In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

either way, until next month, and then only if he’s in town.”
    Eve took out a card. “Do us both a favor. If he contacts you for an at-home session, you get in touch.”
    Chica studied the card and for the first time looked concerned. “Why?”
    “Because I’m a cop with good boots.”
    Chica laughed, but turned the card in her hands. “Listen, he’s a really good client. I get a nice commission and a generous tip with the at-your-door service, and I’d really hate to do anything to mess that up.”
    “It won’t mess that up.”
    “I guess it’s no skin off mine.”
    “Good enough.” Eve rose, started out. “Peabody, dry your adoring tears. We’re done.”
    “Oh, God!” Peabody beamed as they climbed to the car. “That was the best time. Did you see those—”
    “Do not describe a pair of weird-looking, overpriced shoes to me.”
    “But they were—”
    “You’ll be crying tears of pain and misery any second. Dudley bought that shoe, right in that store, in March. Size ten.”
    “No shit?”
    “Not a single scoop of shit. We’ll run the other name—just one other sale—on the list—and the others citywide, global, too, just to cover bases, but that’s just too damn good. Circumstantial, but damn good. Let’s go screw with his day. Verify with his HQ he’s there. If not, find out where he is.”
    This time when they arrived at Dudley’s, they were met in the lobby by a woman in a dark, pinstriped suit that showed a lot of leg and showcased excellent breasts. She wore her hair pulled back in a long, curly tail from a face boasting a perky, pointed nose, full lips, and wide, deep blue eyes.
    “Lieutenant, Detective.” She shot out a hand. “I’m Marissa Cline, Mr. Dudley’s personal assistant. I’ll escort you directly to his office.”
    “Appreciate the service,” Eve said.
    Marissa gestured, and began to walk, briskly, on her candy-red heels. Eve wondered if she considered them a good investment.
    “Mr. Dudley’s very concerned with the situation,” Marissa continued, “and the company’s indirect involvement in a crime.”
    She palm-printed a pad, swiped a card in the security slot, then again gestured for Eve and Peabody to step into the elevator.
    “Marissa, carrying two, to sixty.”
    Verified, the computer responded. Proceeding.
    “So, is Mr. Dudley active in the running of the company?” Eve asked.
    “Oh, yes, of course. When Mr. Dudley’s father semi-retired three years ago, Mr. Dudley took over the reins, primarily from this HQ.”
    “Before that?”
    Marissa smiled, blankly. “Before?”
    “Before he took over the reins?”
    “Oh, ah, Mr. Dudley traveled extensively to various other HQs and outlets, gaining a wide range of experience in all levels of the company.”
    “Okay.” Eve wondered if that was corporate speak for Dudley’s getting shuffled around, enjoying a variety of travel and partying while his father kept him on the payroll. They stepped out of the elevator into a spacious reception area, stylishly decorated with white lounging chairs equipped with miniscreens. Among the flowers, the refreshment bar, the conversation areas, three attractive women busily worked on comps.
    Marissa knocked briskly—brisk seemed to be her mode—on one of the center double doors before tossing them both open.
    Winston Dudley’s office was more along the lines of a snazzy hotel suite—lush and plush, staggering view, sparkling chandeliers.
    A great deal of furniture helped fill the space, artfully arranged in conversational groups. He rose from behind a desk with a black mirrored surface.
    He was more attractive in person than the ID shot. Eve put it down to what people called charisma—the way he smiled as he looked you directly in the eye, the way he moved, smooth as a dancer. Just a hint of flirtation in that move, that smile, those eyes, she thought—the sort that said, you’re a desirable woman, and I appreciate desirable women.
    Avid eyes, she mused, that made her wonder if he’d recently sampled some of his own products.
    His hair, so blond as to be nearly white, was swept back from a delicately boned face. Almost feminine, she mused. The features weren’t quite as sharp as Urich’s, but close.
    His suit fit perfectly in a color she thought of as indigo. Old-fashioned links glinted at the cuffs of his pale blue shirt. His ID data, and her visual scan, put him at five feet ten and a half inches, weighing in at one-seventy.
    Again, in