Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(86)

“Wait, where’s the staff? Don’t fancy cooks like him have minions to do the grunt work? Peel, chop, like that?”

Roarke glanced toward the unfortunate Delaflote. “It’s a bit late to ask him.”

“We’ll check on that. Anyway, he’s out here, having his break. Moriarity’s either with him or comes out. He’s got the weapon hidden somewhere . . . No, he comes out because he’s got the weapon with him. If he’d hidden it, somebody—the gardener maybe comes by a day early—might find it. He gets the vic to stand in front of that tree. Step back, pal, or step over. Has to be fast at that point because the vic didn’t run. No way anybody makes a dead-on shot like that, through the middle of a tree, when the target’s running.”

Eve stepped over, angled herself outside the kitchen door, lifted her hand as if holding a weapon. She shifted a couple inches, then nodded. She’d bank the computer simulation would put the killer where she was standing.

“Then he checks, just to make sure he’s scored his points, won his round. Does he tag Dudley to confirm? Take a picture, a short vid, something to bring his pal in. Share the moment. He goes in, shuts off the oven, and the fucker decides what the hell and takes the unopened wine, and he walks out.”

“In and out, through the gates, without anyone seeing him. That’s a risk, too.”

“Dudley wore a disguise at the amusement park. Moriarity would have one. Something that makes him look like what he’s not. Unless he’s an idiot, he doesn’t bring his own transpo close, take a service or a cab from right here. He has to walk awhile, put some distance in. He’s got to have the propeller thing—the mechanism for the spear—with him. He’s carrying some kind of case or bag for that, another for the wine. We can use that.”

That was a break, she thought. A man walking carrying a case and a bag. That could be a break.

“He’d look like some guy carrying stuff home from the market, but we can use that. He should’ve left the wine. Smug, greedy bastard.”

“There’s a garden gate,” Roarke pointed out. “Smarter to use that, slip around the side, out the corner, than to go out the front and through the main gates.”

“Yeah. Good thought.”

“Sorry it took so long.” Peabody hurried out, puffing a little. “The subway was . . . oh, hi, Roarke.”

“You can be you,” Eve said to Peabody. “And you can be you,” she said to Roarke.

“While I’m being me, I’ll give you a few more minutes,” Roarke suggested. “I’ll find the security system, see if there’s anything on it of use to you.”

“You could do that. The vic is Delaflote, Luc.” Eve began to catch Peabody up. “Fancy private chef, top of his field.”

“Same pattern. What is that pinning him to the tree?”

“We believe it’s a harpoon spear.”

“Like for whales?”

Eve couldn’t help herself. “Does that look big enough to bother a whale?”

“But a harpoon’s for whales, right? Like in that book with the crazy guy and the ship and the whale. With the other guy named Isaac or Istak or . . . wait a minute . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open. “Ishmael. Call me Ishmael.”

“Any guy who goes out in a ship with a spear to take on a whale’s automatically crazy. And I’m going to stick with calling you Peabody. This deal is, most likely, from a harpoon gun, which propels it. It’s used for fish and for killing fancy French chefs.”

Lips pursed, Peabody studied Delaflote. “It works.”

“TOD,” Eve began again, and ran it through.

“Cold” was Peabody’s opinion. “Having the vic come all the way from Paris, spend all that time cooking, then zap, impale him before the chicken’s even done.”

“I think the chicken’s the least of the vic’s problems right now. He probably brought the supplies with him, probably bought them in Paris because he’s a French chef and would likely prefer his own suppliers. Run that down. I want to ID the wines he brought with him. No way it’s just the one open bottle. Also run down his travel. Did he come alone? How did he get here from the shuttle? I want the times. We need EDD to scope out the security, and we might as well bring in the sweepers and the ME. The owners need to be notified. We’ll—”

She broke off when Roarke stepped out. “Lieutenant? You should see this.”

“Is he on the fucking system?”

“No,” he said as she strode over. “But there’s something else that is.”

She followed him in and to a small, well-equipped security station.

“There’s no activity until this point. Seventeen-thirty hours.”

As he’d already cued it up, he simply hit the replay.

Eve watched the car stop at the gate. “Late-model sedan, New York plates. Peabody, run it.”

The gates opened smoothly. “He had the code, or a bypass, rode right in.” House security picked up the car in front of the house. The driver stepped out, walked to the front door, and coded in.

“That’s not Dudley or Moriarity. Back it up, enhance. I want a better look at . . .” She trailed off again, leaned in to the screen. “It’s a damn droid. Okay, that’s smart. They’re not idiots. Use a droid, program him with the codes. He goes in, waits for the vic, lets the vic in. He’s programmed to be there, to be . . . who or whatever they want him to be. Staff most likely.”