“Probably toked up,” she muttered. “But not enough he didn’t feel it when I kicked his balls until they tickled his tongue.”
It made him smile to picture it. “Is that what you did?”
“It was the quickest and most satisfying action.”
“That’s my girl.” He toasted her.
“What are you going to do? Asshole with a plastic knife in Cop Central. It’s like . . .”
He knew that look as well, and said nothing to interrupt her train of thought.
“Make that Asshole’s Ex with a plastic knife in Cop Central.”
“All right.”
“Could that be it? Is it just that sick?”
“I can’t say.” Watching her, he sipped his wine. “You tell me.”
“It’s Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel.”
“Hmm.” He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. “Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.”
“Whatever. It’s that game—who was it—McNab or Peabody said something about that game sometime back.”
“Clue.”
“You always know this crap. But yeah, and it sounded interesting, so I brought it up on the comp one day to check it out. And that doesn’t matter.”
“You playing a game on the comp is big news, but I’d say your brainstorm on this is bigger. You’re speculating that Dudley and Moriarity, if indeed they’re in this homicidal partnership, are in fact playing a game.”
“The elements are all screwy—the methods. The weapon, the vic, the kill site. They come off as random kills, connected by the type of each element, which still strikes me as random. So what if it is, what if it is fucking random because they’re elements of a contest, a game, a competition? Or, if not that sick, some sort of deeply disturbed agreement?”
“If so, the question would be why.”
“Why does anyone play a game, enter a contest, compete? To win.”
“Darling, while that viewpoint is one of the reasons you’re not much of a player, many play because they simply enjoy the game or the experience.”
She stabbed another bite of steak. “Losing sucks.”
“I tend to agree, but nonetheless. Your hypothesis is: two respected and high-powered businessmen, with no previous criminal record or reputation for violence have partnered up, not merely to kill, but to kill for . . . sport?”
“Sport.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Look at the vics. Jamal Houston. Neither of the men or their companies used his transpo service. Nothing we’ve uncovered shows any previous connection to him. Peabody’s looking into the remote possibility one of them did use him on the QT—which isn’t probable or logical—and he saw or overheard something, then one or both of them decided to eliminate him. But just look at that convoluted mess. First, one or both had to use a service they didn’t routinely use, which limits their security. Then one or both have to do or say something incriminating, illegal, immoral, whatever, in front of a driver they don’t routinely use.”
She scooped up some of the baked potato she’d already drowned in butter, sampled, then kept talking while she—to Roarke’s mind—buried it in salt.
“Then one or both have to decide to kill him, and chose a method that highlights the crime when, shit, they could’ve hired the hit.”
“Why don’t you just salt the butter and eat it with a spoon?”
“What?”
“Never mind. All right, I agree that scenario doesn’t make sense. It’s too complicated and illogical.”
“That doesn’t even get to Crampton. Neither of them are in her book. Now, maybe one or both of them used her services with another ID, but it’s hard for me to swallow she wouldn’t have made one or both in her vetting process. And if they were using fake ID and getting away with it, why kill her? I’ve got no evidence of blackmail, as in she learned who the client was and tried to shake him down. Which would be stupid and risk her very valuable rep for money when she was already flush, and risk her license when she didn’t have a single blemish on it. Add the method and location, and it’s too showy.”
“Can’t argue. Eat your vegetables.”