Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(90)

“Some people just don’t know when to go home.”

Red Uniform’s laughter was as bright as her smile. “I know what you mean, but Mr. Dudley didn’t mind, I’m sure. Mr. Moriarity’s such a dear friend.”

Eve’s answering smile edged thin. “I bet.”

“I’ll just go check on your coffee.”

Eve shook her head before Peabody could speak. “I got about two hours of sleep last night myself,” she said and wandered to the windows, let out a yawn. “Couldn’t that gardener have started work at a decent hour? It’s not like the dead French guy was going anywhere.”

“I didn’t tell you about the subway deal this morning,” Peabody said, playing along. “Some sort of snafu, so I had to get off a station early and hoof it the rest of the way to the scene.”

“Screwed-up days always seem to start early. The media’s going to be all over this last murder, and the commander’s going to want us to toss them something.”

“At least the media hasn’t connected the first two. Maybe they won’t go there yet.”

“We’ve been lucky. Luck doesn’t last.”

Another woman, again young, curvy, dressed in red, wheeled in a coffee service and a silver basket of muffins.

“Please help yourself. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, we’re good.”

“Be sure to try a muffin. Celia baked them this morning.”

Eve eyed the basket when the second red uniform clipped out. “I guess Celia didn’t go to the party.”

“I can have a muffin,” Peabody decided. “I had a morning power walk.”

As she chose one, Dudley came in.

He looked bright-eyed, in Eve’s opinion. Maybe just a little too bright, the sort that came from a little chemical boost. No suit today, she noted, but a rich guy’s casual wear. And the f**ker was wearing the loafers, the shoes he’d worn when he’d killed Ava Crampton.

“This is an unexpected morning treat.” He beamed at them. “I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve found whoever killed that driver the other night.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Ah, well. I suppose these things take time.”

He poured himself coffee, added three little squares of brown sugar, then sat comfortably on a chair the color of a nuclear sapphire.

“What can I do for you, ladies?”

“I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you so early in the day,” Eve began, “and after, we’re told, you had a late night.”

“Wonderful party. Actually, I’m feeling very up this morning. Evenings like that are so stimulating.”

“That kind of thing wears me out, but it takes all kinds.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news,” Eve continued. “Would you object if I recorded this? And I’ll need to read you your rights. It’s official, a formality, and it would keep the record clean.”

“Not at all.”

“I appreciate that.” Eve engaged her recorder, and noticed Dudley’s eyes got just a little brighter. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, in interview with Dudley, Winston, the Fourth, in his home.” She read off the Revised Miranda. “Mr. Dudley, you employ a Meryle Simpson, correct?”

“Yes, she’s our CEO of Marketing. And a family connection . . . convolutely. No, don’t tell me something’s happened to her. I thought she and her family were away for a while.”

“They are. However, her ID, her company credit information, and her home were used in a homicide.”

“This just can’t be.” He braced his head in his hand, closed his eyes. “Not again.”

“I’m afraid it can be. It’s possible her information was compromised before your recent security checks. If not, you still have a problem.”

“It’s a nightmare.” He breathed it out, brushed a hand over his white-blond hair. “I have to assure you Meryle couldn’t be involved. She’s not only a trusted member of the Dudley team, but family.”

“We have no reason to believe she’s involved. I spoke with her and her husband this morning, and informed them of the incident. Also I advised them there’s no need for them to return to New York at this time, but I believe Mr. Frost intends to do so, to reassure them both their house is in order.”

“Yes, he’s a very responsible sort. What a terrible thing.” He aimed a sorrowful look in Eve’s direction. “Their home, you say?”

“That’s right. Ms. Simpson’s name and information were used to engage the services of a private chef. A Luc Delaflote, from Paris.”

“Delaflote!”

Dudley pressed a spread hand to his heart. Eve wondered if he’d practiced the gesture and the shocked expression in the mirror.

“No. My God, was he the victim? Is he dead?”

“You know him?”

“Yes, I do. I certainly do. The man’s an artist, a genius. We’ve—myself, friends, family—hired him many times for events, for special occasions. Why, I dined in his restaurant the last time I was in Paris. How did this happen?”

“I’m not free to give you the details, as yet. As the employer, and a family connection, and now with your personal acquaintance with the victim, I have to ask for your whereabouts last night between the hours of nine and midnight. Obviously you were entertaining,” Eve continued. “If I could have your guest list, even a partial, to verify, it would put that matter aside so we can focus in on viable lines of investigation.”