She sent copies to Whitney and Mira.
She updated her murder book, her board, then sat with her feet on her desk, another cup of coffee in her hand, and let it all settle again.
Tonight, she thought, or tomorrow. Not much time before the next round. If the pattern she was seeing was a pattern, Moriarity would be up, which meant the vic would be connected most closely to Dudley’s past, and the lure would be through Dudley and Sons.
“And it could be anyone,” she said aloud.
No, not accurate. The anyone had to be in New York, as both Dudley and Moriarity were in New York. So the target lived here or worked here or was currently visiting here.
The target was important in his or her field—some field of service most probably. Humble beginnings? she considered. Both vics had that in common, starting low on the ladder and climbing high.
Did that play?
Still active in their field. Someone who could be hired or called in, consulted, booked.
Shit.
Someone was going to die because a couple of arrogant whacked-out assholes wanted to bond over blood, and she couldn’t prove it.
No point obsessing about what had yet to happen, she reminded herself. Better to dig into what already had. Opening the file Peabody had sent her, she began a slow, systematic search for death.
She had grids of data on-screen when Peabody stepped back in.
“Dallas.”
Eve looked over in time to catch the Power Bar Peabody tossed at her.
“These are disgusting.”
“Nah. A num-nummy treat. Vending says so. Besides if you’ve generated as many missings and unsolveds as I have, you need the boost.”
“Maybe.” With some reluctance Eve tore the wrapping. Focus had smothered the low-grade headache that now made itself known behind her eyes. She took a bite, winced. “Jesus, what do they put in these things?”
“It’s really better not to know. If we’re not going to clock any more field time, I’m going to take the files home and put some time in on them.”
“Why are you going home?”
“Because it’s already past end of shift, and I want my man and real food.”
Eve scowled at her wrist unit. “Dammit.”
“I can stay if you want to work it here.”
“No. No, go. I lost track. Send whatever you’ve put together to my home unit, and I’ll . . .” She trailed off as she saw she’d lost Peabody’s attention. Her partner had shifted, was currently brushing at her hair and smiling a dopey smile.
“What’s Roarke doing here?” Eve demanded even as she heard his voice.
“Hello, Peabody. I like your hair. Cool, efficient, and feminine all together.”
“Oh.” She fussed some more. “Thanks.”
“The lieutenant working you late?”
“She’s going,” Eve snapped. “Go.”
“Have a nice evening,” Roarke said. “See you Saturday.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Do you have to do that?” Eve muttered when Peabody scurried away.
“Which that is that?”
“Make her go gooey-eyed and stupid.”
“Apparently I have that power, though she didn’t look either to me.” He came in, sat on her desk. “You, however, look tired and cross.” He picked up the PowerBar. “And this is likely part of the reason.”
“Why are you here instead of home?”
“I took a calculated risk that my wife would still be at her desk. Now she can drive me home after we stop and get a meal.”
“I really have to—”
“Work, yes. It can be pizza.”
“That’s fighting dirty.”
“Fighting clean always seems like such a waste.” He two-pointed the PowerBar into her recycler. “Gather up what you need and we’ll eat while I tell you about the round of golf I played today.”
“You hate golf.”
“More than ever, so you owe me. You buy the pizza.”
“Why do I owe you?” she asked as she organized her file bag.
“Because I played eighteen holes with your suspects.”
She stopped dead. “You did what?”
“I arranged to take a golf-mad business associate to the club where Dudley and Moriarity play. We made a foursome.”
She actually felt the temper spurt up from her center to her throat. “Damn it, Roarke, why did you—”
He cut her off by poking a finger in her belly. “You don’t want to start on me after I spent a morning hitting a ball toward a hole in the ground with a club. Which admittedly I’d likely have done anyway, as David loves the bloody game, so it seemed efficient to maneuver it into a little field work. I do occasionally run into your suspects here and there.”
“Yeah, but . . .” She thought about it, and had to admit the spurt ebbed. “Yeah. What did you—”
“Walk and talk,” he interrupted. “I’ve put myself in the mood for that pizza now.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” She grabbed the bag, shut down her computer. “You’ve never played golf with them before?”
“And never will again,” he vowed as they started out. “Though we did end up beating them by three strokes, which didn’t put either of them in a cheery mood. Masked it well enough,” he added and with resignation squeezed into an elevator with Eve and a dozen cops.
“They don’t like to lose.”
“I’d say winning is a kind of religion for them. They cheat.”
“Seriously?” She narrowed her eyes. “Not surprising really. You mean they work together—team cheating?”
“They do. I can’t say how they compete with each other, one-on-one, but with others, they have a system.”
The elevator doors opened. Two cops crowbarred out, three more muscled in. Summer sweat clogged the air like cooking oil.
“How do you cheat at golf?”
One of the cops, obviously a golfer, snorted. “Sister, it ain’t that tough.”
She spared a glance over her shoulder. “Lieutenant Sister.”
“Sir.”
“They use signals, code words.”
Roarke got a wise nod from the uniform. “Bribe a caddy, he’ll maybe shave a couple strokes off. I played a guy who carried balls in his pocket. Dropped them down his pants legs. Asshole.”
“They were a bit more high-tech.” Roarke spoke directly to the uniform now. “They used doctored balls programmed to pocket directional devices.”
“Fuckers. A man who’ll cheat at golf will scam his own mother outta the rent money.”
“At the least,” Roarke agreed, amused enough to tolerate the rest of the ride down to the garage.
“They know the course,” he continued as they walked to her car. “Have obviously mapped out each hole, programmed various lies. They signal each other as they study their positions, the angles and so on. One takes his turn; the other engages the device. They’re smooth about it. I’ll drive since you have a headache.”
“I don’t have a headache. Exactly.” When he cocked his brow at her, she dropped into the passenger seat. “I have an eye ache. That’s different.”
He walked around the hood, slid behind the wheel. “They’re careful not to play so well it causes undo attention. Solid players, is what they come off as. And having a very good game today, a few strokes under their handicap. Until the tenth hole.”
“I don’t know what that means and don’t want to.”
“Neither do I, particularly.”
“Successful businesspeople are supposed to like golf. It’s some sort of rule.”
“Well, by your rules I’m an abysmal failure.” He said it cheerfully, with a definite tenor of pride. “In any case, we started closing the gap on the tenth.”
“How did you beat them?”
“David’s a superior player, and you can say I got into the spirit of the thing, put myself into it more.”