Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(57)

“I’m not really after it, but I saw Morris this morning, and he looked so damn sad, and I said something about it before I actually thought about it, then I forgot about it until I smelled the steak.”

He crossed to her, handed her the wineglass, then caught her chin in his hand, kissed her. “You’re a good friend.”

“I don’t know how the hell that happened.”

“Saturday evening?”

“I guess. Unless—”

“There’s always an unless, but as we’ll be entertaining cops or those associated with, it’s a given for all.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“Eve, I know this continues to astound and baffle you, but I actually like to socialize.”

“I know. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be perfect.” When he laughed, she walked over, lifted the cover of a plate. “God, that really does smell good. I’m getting that boost and I haven’t even eaten it yet.”

“Let’s see what happens when you do. How’s the arm?” he asked when they sat at the table by the window.

“It’s okay.” She rolled her shoulder, flexed. “Hardly feel it.”

“We should have a contest,” he decided, “to see if you can go, say, two weeks without an on-the-job injury.”

“I was just switching glides.” She cut into the steak. “Minding my own business. And what kind of idiot thinks they’re going to get away with stabbing their ex with a plastic knife in the middle of Cop Central?”

“One who’s only thinking of the satisfaction of the act, not the consequences.”

“Probably toked up,” she muttered. “But not enough he didn’t feel it when I kicked his balls until they tickled his tongue.”

It made him smile to picture it. “Is that what you did?”

“It was the quickest and most satisfying action.”

“That’s my girl.” He toasted her.

“What are you going to do? Asshole with a plastic knife in Cop Central. It’s like . . .”

He knew that look as well, and said nothing to interrupt her train of thought.

“Make that Asshole’s Ex with a plastic knife in Cop Central.”

“All right.”

“Could that be it? Is it just that sick?”

“I can’t say.” Watching her, he sipped his wine. “You tell me.”

“It’s Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel.”

“Hmm.” He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. “Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.”

“Whatever. It’s that game—who was it—McNab or Peabody said something about that game sometime back.”

“Clue.”

“You always know this crap. But yeah, and it sounded interesting, so I brought it up on the comp one day to check it out. And that doesn’t matter.”

“You playing a game on the comp is big news, but I’d say your brainstorm on this is bigger. You’re speculating that Dudley and Moriarity, if indeed they’re in this homicidal partnership, are in fact playing a game.”

“The elements are all screwy—the methods. The weapon, the vic, the kill site. They come off as random kills, connected by the type of each element, which still strikes me as random. So what if it is, what if it is f**king random because they’re elements of a contest, a game, a competition? Or, if not that sick, some sort of deeply disturbed agreement?”

“If so, the question would be why.”

“Why does anyone play a game, enter a contest, compete? To win.”

“Darling, while that viewpoint is one of the reasons you’re not much of a player, many play because they simply enjoy the game or the experience.”

She stabbed another bite of steak. “Losing sucks.”

“I tend to agree, but nonetheless. Your hypothesis is: two respected and high-powered businessmen, with no previous criminal record or reputation for violence have partnered up, not merely to kill, but to kill for . . . sport?”

“Sport.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Look at the vics. Jamal Houston. Neither of the men or their companies used his transpo service. Nothing we’ve uncovered shows any previous connection to him. Peabody’s looking into the remote possibility one of them did use him on the QT—which isn’t probable or logical—and he saw or overheard something, then one or both of them decided to eliminate him. But just look at that convoluted mess. First, one or both had to use a service they didn’t routinely use, which limits their security. Then one or both have to do or say something incriminating, illegal, immoral, whatever, in front of a driver they don’t routinely use.”

She scooped up some of the baked potato she’d already drowned in butter, sampled, then kept talking while she—to Roarke’s mind—buried it in salt.

“Then one or both have to decide to kill him, and chose a method that highlights the crime when, shit, they could’ve hired the hit.”

“Why don’t you just salt the butter and eat it with a spoon?”

“What?”

“Never mind. All right, I agree that scenario doesn’t make sense. It’s too complicated and illogical.”