Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(101)

“We checked with every freaking legit cab company in Manhattan. Nobody picked up a fare at that location between two and three A.M. And nobody dropped off a fare between those times at the logical entrance to the park for the Great Hill. We gotta figure—”

“She got a lift,” Eve finished, and jerked her head at the conference room door, “with Dudley.”

“That’s our take.” He opened the door, followed her in. “So far Carmichael and the new guy haven’t hit on anybody, but they’re asking if anybody saw the vic and Dudley hanging together between the two A.M. and the two-thirty mark.”

“Okay.” She dumped her things on the conference table. “She sure as hell didn’t walk from the party to that point in the park in those shoes. No reason to cancel her pickup unless she had alternate transpo, and we’ve covered she didn’t book alternate transpo.”

A lot of other guests at the party, she thought, a lot of other alternatives for a lift. That would be the argument, but she would damn well knock it down.

“We’re going to push for a warrant to search all Dudley’s vehicles for her DNA. We find her prints, a stray hair, it adds more weight.”

“I think the other Carmichael hit something, because he started making those noises in his throat like he does.”

“Yeah, the grunting. Good.”

“Reineke gave Dickhead a shove, and Dickhead came through. It’s an Australian deal—the whip—made out of freaking kangaroo.”

“The hopping things, with the pouches?”

“Yeah. Freaking kangaroo. It’s seven feet long, eleven with the handle or grip, and that’s lead-loaded steel. Dickhead said it had a coating of some sort of leather cream, and he’s working on IDing the brand, and he’s still working on dating it, but says it ain’t no antique or anything. He’s saying the sucker’s handmade. So we’ve got Trueheart checking out Aussie whip makers. Dickhead comes through with the rest, that’ll narrow it.

“You know that fuckhead’s in love?” he added.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s creepy.”

“So say we all. Get back to it, Jenkinson.”

Alone, she began with the murder board.

She’d worked her way halfway through the time lines when the other Carmichael came in, making grunting noises in his throat. “Boss, I got something.”

“Give it to me,” Eve said and continued to work.

“Jonas used to work as a concierge at the Kennedy Hotel on Park. Started as an assistant right out of college. Moriarity’s grandfather owned the hotel along with a couple partners. They had a lot of events there like business stuff and private stuff, and put up important accounts and whatnot.”

Eve glanced up long enough to acknowledge the pop.

“When he croaked he left his share to Moriarity—the grandson—and he sold it off about ten years ago. The vic was still working there. She didn’t go out on her own until about a year after the sell. She got a write-up in The New Yorker back before she left, about how the girl from the Midwest became one of the top concierges in New York.”

“And used that capital to parlay into her own business. Smart. Good work, Carmichael. Write it up tight, attach the article and any other media.”

Coming together, she thought, crumb by crumb.

When her boards were complete, she sat at the computer to check the images and data she’d want on-screen.

“Lieutenant? Sorry to interrupt.”

“If you’ve got something, Trueheart, you’re not interrupting. If you don’t, go away.”

“It’s about the harpoon gun.”

“Spill it.”

“They’ve been running tests on it in the lab. On the mechanism and the spear, and checking on regulations. It turns out the projectile . . .”

“You’re trickling, not spilling.”

“Um. Both the spear and the gun required to shoot it exceed the limits accepted by sport fishing regulations here in the U.S. and in Europe, as well as several other countries. Baxter’s research corroborates when it comes to tours and clubs and organizations. Mr. Berenski—”

“Jesus.” She shoved back in her chair to goggle at him. “You don’t actually call him that?”

Trueheart pinked up. “Well, not always. He concludes the weapon was manufactured prior to regulations, as it’s American-made. Or that it was made in violation of the regulations, and he leans there because he believes it’s between five and ten years old. Some of the internal parts carry a manufacturer’s mark, and I traced that to a company in Florida. It’s one of Moriarity’s subsidiaries, one of its companies under its SportTec arm.”

Her legs stretched out, she smiled, and her eyes stayed flat and cold. “Is that so?”

“I have the data, sir, if you’d like to verify.”

“That was a rhetorical is that so. Keep digging. I want to put that weapon in Moriarity’s hands.” She frowned when Baxter strolled in. “I haven’t finished with your boy yet.”

“I have something to pump up what he just brought you. Both suspects did belong to both a sport fishing and a scuba club, though they’ve let their memberships lapse. But they’ve twice—five years ago, and just last winter—hosted a private island party for fifty-odd of their closest friends. A party that included scuba, sport fishing off your choice of yacht, and spear fishing. Among other assorted water sports. Several celebrities dropped in—vid stars and the like. It got a lot of play in the media.”