Indulgence in Death - J. D. Robb [121]
With one glance she targeted uniforms.
“Newkirk, Ping, the other Carmichael, do whatever the detectives need you to do. Anything pops, anything even breaks the most discreet of wind, I hear about it. Full briefing and all reports in two hours. Conference room . . . Peabody?”
“C.”
“Conference room C, two hours. Sweat,” she ordered. “These cocksuckers are killing people the same way a kid steps on ants. Because they want to see them squish. More, they think we’re stupid, too stupid to bring them down. We’re going to prove them wrong. Peabody, with me.”
Eve headed straight to the AutoChef in her office for coffee, then jerked a thumb at the machine.
“I better not.” Peabody’s voice signaled sincere regret. “I was fading so I took a boost. Now I feel like my eyes are glued open and my nerves are all twitchy. I haven’t found the connection to the last vic and Moriarity.”
“Pass it to Carmichael. Uniform Carmichael. And why do they have to have the same name? One of them needs to change it. Anyway, he’s a vicious bastard on details. And, yeah, you’d find it,” Eve added before Peabody could protest. “But he’ll come with a fresh eye, and without the twitches. Plus I need you on other angles. Hold on a minute.”
She sat, copied the relevant files, and transferred them to the relevant cops.
“French guy’s wine and supplies.”
“Bought in gay Paree.” With so many details crowded in her head, Peabody took out her notebook to keep them straight. “He got the booking five weeks ago.”
“Five weeks. That’s good, that’s a confirmation of long-term planning. Dudley would know Simpson and her family would be in Georgia. She’d have to clear the vacation time in advance, and this is an annual family summer thing. They’d want to lock Delaflote in, had to suss out and plan the alibi, the timing. Probably practiced that, too.”
“Booking was done by e-mail, through what I’ve already checked was a temp account, assigned to Simpson for billing. The vic’s assistant has it listed as a surprise for the husband, for Frost. Intimate, romantic dinner for two, alfresco.”
“The garden. All set up for the garden,” Eve added, nodding.
“Late supper,” Peabody continued. “Delaflote’s travel fee—and he came in on his own shuttle—paid early this week, through Simpson’s account. Delaflote personally shopped for the food supplies and the wine on the day of departure. He has a major interest in a vineyard, and selected three bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé, a bottle of Sauternes, three bottles of champagne. All from the Château Delaflote label. I have the vintages for all of them, as the vic kept a kind of spreadsheet for jobs.”
She paused, and pleasure moved onto her face. “And Dallas, as the client hyped this as such a special deal, expense no object, the champagne’s from a limited edition label and vintage. They’re freaking numbered. He took numbers forty-eight, forty-nine, and fifty from the private reserve he kept back for special clients.”
Eve’s smile spread slowly, a reflection of Peabody’s pleasure. “Maybe I do love you.”
“Aww.”
“We find one of those bottles, we’ll nail them with it. Clean that report up. You’ll be presenting that to the ADA and the commander in a couple hours.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Tag Feeney, and tell him when and where. I want a solid report from him for same. I want everybody ready and in the conference room on time. No excuses. I’ll set the commander and Reo for ten minutes after. Brief Carmichael—both of them. I’ll send you a report on Jonas as soon as I put it in order. Now go away. Shut the door.”
Before it shut, she was contacting Whitney’s office. She locked him in, then Reo, then moved onto Mira. If she’d had time, she’d have cheered when