathed in the rich aroma before shutting it off.

“It really is a pity.”

So as not to waste the entire business, he rebagged the wine, found the champagne Delaflote had chilling. He took one last glance around to be sure all was as it should be, and satisfied, walked back through the house and out the front. The droid he’d programmed for the event waited in a black, four-door sedan.

He checked the time, smiled.

The entire business had taken hardly more than twenty minutes.

He didn’t speak to the droid; it already had instructions. As programmed it pulled into Dudley’s garage.

“Put these in Mr. Dudley’s private quarters,” he ordered, “then return the car. After you return to base, shut down for the night.”

In the garage, Moriarity retrieved the martini he’d left on a bench less than thirty minutes before, then slipped out the side door. He strolled toward the house, circled, and joined the loud, crowded party already in progress.

“Kiki.” He chose a woman at random, slipping an arm around her waist. “I was just telling Zoe how wonderful you look tonight, and had to track you down to tell you myself.”

“Oh, you darling.”

“Tell me, is it true what I heard when I was inside a few minutes ago? About Larson and Kit?”

“What did you hear?” She looked up at him, all eyes. “Obviously I’m not mingling enough if I’m not getting the gossip.”

“Let’s both get another drink, then I’ll tell you all.”

As he walked with her, his gaze met Dudley’s through the sea of people. When he inclined his head in a faint nod, they both smiled.

 

 

E
ve rubbed a hand on the back of her neck to ease the crick.

“People go missing, or end up dead. That’s why we have cops, but . . .”

“You have something?” Roarke worked at the auxiliary in her office rather than in his own so they could easily relay impressions.

“About nine months ago, the two of them went to Africa, a private hunting club. It costs a mint and a half, and you’re only allowed one kill of an animal on the approved list. You have guides, a cook, assorted servants, various modes of transpo, including copters. You sleep on gel beds in big, white, climate-controlled tents that other people haul around, eat on china plates, drink fine wine, blah blah. The brochure here hypes it as adventurous elegance. You can have a gourmet breakfast, then go out and shoot an elephant or whatever.”

“Why?” Roarke wondered.

“My thought, but some people like to shoot things, especially if the things can’t shoot back. Melly Bristow, a grad student from Sydney, working on her master’s—wildlife photog—signs on as a cook. One fine morning she isn’t there to whip up that gourmet breakfast. They figure she’s gone off on her own to take pictures and vids, which she’s done occasionally according to the statements I’ve got here, and her camera shit’s gone, and so’s her daypack. But she doesn’t answer the ’link everyone’s required to carry at all times. Everybody’s a little ticked because she’s holding up the hunt.”

Eve swiveled in her chair. “Somebody else makes breakfast, and when she still isn’t back, they triangulate her ’link, and one of the guides heads out to bring her back. All he finds is her ’link. Worried now, contacts camp, and we’ve got a search party forming. They find her camera stuff, or most of it, and they find a blood trail. Eventually they track a pride of lions, and the female and young are snacking on what’s left of her.”

“Christ, that’s an ugly end. Even if she’d been ended beforehand.”

“I think she was spared being eaten alive or mauled while she was still breathing.” Though Eve had to agree. Even if, it was ugly.

“You think Dudley and Moriarity killed her, then framed the lions?”

“That’s a gambit you don’t hear every day,” Eve mused. “But here’s the thing. When they recovered her she was still, more or less, wearing her belt. And the stunner everyone’s required to carry was still in the holster. This was her third trip out with this company, so she wasn’t altogether green, especially if it’s true everyone on staff has to go through training before going out with a group. She has time to get her ’link out of its holder, drop it, but she doesn’t go for her stunner? And there weren’t any photos taken that morning in her camera.”

Didn’t play, she thought. Just didn’t jibe.

“She wanders a mile away from camp, but doesn’t take any pictures?” Every step of it sent out a buzz for her. “They found what they determined was the kill site, trampled brush, the blood, drag marks, and so on. A mile from camp, and they’d missed her just after dawn. She goes out in the dark—flashlight was in her daypack—when according to the data on this site that’s when a lot of the animals with really big teeth go hunting.”

“What are the locals calling it?”

“Death by misadventure. Her neck was broken. Apparently lions go for the throat, rip it open, and/or break the neck of their prey. Mama lions with young cubs will drag the prey back to the den or lair or the old homestead so the kids can eat.”

“A mile’s a considerable clip, even if she panicked—and who wouldn’t?—and ran away from camp rather than to it.”

“And in a footrace, I’m betting on the lion. Now, maybe she was stupid, maybe she was, but I’m reading her data, and she doesn’t strike me as stupid. She spent time in the Australian bush, did another stint at some preserve in Alaska, hit India. She had experience, and knew how to handle herself.

“Look at her.” She ordered the ID shot onto the wall screen.

“Very attractive,” Roarke remarked. “Very.”

“It could be one of them felt he was entitled to her, and she didn’t agree. Or she did and it got too rough. Got a dead woman on your hands, what do you do now? You call in your best pal, and you figure it out.”

“They work together well,” Roarke commented, thinking of the golf outing.

“Same side of the same coin. That’s how Moriarity’s ex described them. Partner up. Get her dressed, get her stuff. They knew where the pride was, and the basic hunting ground of the female because they’d seen it the day before, and the guide gave a spiel on it. Carrying deadweight a mile’s not easy, but not so bad if you’re taking turns. Dump the body, maybe slice it up a little hoping the cat scents the blood and comes to chow down. Toss her camera, toss her ’link, go back to camp. If the cat doesn’t cooperate, well, you alibi each other. It still looks like she went out on her own and got attacked. Just by a two-legged animal.”

She picked up her coffee mug, scowled when she found it empty. “Anyway, this could be where it started. It’s all there. Or possibly there. A kill—an accident or impulse—the cover-up, working together. The excitement of that, then the aftermath. The search, and you two are the only ones who know—more excitement. Then, wow, it worked just as you’d hoped. You’re untouchable, and wasn’t that fun?”

“How long had they been out?”

“Three days. This would have been day four.”

“Had they had a kill?”

“Ah . . .” She turned back to her comp screen, scrolled through statements and reports. “No.”

“Then it might be even more than you’ve laid out. They paid to kill, and hadn’t.”

She said nothing for a moment. “What time is it in Africa?”

“That would depend on which part. It’s a big continent.”

“Zimbabwe.”

“Well . . .” He glanced at the time. “About five in the morning.”

“How do you just know that?”

“It’s math, darling. You don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“Bite me.”

“Considering the topic of conversation, that was in poor taste. Hmm. So was that. And before you call the hunting club trying to dig out more, I might have another for you.”

“Where?”

“Naples, Italy, or off the coast of. They were in a sailing tournament, and in and around that area for a couple weeks. During that time Sofia Ricci, age twenty-three, went missing. She’d been at a club, and had been drinking, as one would. She had a row with her boyfriend, and left.”

“Alone?”

“Alone,” Roarke confirmed. “Under quite a head of steam according to witnesses. The last anyone remembers seeing her was about half-midnight. She didn’t make it home, and her roommate didn’t worry, as she assumed she was at the boyfriend’s. She didn’t work the next day, so again, no one noticed she was missing. Until Sunday when the boyfriend went by her flat to make amends. He told the police, who looked at him hard and long, that he’d gone home about a half hour after she had, and he’d tried her ’link twice the next day—which was verified on his own outgoings—and assumed she was still not speaking to him. They’ve never found her. That was seven months ago.”

“It’s a big ocean,” Eve commented.

“It is, yes. Your suspects stayed on Dudley’s yacht or in Moriarity’s villa during that period. Both of them, along with several others from their sailing club, joined in the initial search.”

“More of a thrill. Another woman,” she considered, “on the young side. Could’ve started that way figuring women are easier game—two men, one woman. Most women wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”

“The police cleared the boyfriend, but he was their focus for the first seventy-two hours. They’re looking at it as an abduction. She had friends, family, stability, no major troubles, a good job, and so on.”

“Two months between. Peabody tossed out they might have practiced on people no one would miss, but I think no. It’s a bigger rush if there’s an alarm, a search, media reports. Ricci might be their second. Two months gives them time to congratulate each other on getting away with murder, ride on the juice, lose the juice. Want that again.”

“Time to plan,” Roarke agreed. “Working together requires deciding who’s responsible for what, coordinating schedules.”

“Time to talk it through, work it out, pump it up. Away from their base again,” Eve noted. “And they either figure out they don’t want to be involved with another dead body or decide to switch it up, so they can use the location to dump it where it won’t likely be found, at least not while they’re in the area. Maybe they trolled awhile, and they got themselves a pissed-off, little-bit-drunk woman.”

“A very pretty one,” Roarke added and put the image on-screen.

“Yeah, that might’ve been part of it at first. Use her, share her, kill her. But they didn’t need the sex. It was the kill that got them both off. They’d need to do it again, maybe mix it up a little, see what happens.”

“Was it already a game, do you think? Already a competition between them?”

“It’s intimacy. It’s . . .” She shifted to look over at him, to meet his eye. “It’s what we’re doing here, looking for the missing and the dead. It’s you and your aunt saying a few words—words that matter—in Irish. It’s Charles making omelets for Louise when she’s pulled the night shift.”

She stopped, hesitated. “That sounds lame. I don’t know how—”

“No, it’s perfectly clear. It’s more than teamwork, shared interests, partnership. You see it as a terrible kind of love.”

“I guess I do. If I was going to pull a Mira, I’d say they found each other, recognized each other. Maybe if they hadn’t . . .” She shrugged. “But they did. And in that terrible way, they complete each other.”