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“Yes, sir, we did a walk-through. The place is empty, and in order. Except for the kitchen.” He g
estured 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.”
