Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(77)

And you’ll remember her name, Roarke thought, and her face.

“Some kill because they’re misdirected, bent, scared, greedy. But these two kill because, I think in some way, they feel entitled. More, under the polish is the monster, but under the monster is a kind of spoiled, ugly child.”

“You know them better now.”

“Know them,” she agreed with her eyes cop-flat. “Know some of their weaknesses, the flaws in the polish. Their next target. . . there’ll be a connection somewhere, sometime—Peabody was right about that, and we’ll find it. I don’t know if it’ll help us stop them, but it’ll help me lock the cage door after we do.”

“I’ll help you when we get home. We’ll divvy up those searches and see what we can make of them.” He poured her a little more wine. “I think you’re right. They’ve had practice.”

“I can’t do anything about the ones they’ve done, except use them to stop them from killing more. But, Roarke, I don’t have enough to stop them before the next. I know in my gut I’m already too late. Someone’s clock is ticking down right now.”

She looked around at the bustle, at the tourists, at the others sitting at pretty outdoor tables drinking wine.

“Maybe they’re having dinner, too, maybe some nice wine. Or they’re working late, or getting ready to go out for the evening. They’re probably doing something ordinary, just what they do on a summer evening in New York. They don’t know how little time they have left. They don’t know the monsters are at the door, and I’m going to be too late.”

“Maybe that’s true, and I know you’ll suffer for it if it is. But, Eve, the monsters don’t know you’re even now breathing down their necks. They don’t know their clock is ticking down as well. That’s for you to remember now, for you to know.”

He lifted her hand, kissed it. “We’ll go home, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to the door first.”

16

LUC DELAFLOTE ARRIVED AT THE ELEGANT HOME on the Upper East Side at precisely eight P.M. He was, after all, a man who prided himself on precision. The dignified droid met him at the door, escorted him and the driver, who carried carefully packed ingredients, to the spacious kitchen with its views of the patio, little koi pond, and gardens.

Delaflote carried his own tools, as he believed it demonstrated their import and his own eccentricity.

Fifty-two years before, he’d been born Marvin Clink in Topeka. Through talent, study, work, and towering ambition young Marvin had formed himself into Delaflote de Paris, maître cuisinier. He’d designed and prepared meals for kings and presidents, sautéed and flambéed for emirs and sultans. He’d bedded duchesses and kitchen maids.

It was said—he knew, as he’d said it himself—that those fortunate enough to taste his pâté de canard en croûte knew how the gods dined.

“You may go.” He dismissed the driver with a single turn of his wrist. “You.” He pointed at the droid. “You will show me now the pots.”

“One moment, please,” the droid said to the driver. The droid opened several deep drawers holding a variety of pots, pans, and skillets. “I will show the driver out, then come back to assist you.”

“Assistance I don’t want from you. Keep out of my kitchen. Shoo.”

Alone, Delaflote opened his case of knives, spoons, and other tools. He took out a corkscrew, and opened the bottles of wine he’d personally selected. After opening, he searched the polished steel cabinets for a worthy wineglass.

Sipping, he studied his temporary realm, the stove, ovens, sinks, prep counters, and deemed it would do.

For the client who had paid him handsomely for the trip to New York to prepare a romantic, late-night supper for two, he would create a selection of appetizers highlighted by the caviar he’d chosen and served on a bed of clear, crushed ice. When the appetite was whetted, the fortunate pair would enjoy an entrée of salmon mousse along with his signature baguettes and thin slices of avocado. His main, poulet poêle de Delaflote, would be served with glazed baby vegetables and garnished with generous sprigs of fresh rosemary from his own herb garden.

Ah, the fragrance.

This he would follow with a salad of field greens harvested only an hour before he’d boarded his private shuttle, then his selection of well-aged cheeses. For the finale he would prepare his far-famed soufflé au chocolat.

Satisfied, he set up his music—romantic ballads—in French, bien sûr, for a romantic meal. Donning his apron, he got down to business.

As he sometimes did, he acted as his own sous-chef, chopping, slicing, peeling. The shapes, the textures, the scents pleased and excited him. For Delaflote, peeling a potato could be as sensuous and pleasurable as peeling the clothes from a lover.

He was a man of small stature and trim build. His hair, a dramatic and carefully styled mane of glossy chestnut, flowed back from a face dominated by large, heavily lidded brown eyes. They gave him the look of a romantic, a dreamer, and were often the first element in the seduction of women.

He adored women, treated them like queens, and enjoyed having several lovers revolving through his life at the same time.

He lived life fully, wringing every drop of flavor from it and savoring every morsel.

With the chicken in the oven, the mousse chilling, he poured another glass of wine. Enjoying it, he sampled one of his own stuffed mushrooms, approved.