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“Yeah, I was going to say—”
“And if that elevator isn’t monitored, eyes and ears, I’m having an affair with Summerset.”
“You’re—oh. Damn, sure it is.”
“Lobby might be, too.”
“You didn’t really want to know what McNab and I were doing tonight?”
“Why the hell would I care? He’s slick,” she repeated.
“He is, but he didn’t kill Houston. And he didn’t have an alibi for The Night of the Shoe.”
Eve snorted out a laugh. “Good one. That’s right, and he’s also five ten, and a little heavier than Urich. What else did we get out of that?”
“The connection you wanted between the two companies. Just call me Winnie and Sly. Good pals. It’s the first real link we’ve found.”
“That’s right. Top-level connection. What else did we get?”
“Okay, what?”
“Who wasn’t at the famous dinner party two nights ago when Jamal Houston was getting a crossbow through the neck?”
“Sylvester Moriarity? You’re thinking . . . Like that case a while back. Where the two women killed the other’s husbands? They each took one? But why?”
“Don’t know. But it’s an interesting angle. Track down Sly, and let’s go see if he’s as slick as Winnie.”
11
WHILE THE TONE OF DUDLEY AND SON HIT modern and angular on the nose, Intelicore adorned itself in the heavy and ornate. Lots of curves and curlicues, Eve noted, big-ass urns, plenty of gilt.
Contacting the company en route had paved the way, and pretty damn smoothly, straight to the hallowed halls of Sylvester—The Third’s—offices.
Like his counterpart at Dudley, he reigned on the top floor, or floors in this case, as a sweep of marble steps joined the office space to what Moriarity’s admin explained were his private quarters.
They were served coffee from a silver pot and invited to wait while The Third concluded a meeting. Left alone with Peabody, Eve scanned the office area.
F
ancy taste, a love of excess—well, that could have described Roarke, she mused. Except he went in for that more at home than at work. The big, carved desk held court in front of triple windows—privacy screened—and held the expected data-and-communication center as well as mementos, an antique clock, a painted box.
Thick rugs, age-faded, spread over the floor while lights with colorful glass shades adorned tables with curved legs. Art, likely worth a mid-sized fortune, covered the walls.
Moriarity strode in, exuded the aura of a busy man—sharp movements in a sharp suit. His angular, thin-lipped face held a golden tan, and with his sun-streaked hair tousled, his eyes of bright, bold green, he gave the impression of action, athleticism.
He offered Eve a firm, perfunctory handshake, then nodded to Peabody.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting. Last night’s incident required a departmental meeting. I hope you have an update on the event.”
“The Crampton murder is an open and active investigation. Evidence supports that Foster Urich’s identification and credit line were compromised by the person responsible for Ava Crampton’s death.”
“Then he’s not a suspect.”
“At this time we believe Mr. Urich was at home, in the company of a friend, when Crampton was killed.”
Moriarity nodded. “If Foster says he was home, he was home. I can and do vouch for his honesty without hesitation. He’s a valued part of this company.”
“For the record, Mr. Moriarity, where were you last night between nine P.M. and one A.M.?”
