She swung in at a gate, studied the house behind it as she held up her badge for the uniform at guard.
Mansion, she corrected. It didn’t come up to Roarke’s level, but what did? Still, it boasted three stories, took up an entire corner, sat prettily behind a low wall.
When the uniform cleared them, she drove through, pulled up behind a pair of black-and-whites.
“There’s going to be good security here.” Even as she climbed out of her vehicle she tracked the cams and sensors. “Maybe they kept the system Moriarity had. He just had to break their codes.”
“Body’s in the back, LT,” a uniform told her. “There’s a patio garden deal back there. Gardener’s who found him.” The uniform gestured toward the work truck. “Said he was here to do some work, and said how the people who live here are away, down in Georgia. Been gone all week.
“House was locked,” he continued as he walked them in and through. “No signs of break-in, no signs of struggle. Got plenty of valuables right out in plain sight. It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken.”
“Did you clear the house?”
“Yes, sir, we did a walk-through. The place is empty, and in order. Except for the kitchen.” He gestured as they entered. “Somebody was cooking. There’s a whole damn chicken mostly cooked from the looks of it in the oven, and all this other stuff—food and cooking junk—on the counters.”
“Oven on or off when you got here?”
“Off, LT. The lights and the music were on, just like now. The vic’s wearing an apron, and I gotta say, he’s a sight to see.”
“Where’s the gardener?”
“We got him, and his kid—bad day to bring his kid to work—in there.” He gestured. “Looks like a maid’s or mother-in-law’s quarters.”
“Get started on the knock-on-doors. Anybody saw anything I want to know. Keep the wits secured until I send for them.”
“You got that.”
She stepped outside, and had to agree. It was a sight to see.
She sealed up, tossed the can to Roarke, but continued to stand where she was a moment. Just taking it in.
“Garden area. Walls, sure, but it’s outdoors, people walking or driving by beyond the walls. Buildings, too. People maybe looking out the window. So it fits the rules.”
She turned her attention to the victim. “He’s got to be a cook, right? An important cook.”
“Chef. If I’m not mistaken that’s Delaflote of Paris. And yes,” Roarke confirmed, “he’s important. One of the top chefs in the world. He owns a restaurant by his name in Paris, and occasionally cooks there. Primarily he serves private clients. Heads of state number among them.”
“It fits. So Moriarity gets him here, likely using either Frost’s or Simpson’s ID and info. We’ll want to check how he got here, and—”
“He travels on his own shuttle. It’s easy enough to confirm.”
She only nodded. “Got him here, even got him to cook—or start to. Lured or forced him out here, then . . . The chef in the garden with the—what the hell is that pinning the poor, sorry bastard to that tree.”
“Some sort of spear?”
She frowned at him. “What kind of spear? You’re the weapon guy.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, whatever propelled it isn’t here, is it?” But challenged, he moved closer, studied what he could see in the early-morning light. “It would have to have some velocity to go all the way through him and into the bloody tree far enough to hold the body weight. I wouldn’t think it could be done by hand. It’s metal, not wood, and coated. Thin and smooth, and . . . I think it’s a harpoon.”
“Like for shooting whales?”
“Smaller mammals in this case and designed for spearing game fish, I would think. It’s not thrown, but propelled from a kind of gun. But that’s best guess.”
“The chef in the garden with the harpoon. It fits, so there’s the hat trick.”
She walked over now, reopened her field kit. “Be Peabody.”
“Peabody wouldn’t have recognized a harpoon spear.”
She had to give him that, but simply pointed to the kit. “TOD and ID.”
He’d seen it done often enough, and he had been the one to put himself into the Peabody substitute position. So he worked while Eve examined the body.
“No other visible marks on him. No defensive wounds.” She looked down, tagged a cigarette butt for the sweepers. “Probably his. Even Moriarity isn’t arrogant enough to hand me his DNA on a butt. What’s he, about five seven? Spear goes right through the chest, another heart shot. You want to make it count, don’t want the vic wounded so he could scream. Yeah, about five seven, and right through the chest, almost dead-fucking-center of this tree trunk. Like he had a target on his chest.”
“It’s Delaflote,” Roarke confirmed. “Luc, age fifty-two, dual citizenship, French and American, primary residence in Paris. Unmarried at the moment, with three children from various prior relationships.”
“I don’t need all that yet.”
“I’m being Peabody, and our girl is nothing but thorough. Time of death appears to be twenty-two-eighteenish.” He pointed when Eve frowned at him. “As it’s my first day on the job I’d like a bit of slack, Lieutenant.”
She waved that away, walked into the kitchen, back out again. Studied the body. Repeated everything.
“Somebody had to let him into the house, or give him the codes so he could let himself in. What kind of client would give somebody the codes to their house? More likely, somebody let him in. There’s all the food stuff. So either the vic brings that in or the killer had it.”
“From what I understand Delaflote insisted on bringing in his own supplies.”
“Fine, probably no chance tracking down any fancy ingredients and nailing Moriarity with the purchase. If Moriarity let him in, did the vic know him, was he expecting him? Wouldn’t he have checked, just like any other service provider, on the client? But he had to get into the house, so somebody let him in. If it’s Moriarity, why wait so long for the kill? How long does it take to cook a chicken?” she demanded.
He simply stared at her. “How in bleeding hell would I know?”
She sent him a thin smile. “I bet Peabody would.”
“Bloody hell. Wait. How many pounds?”
“I don’t know.” She scowled, held out her hands. “It’s about like this.”
“Hmm.” He fiddled with his PPC. “Maybe two hours, according to this.”
“You’re a pretty good Peabody. Have to figure the killer turned it off before he left. Don’t want to start the smoke or fire alarms and have the fire department here. It looks pretty much done to me, but I guess it would, like roast in the heat after it’s turned off. And it’s got to take some prep time. So it’s likely the vic was here a couple hours. Cooking and mixing and chopping away. There’s a lot of knives and cleavers and really sharp shit in there, and a fancy case for them.”
“That would be Delaflote’s, I imagine.”
“Moriarity doesn’t let this guy in, hang around for two hours while the cooking’s happening. It’s a waste of time, and too risky.” She circled the patio, considered the angles. “Maybe he lets him in, leaves, comes back. We’ll check security, but I don’t know why he’d leave anything on it. It had to be light out when the vic got here.”
She walked in and out again. Seeing it, Roarke thought, letting herself see it in different ways until one clicked.
“Late supper deal,” she said when she came out. “Had to be. There’s not enough food for a party. It looks like a fancy dinner for two, late supper. There’s an open bottle of wine, and a glass. That’ll be the vic’s, too. So where’s the wine for supper? Where’s the champagne? There’s none in the fridge in there, chilling. The owners probably have a wine cellar, or a wine bar somewhere in there. But . . .”