Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(49)

“My driver. I have a private car and driver. I’ll get you that information as well.”

“Good enough.” She walked him through a few standard questions—did he know the victim, had he used their services, tossed in a few more relating to Sweet.

“I have to tell you we’ve just arrested and charged two of your employees.”

“Good God, for the murder? Who—”

“No, on an unrelated matter. Mitchell Sykes and Karolea Prinz. They’ve been skimming some of your products, selling them.”

He sat back, arranged his face into sober lines. “I’d like more information on this. It’s very upsetting. This shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, I need to have meetings with my department heads, Security, Inventory. I owe you a debt.”

“No, we did our job. Another unrelated matter, just crossing off. Are you acquainted with Sylvester Moriarity?”

“Sly? Yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Why?”

“Just covering bases. Was he at this dinner party?”

“No. He’s not particularly friendly with the hosts, and it was a close-knit group.”

“Okay. Thanks for the time, the coffee.” She got to her feet, smiled as he rose. “Oh, just to tidy up. How about last night? Can you tell me where you were?”

“Yes. I had drinks with a friend about five, then went home. I wanted a quiet evening, and very much wanted to finish the book. The Icove case. Just fascinating.”

“So, nobody came by?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“Just the opposite. It was one of those nights I wanted to myself. I’m curious as to why you’d want to know?”

“I’m nosy. Part of being a cop. Thanks again.”

“You’re more than welcome, both of you. Let me walk you out, and have Marissa get you the information you need. I hope we’ll see each other again, when it’s not work related.”

Marissa had the data at her fingertips—almost, Eve thought, as if she’d been told to have it there. In the elevator, Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak.

“Good coffee.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“It helps when you get that kind of cooperation.” Eve leaned negligently against the side wall. “Saves time. I want you to check out the driver, and the dinner party, just so we can put it aside. We have to log it in, even though it’s obvious he didn’t book that limo or kill Houston. So . . . what’re you and McNab up to tonight?”

Peabody’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Ah, well, we thought we might catch a vid unless we’re on OT.”

“Probably wrap up shift on time.”

She moved across the lobby, outside. She didn’t speak again until she was behind the wheel and driving away.

“Slick bastard.”

“Yeah, I was going to say—”

“And if that elevator isn’t monitored, eyes and ears, I’m having an affair with Summerset.”

“You’re—oh. Damn, sure it is.”

“Lobby might be, too.”

“You didn’t really want to know what McNab and I were doing tonight?”

“Why the hell would I care? He’s slick,” she repeated.

“He is, but he didn’t kill Houston. And he didn’t have an alibi for The Night of the Shoe.”

Eve snorted out a laugh. “Good one. That’s right, and he’s also five ten, and a little heavier than Urich. What else did we get out of that?”

“The connection you wanted between the two companies. Just call me Winnie and Sly. Good pals. It’s the first real link we’ve found.”

“That’s right. Top-level connection. What else did we get?”

“Okay, what?”

“Who wasn’t at the famous dinner party two nights ago when Jamal Houston was getting a crossbow through the neck?”

“Sylvester Moriarity? You’re thinking . . . Like that case a while back. Where the two women killed the other’s husbands? They each took one? But why?”

“Don’t know. But it’s an interesting angle. Track down Sly, and let’s go see if he’s as slick as Winnie.”

11

WHILE THE TONE OF DUDLEY AND SON HIT modern and angular on the nose, Intelicore adorned itself in the heavy and ornate. Lots of curves and curlicues, Eve noted, big-ass urns, plenty of gilt.

Contacting the company en route had paved the way, and pretty damn smoothly, straight to the hallowed halls of Sylvester—The Third’s—offices.

Like his counterpart at Dudley, he reigned on the top floor, or floors in this case, as a sweep of marble steps joined the office space to what Moriarity’s admin explained were his private quarters.

They were served coffee from a silver pot and invited to wait while The Third concluded a meeting. Left alone with Peabody, Eve scanned the office area.

Fancy taste, a love of excess—well, that could have described Roarke, she mused. Except he went in for that more at home than at work. The big, carved desk held court in front of triple windows—privacy screened—and held the expected data-and-communication center as well as mementos, an antique clock, a painted box.

Thick rugs, age-faded, spread over the floor while lights with colorful glass shades adorned tables with curved legs. Art, likely worth a mid-sized fortune, covered the walls.