Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(39)

“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.”





9



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.”