In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

you object if I recorded this? And I’ll need to read you your rights. It’s official, a formality, and it would keep the record clean.”
    “Not at all.”
    “I appreciate that.” Eve engaged her recorder, and noticed Dudley’s eyes got just a little brighter. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, in interview with Dudley, Winston, the Fourth, in his home.” She read off the Revised Miranda. “Mr. Dudley, you employ a Meryle Simpson, correct?”
    “Yes, she’s our CEO of Marketing. And a family connection . . . convolutely. No, don’t tell me something’s happened to her. I thought she and her family were away for a while.”
    “They are. However, her ID, her company credit information, and her home were used in a homicide.”
    “This just can’t be.” He braced his head in his hand, closed his eyes. “Not again.”
    “I’m afraid it can be. It’s possible her information was compromised before your recent security checks. If not, you still have a problem.”
    “It’s a nightmare.” He breathed it out, brushed a hand over his white-blond hair. “I have to assure you Meryle couldn’t be involved. She’s not only a trusted member of the Dudley team, but family.”
    “We have no reason to believe she’s involved. I spoke with her and her husband this morning, and informed them of the incident. Also I advised them there’s no need for them to return to New York at this time, but I believe Mr. Frost intends to do so, to reassure them both their house is in order.”
    “Yes, he’s a very responsible sort. What a terrible thing.” He aimed a sorrowful look in Eve’s direction. “Their home, you say?”
    “That’s right. Ms. Simpson’s name and information were used to engage the services of a private chef. A Luc Delaflote, from Paris.”
    “Delaflote!”
    Dudley pressed a spread hand to his heart. Eve wondered if he’d practiced the gesture and the shocked expression in the mirror.
    “No. My God, was he the victim? Is he dead?”
    “You know him?”
    “Yes, I do. I certainly do. The man’s an artist, a genius. We’ve—myself, friends, family—hired him many times for events, for special occasions. Why, I dined in his restaurant the last time I was in Paris. How did this happen?”
    “I’m not free to give you the details, as yet. As the employer, and a family connection, and now with your personal acquaintance with the victim, I have to ask for your whereabouts last night between the hours of nine and midnight. Obviously you were entertaining,” Eve continued. “If I could have your guest list, even a partial, to verify, it would put that matter aside so we can focus in on viable lines of investigation.”
    “Of course, of course. This is such a shock. I’m going to contact our security, and have this checked yet again.”
    “I think that would be wise. Again, we’re sorry to disturb you at home, and with such distressing news. Thank you for your time.”
    “I’m more than happy to give you my time under these tragic circumstances. This is a terrible business.”
    He chose a grim expression this time, and Eve thought he selected his facial reactions the way a man might pick the correct tie.
    “I want to contact Meryle, offer my support and sympathy. That won’t be a problem, officially, will it?”
    “Not at all. We won’t keep you any longer. If we could have that guest list, or even a handful of names, we’ll get out of your way.”
    “Let me just tell Mizzy to make you a copy.” He rose, walked to a house ’link.
    “Nice shoes,” Eve said with a casual smile. “The silver accessory gives them some jump, but they look comfortable.”
    “Thank you, and they are. Stefani invariably marries comfort and style. Mizzy, would you make a copy of last night’s guest list for Lieutenant Dallas? Yes, dear. Thank you.”
    He walked back, picked up his coffee again. “It won’t take a minute. Have you ever dined on Delaflote?” he asked her.
    “I couldn’t say.”
    “Ah, if you had, you could and would say.” He forgot to look grim or sorrowful as delight twinkled over his face. “I’m surprised Roarke wouldn’t have indulged you.”
    “Yeah, it’s too bad since we’ve missed our chance there. Still, I lean toward Italian,” she said, thinking of the pizza she’d shared with Roarke the night before.
    Mizzy, yet another red uniform, strode in, brisk on toothpick heels. “Here you are, Lieutenant. The guest list, with contact data.