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

“You know that f**khead’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.”

“Fucking A.”

“Ditto. I’ve got some lines out to bullwhip experts and instructors. There’s more of them than you’d think.”

“Go to Australia.”

“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to.”

“On the C&D. The whip was kanga-f*cking-roo. Maybe Dudley took his lessons from whoever made the bastard. Add in handmade kanga-f*cking-roo bullwhips.”

“I’ll run a search now, but it’s going to be close, Dallas, if you want me in here for the briefing.”

“Get it started, but be here. Put everything you’ve got together, and make it succinct. We’ve got some selling to do.”

When they left she rose to go to the room’s AutoChef for another hit of coffee and remembered she’d neglected to load it with the real thing she’d become spoiled by.

“Shit. Sometimes you just got to suck it up. Or down.”

She programmed an extralarge, black. And when the scent hit, she smiled. It was loaded with her brand. “Peabody, it really must be love.”

She gulped some down, ignored the jitter in her belly from caffeine overload, as Feeney came in. “Got your ninety percent. Ninety-point-one, and you ain’t going to get better. Give me that.”

He grabbed the coffee, drank it like a camel at an oasis. And he eyed her over the rim. “Maybe you need this more than I do. You don’t look like you’ve slept in a week.”

“Four dead, Feeney, in less than that. And those?” She gestured to the side of the board where she’d put the other victims. “All of those, too, from before. Their practice sessions. There could be another face up there tonight, or tomorrow. And what’ve I got?”

She pushed at her hair, pressed on her eyes. “It’s like weaving cobwebs together. A few strands of . . . whatever’s stronger than cobwebs. What I’ve got points to motive, method, opportunity, but it doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye. And I have to convince the PA and Whitney that it does, that it will.”