are arrived. There is much work to be . . .” He stopped, eyebrows lifting when he recognized the man.
“Monsieur, you I was not expecting.”
“Good evening, Delaflote. I apologize for the subterfuge. I didn’t want it known I was your client tonight.”
“Ah, so, you wish to be incognito, oui?” Smiling a knowing smile, Delaflote tapped the side of his nose. “To have your rendezvous with a lady, what would it be, on the q.t. You can trust Delaflote. I am nothing if not discreet. But we are not complete. You must give me time to create the ambience as well as the meal.”
“I’m sure the meal would be extraordinary. It already smells wonderful.”
“Bien sûr.” Delaflote made a slight bow.
“And you came alone? No assistants?”
“Everything is prepared only by my hands, as requested.”
“Perfect. Would you mind standing just over there a bit? I want to check something.”
With a Gallic shrug he’d perfected over the years, Delaflote moved a few steps to the right.
“Yes, just there. One moment.” He backed into the kitchen, retrieved the weapon he’d leaned against the wall. “It does smell exceptional,” he said as he stepped back out. “It’s a pity.”
“What is this?” Delaflote frowned at the weapon.
“It’s my round.” And he pulled the trigger.
The barb went through the heart as if the organ had been ringed like a target. With its keen, merciless edge, it continued out the back to dig into the trunk of an ornamental cherry tree.
Moriarity studied the chef, pinned there, legs and arms twitching as body and brain died. He stepped closer to take the short recording as proof he’d completed the round.
With the ease of a man who knew all was in place, he walked back inside, replaced the weapon in its case. He opened the oven for a moment, breathed in the rich aroma before shutting it off.
“It really is a pity.”
So as not to waste the entire business, he rebagged the wine, found the champagne Delaflote had chilling. He took one last glance around to be sure all was as it should be, and satisfied, walked back through the house and out the front. The droid he’d programmed for the event waited in a black, four-door sedan.
He checked the time, smiled.
The entire business had taken hardly more than twenty minutes.
He didn’t speak to the droid; it already had instructions. As programmed it pulled into Dudley’s garage.
“Put these in Mr. Dudley’s private quarters,” he ordered, “then return the car. After you return to base, shut down for the night.”
In the garage, Moriarity retrieved the martini he’d left on a bench less than thirty minutes before, then slipped out the side door. He strolled toward the house, circled, and joined the loud, crowded party already in progress.
“Kiki.” He chose a woman at random, slipping an arm around her waist. “I was just telling Zoe how wonderful you look tonight, and had to track you down to tell you myself.”
“Oh, you darling.”
“Tell me, is it true what I heard when I was inside a few minutes ago? About Larson and Kit?”
“What did you hear?” She looked up at him, all eyes. “Obviously I’m not mingling enough if I’m not getting the gossip.”
“Let’s both get another drink, then I’ll tell you all.”
As he walked with her, his gaze met Dudley’s through the sea of people. When he inclined his head in a faint nod, they both smiled.
Eve rubbed a hand on the back of her neck to ease the crick.
“People go missing, or end up dead. That’s why we have cops, but . . .”
“You have something?” Roarke worked at the auxiliary in her office rather than in his own so they could easily relay impressions.
“About nine months ago, the two of them went to Africa, a private hunting club. It costs a mint and a half, and you’re only allowed one kill of an animal on the approved list. You have guides, a cook, assorted servants, various modes of transpo, including copters. You sleep on gel beds in big, white, climate-controlled tents that other people haul around, eat on china plates, drink fine wine, blah blah. The brochure here hypes it as adventurous elegance. You can have a gourmet breakfast, then go out and shoot an elephant or whatever.”
“Why?” Roarke wondered.
“My thought, but some people like to shoot things, especially if the things can’t shoot back. Melly Bristow, a grad student from Sydney, working on her master’s—wildlife photog—signs on as a cook. One fine morning she isn’t there to whip up that gourmet