“A mile’s a considerable clip, even if she panicked—and who wouldn’t?—and ran away from camp rather than to it.”
“And in a footrace, I’m betting on the lion. Now, maybe she was stupid, maybe she was, but I’m reading her data, and she doesn’t strike me as stupid. She spent time in the Australian bush, did another stint at some preserve in Alaska, hit India. She had experience, and knew how to handle herself.
“Look at her.” She ordered the ID shot onto the wall screen.
“Very attractive,” Roarke remarked. “Very.”
“It could be one of them felt he was entitled to her, and she didn’t agree. Or she did and it got too rough. Got a dead woman on your hands, what do you do now? You call in your best pal, and you figure it out.”
“They work together well,” Roarke commented, thinking of the golf outing.
“Same side of the same coin. That’s how Moriarity’s ex described them. Partner up. Get her dressed, get her stuff. They knew where the pride was, and the basic hunting ground of the female because they’d seen it the day before, and the guide gave a spiel on it. Carrying deadweight a mile’s not easy, but not so bad if you’re taking turns. Dump the body, maybe slice it up a little hoping the cat scents the blood and comes to chow down. Toss her camera, toss her ’link, go back to camp. If the cat doesn’t cooperate, well, you alibi each other. It still looks like she went out on her own and got attacked. Just by a two-legged animal.”
She picked up her coffee mug, scowled when she found it empty. “Anyway, this could be where it started. It’s all there. Or possibly there. A kill—an accident or impulse—the cover-up, working together. The excitement of that, then the aftermath. The search, and you two are the only ones who know—more excitement. Then, wow, it worked just as you’d hoped. You’re untouchable, and wasn’t that fun?”
“How long had they been out?”
“Three days. This would have been day four.”
“Had they had a kill?”
“Ah . . .” She turned back to her comp screen, scrolled through statements and reports. “No.”
“Then it might be even more than you’ve laid out. They paid to kill, and hadn’t.”
She said nothing for a moment. “What time is it in Africa?”
“That would depend on which part. It’s a big continent.”
“Zimbabwe.”
“Well . . .” He glanced at the time. “About five in the morning.”
“How do you just know that?”
“It’s math, darling. You don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
“Bite me.”
“Considering the topic of conversation, that was in poor taste. Hmm. So was that. And before you call the hunting club trying to dig out more, I might have another for you.”
“Where?”
“Naples, Italy, or off the coast of. They were in a sailing tournament, and in and around that area for a couple weeks. During that time Sofia Ricci, age twenty-three, went missing. She’d been at a club, and had been drinking, as one would. She had a row with her boyfriend, and left.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” Roarke confirmed. “Under quite a head of steam according to witnesses. The last anyone remembers seeing her was about half-midnight. She didn’t make it home, and her roommate didn’t worry, as she assumed she was at the boyfriend’s. She didn’t work the next day, so again, no one noticed she was missing. Until Sunday when the boyfriend went by her flat to make amends. He told the police, who looked at him hard and long, that he’d gone home about a half hour after she had, and he’d tried her ’link twice the next day—which was verified on his own outgoings—and assumed she was still not speaking to him. They’ve never found her. That was seven months ago.”
“It’s a big ocean,” Eve commented.
“It is, yes. Your suspects stayed on Dudley’s yacht or in Moriarity’s villa during that period. Both of them, along with several others from their sailing club, joined in the initial search.”
“More of a thrill. Another woman,” she considered, “on the young side. Could’ve started that way figuring women are easier game—two men, one woman. Most women wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”
“The police cleared the boyfriend, but he was their focus for the first seventy-two hours. They’re looking at it as an abduction. She had friends, family, stability, no major troubles, a good job, and so on.”
“Two months between. Peabody tossed out they might have practiced on people no one would miss, but I think no. It’s a bigger rush if there’s an alarm, a search, media reports. Ricci might be their second. Two months gives them time to congratulate each other on getting away with murder, ride on the juice, lose the juice. Want that again.”
“Time to plan,” Roarke agreed. “Working together requires deciding who’s responsible for what, coordinating schedules.”
“Time to talk it through, work it out, pump it up. Away from their base again,” Eve noted. “And they either figure out they don’t want to be involved with another dead body or decide to switch it up, so they can use the location to dump it where it won’t likely be found, at least not while they’re in the area. Maybe they trolled awhile, and they got themselves a pissed-off, little-bit-drunk woman.”
“A very pretty one,” Roarke added and put the image on-screen.
“Yeah, that might’ve been part of it at first. Use her, share her, kill her. But they didn’t need the sex. It was the kill that got them both off. They’d need to do it again, maybe mix it up a little, see what happens.”
“Was it already a game, do you think? Already a competition between them?”
“It’s intimacy. It’s . . .” She shifted to look over at him, to meet his eye. “It’s what we’re doing here, looking for the missing and the dead. It’s you and your aunt saying a few words—words that matter—in Irish. It’s Charles making omelets for Louise when she’s pulled the night shift.”
She stopped, hesitated. “That sounds lame. I don’t know how—”
“No, it’s perfectly clear. It’s more than teamwork, shared interests, partnership. You see it as a terrible kind of love.”
“I guess I do. If I was going to pull a Mira, I’d say they found each other, recognized each other. Maybe if they hadn’t . . .” She shrugged. “But they did. And in that terrible way, they complete each other.”
“Yes, I see. There might have been others, Eve. Before Africa. Others, who as Peabody theorized, wouldn’t have been noticed.”
“Easing into it,” she considered even as her stomach tightened at the idea. “Perfecting that teamwork before they tried someone who’d show, who could even be connected to them.” She raked a hand through her hair. “Let’s work from here, sticking with victims who show. Let’s start with six to eight from Italy. These kinds of killers generally start to escalate. They need their fix.”
She ordered the computer to factor in her suspects’ whereabouts for that time frame, and refined the search.
“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. I knew it! Data on-screen, goddamn bastards. Look at that,” she snapped at Roarke. “Seven weeks almost to the damn day after the woman in Italy. Quick gambling trip, Vegas. Closer to home now. They don’t travel together, but meet up there. Dudley arrives a day ahead. Big baccarat tourney, which is a stupid game.”
“Actually, it’s—”
“Don’t interrupt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart-ass,” she muttered. “Twenty-nine-year-old female, found dead in her own car on the side of the road in the desert north of Vegas. Stun marks on her chest. Beaten to death with a tire iron left at the scene. No defensive wounds, no sexual assault. Put her out first, then killed her. No bag, no jewelry. Played at making it look like robbery. Smashed her car up, too. Cops look at that, think illegals. Some chemi-heads, drifters with bad attitudes, along those lines. Get her to pull over, stun her and the rest.