Part 33 (1/2)
”Idiom-smidiom. I t's to the point. I can put this together, show a pattern. I just have to make it s.h.i.+ny enough to convince a judge to give me a search warrant. I need the next. Three to four months out now.”
She found the next, three and a half months out. A male this time, older than the other victims.
”An architect,” Eve read, ”considered one of the best in his field, killed while vacationing at his secondary home on the Cote d'Azur. Found floating in his swimming pool by his wife the next morning. He'd been stunned, then garroted-weapon left on the body-before falling into or being dumped in the pool.”
”And the wife?” Roarke asked when Eve ran it through.
”Heard nothing. They had a kid, six, and he'd been restless and feverish, so it says-and medical confirms-so she bunked down in the kid's room. No motive for the wife they could find. No trouble in the marriage, no outside affairs unearthed. She has money of her own and plenty of it.
She cooperated fully, including opening all financials without a blink. She wouldn't have had the strength to do what was done to him with that wire, even with him stunned. And there's no evidence she bought a hit.”
”The first male victim you've found,” Roarke observed. ”And a family man, one who left a wife and a son.”
”I know her-the wife.” Eve narrowed her eyes as she searched her memory. ”How do I know her? Carmandy Dewar. I know that d.a.m.n name.
Computer, search for Carmandy Dewar in files and notes on Dudley/Moriarity.”
Acknow ledged. Working ...
”Both of them were there at the time?”
”Yeah they were.” Juiced up, she thought. Completing each other. ”Hanging out with a bunch of people who hang out at places like that. I 've got media reports, gossip-That's it,” she said even as the computer responded.
Task complete. Carmandy Dew ar appears in files from society articles involving Dudley and Moriarity. Most specifically Moriarity, w ho escorted her a number of times to-
”I got it, cancel task. He dated her,” she said to Roarke. ”Before she married the architect, Moriarity dated her. She's old money, runs with that crowd. Or did before the kid. You can bet your a.s.s they went to her to offer support and condolence, went to the funeral looking shocked and sad.
c.o.c.ksuckers. Smug, self-important c.o.c.ksuckers.”
”You'll want this one then, though it breaks the pattern. Two months ago,” Roarke told her. ”Another woman. Larinda Villi, considered in her day the greatest mezzo-soprano of her generation, and others come to that. A luminary, and at seventy-eight one of the most important and influential patrons of the arts in the world. She was found at the doors of the opera house in London, stabbed through the heart. While they were both there- Moriarity purportedly on business, and Dudley to attend the London premiere of a major vid he'd invested in-neither of them had a connection with Villi or any a.s.sociation.”
”That showed,” Eve corrected. ”I t's not breaking pattern. I t's establis.h.i.+ng the current one-and just what I 'm looking for. We dig, there'll be something. One of their grandfathers boned her, or their mothers made them go to the opera to hear her sing when they wanted to play slap the monkey. There'll be something.”
She paced back and forth, remembered she hadn't had coffee in much too long. ”I need a hit.”
”I 'll get it. I could use one myself.”
”What time is it in Africa now?”
”An hour later than the first time you asked,” he called back.
”I could contact them now.” She paced again. ”No, write it up, s.h.i.+ne it up, get it all down to the steps, the patterns.” Add onto the board, she thought. All the other victims, the data on them. Then she'd start with Africa, expand the picture, and work her way right up to now.
”Thanks.” She took the coffee Roarke offered, gulped some down. ”I 've got them. I t's going to take some work, some finessing, but I 've got enough to start pus.h.i.+ng. You saved me a lot of time tonight.”
He skimmed his knuckles down her cheek. Pale with fatigue, he thought. ”And you'll thank me for that by working several more hours.”
”I 've got to lay it all out so I can pull it all in, so I can talk Reo into talking a judge into giving me search warrants on two really rich men from really important families who have alibis on alternate homicides. I have to convince her, and Whitney, that all this plays-and that I can make it stick. I f I can't make it stick, we can't go with it. Not yet. And-”
”Someone's clock is ticking down.” He leaned in to brush her lips with his. ”I know. I can update your board with these new victims. Don't look so surprised. I know how your mind works.”
”I guess you do. But ... I have to do it.”
”Superst.i.tious, are you then?”
”No. Maybe. Probably. Anyway, I have to do it. I t'll help me get it set in my head.”
Because they were hers now, too, he thought. That was yet another kind of intimacy.
”I 'll tackle some work of my own for a bit.”
”This is going to take a couple hours. You should go to bed whenever you-”
”I like going to bed with my wife, whenever possible. I can fill a couple hours.”
Though he expected, as he went into his own office, she would be longer than that.
She forgot what time it was in Africa by the time she contacted the hunting club, but she knew d.a.m.n well she'd hit two in the morning in New York.
She considered finessing-lying-then decided against. I f one of the guides or the owners or anyone else chose to contact Dudley or Moriarity and tell them of her interest, that was fine.
She was ready to give them something to worry about.
When she'd finished, she looked down at her notes. The guide had been cautious at first, then more and more open. He'd been fond of Bristow, and that had come across clearly.
Never understood how or why she would stray so far from camp.
Never understood how or why she would cross into known hunting territory for the female lion.Could never reconcile in his mind why she would have been so careless or why she would have set out before light.
Dudley a braggart, rude to staff. Demanding, impatient. Suspected he'd brought illegals into camp.
Moriarity cold, aloof. Rarely spoke to staff except to order or demand.
She tried her luck with the local investigators next, and managed to flesh out-a little-what she'd pulled out of media reports.
She worked her way forward in the time line, to Naples, to Vegas, to France, to London, gathering crumbs and bits, putting those slivers and pieces in place with the whole.
She used the back of her board, making a chart of that time line, pin-pointing locations, adding each victim's photo, linking all with more notes.
With fact and with supposition.
Seven dead, she thought as she stepped back from the board. She knew those two pair of hands carried the blood of seven people.