Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(60)

“Compete,” she repeated. “Another pattern.”

“When not in New York tending to their companies’ HQs—or in my opinion after a bit of digging, sitting in as the symbolic head—they tend to follow the seasons and trends. They sail, they ski, they gamble, attend parties and premieres.”

“Together?”

“Often, but not always. They do have separate interests as well. Dudley enjoys tennis, playing and attending the important matches. Moriarity prefers chess.”

“Nonteam sports.”

“So it seems.”

“They compete with each other in several areas. That’s part of their dynamic. Separately they go for activities where you compete head to head rather than suit up with a team.” She nodded. “It’s good data. Now I need to get more. Do you want in on that?”

“I have a little time I can squeeze in.” He traced a fingertip along the dent in her chin. “For a price.”

“Nothing’s free.”

“There’s my motto. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“You could go back further. See if these two went to school together at any point, or have any relatives in common. Basically I’d like to pin down when they met, how, that sort of thing.”

“Easy enough.”

“And keep it on the straight line.”

“You do know how to spoil my fun. That may cost you double. You can start with the dishes,” he said and strolled away.

She scowled, but she couldn’t bitch since he’d put the meal together.

“I bet these guys don’t expect their bed partners to dump stupid dishes in the machine,” she called out.

“Darling, you’re so much more to me than a bed partner.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, but gathered up the dishes, dumped them in the machine.

She sat, input all the information Roarke had given her, added various elements of her own into the file.

“Computer, run a probability on Dudley and Moriarity killing both victims while working as competitors and/or partners, considering these acts part of a game or sport.”

Acknowledged. Working . . .





“Yeah, take your time. Chew it over. Computer, simultaneous tasking. Background check on former spouses and cohabs of Dudley and Moriarity. Addition,” she thought quickly. “Search and find any official announcements of engagements for either subject, run background check.”

Secondary task acknowledged. Working . . .





“Computer relay the data on previous search regarding military service for ancestors of both subjects. Screen one display.

Acknowledged. Data on screen one . . .





She sat back, began to scan—and thanked God she’d limited the search to between 1945 and 1965, as there were dozens of names in each family.

She sipped coffee as she read, and found another pattern.

“Computer, separate commissioned officers, major and above, from current list. Display that data, screen two.”

Acknowledged. Working . . . Primary task complete. Probability is fifty-four-point-two that subjects Dudley and Moriarity killed both victims as competitors or partners as a game or sport.





“Not bad, but no cheers from the crowd.” She studied the remaining names on screen one. “Only five. Okay, computer, run a full background on the individuals on screen one, highlight military service.”

While it worked, she rose to update her board, to circle it, to consider it until the computer announced her secondary task complete.

She studied the composites Feeney had sent her from the partial image on the amusement security.

Could be Dudley, she mused, sporting a fake goatee and long brown hair. Could be Urich. Could be an army of other men. Which is just what the defense team would point out.

The shoe was a better bet. But she’d have the composites as weight, she’d have them to help tip those scales if she needed them, and when she was ready.

She ordered the names on screen two saved and removed, and replaced with the new data.

One ex-wife each, she noted, and each from prestigious, wealthy families. Same circle again. Barely two years for Dudley, shy of three for Moriarity. Just over two years prior to his marriage to one Annaleigh Babbington, Dudley’s engagement to a Felicity VanWitt had been announced and its dissolution announcement had come some seven months later.

“I thought that was my job.”

“Huh?” She glanced back, mind elsewhere, as Roarke came in.

“The relations.”

“This is something else. What?”

“Felicity VanWitt, engaged to Dudley for slightly more than half a year, is first cousin to Patrice Delaughter.” He nodded toward the screen. “Moriarity’s ex-wife.”

“Fucker.”

“When I can, and only with you, darling.”

“Not you.” But she laughed. “Delaughter married Moriarity right after Dudley and the cousin broke it off. Moriarity would’ve been twenty-six, Dudley twenty-five. They met through the women. I want to talk to the women. Hold on,” she snapped when the computer interrupted with another completed task.

She took a breath, cleared her head again. “On-screen.”