In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

until she came out, handed him a cup. “They look through you.”
    “What?”
    “People—some people—with this level of social and monetary privilege. Those who can have whatever they wish whenever they wish it, and have chosen not to care, or simply haven’t the base in them to care about those who can’t. They don’t see you, the ones sweating out a day’s pay to meet the rent, or those begging on a street corner with empty bellies. They don’t see those who provide the services they use as they’re no more than droids in the world of that tunnel-vision privilege. I’ll wager they don’t know the names much less the situations of those who work for them outside their admins or PAs—and then only the names.”
    “You see, you know. And you could probably buy and sell both of them.”
    He shook his head. “It’s a different matter, not only in that base, but in the background. I’ve been the one looked through. It was one of the things I determined to change. And I’ve killed. There’s a weight in that for most of us. I can see, I think, how they might kill without that weight.”
    “Because the victims aren’t people to them. They’re like a chair or a pair of shoes, just something they buy. They pay for the kill, that keeps coming around for me. They bought them, then own them.”
    “And it’s a new thrill, the killing.”
    He could, now that she’d opened the window to it, see them sitting in their fine homes over fine brandy, discussing that new thrill.
    “It’s fresh and fascinating,” he went on. “When you can have anything you like, there can be little that feels fresh and fascinating.”
    “Do you feel that way?”
    “Not a bit.” He smiled a little as he turned to her. “But in my way, it’s the business itself, the angles, the strategies, the possibilities that are fresh and fascinating. And I have you. Who do they have? As you said, they keep nothing on display that connects them to family, to a loved one.”
    “It’s one of the things I’m going to look at. Their exes, their family connections, the people they hang with. What do they do with their leisure time?”
    “They don’t play polo or squash, but I had it right on golf. You’d made me curious,” he said when she frowned at him. “So I looked into it a bit. They both belong to the Oceanic Yacht Club, quite exclusive, as you’d expect, and have participated or sponsored quite a number of races and events. They both enjoy baccarat, high stakes. They each own majority shares in racehorses, which often compete.”
    “Compete,” she repeated. “Another pattern.”
    “When not in New York tending to their companies’ HQs—or in my opinion after a bit of digging, sitting in as the symbolic head—they tend to follow the seasons and trends. They sail, they ski, they gamble, attend parties and premieres.”
    “Together?”
    “Often, but not always. They do have separate interests as well. Dudley enjoys tennis, playing and attending the important matches. Moriarity prefers chess.”
    “Nonteam sports.”
    “So it seems.”
    “They compete with each other in several areas. That’s part of their dynamic. Separately they go for activities where you compete head to head rather than suit up with a team.” She nodded. “It’s good data. Now I need to get more. Do you want in on that?”
    “I have a little time I can squeeze in.” He traced a fingertip along the dent in her chin. “For a price.”
    “Nothing’s free.”
    “There’s my motto. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
    “You could go back further. See if these two went to school together at any point, or have any relatives in common. Basically I’d like to pin down when they met, how, that sort of thing.”
    “Easy enough.”
    “And keep it on the straight line.”
    “You do know how to spoil my fun. That may cost you double. You can start with the dishes,” he said and strolled away.
    She scowled, but she couldn’t bitch since he’d put the meal together.
    “I bet these guys don’t expect their bed partners to dump stupid dishes in the machine,” she called out.
    “Darling, you’re so much more to me than a bed partner.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, but gathered up the dishes, dumped them in the machine.
    She sat, input all the information Roarke had given her, added various elements of her own into the file.
    “Computer, run a probability on Dudley and Moriarity killing both victims while working as competitors