Festive in Death (24 page)

“The flourish was pure ego, was stupid, was very much bragging.”

“Which is why you like Copley.”

“Which is why.”

She rolled it around in her head while he parked.

“Follow my lead, okay?”

“Naturally. You know they may not be home on this bright and cold Sunday afternoon.”

“They’re somewhere. I’ll find them.”

Eve pressed the buzzer, did the scanning deal for the computer. The process moved quickly this time, and the house droid opened the door.

“Lieutenant. How can I help you?”

“I want to speak with Ms. Quigley. Mr. Copley, too.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Copley isn’t at home at this time. Ms. Quigley has an appointment shortly.”

“Then I’ll try not to keep her long.”

“Of course. Please come in. I’ll let her know you’re here. Make yourselves comfortable,” she added, leading them into the living area. “May I serve you anything?”

“We’re good.”

Eve waited until the droid left the room. “You know she’s already told Quigley who was at the door. Why do they always act like they haven’t?”

“It’s a procedure. It’s a nice old building,” he observed. “Very well rehabbed.”

“Taste and money?”

“It would take both, and an admirable respect for the character of the brownstone.”

He turned, as she did, at the quick click of heels. “Lieutenant, I wasn’t expecting . . . Roarke.” Natasha’s smile flashed out as she clicked over, extended a hand. “We met, very fleetingly, several years ago, at an art show in London.”

“It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Please, sit down. I didn’t put it together when I spoke with you before,” she said to Eve. “I suppose the upset over everything fogged my focus. Eve Dallas, Roarke’s wife—and the star of
The
Icove Agenda
.”

“Marlo Durn’s the star of that. I’m a cop.”

And you’re a liar, Eve thought. She’d made the connection already. Why pretend otherwise?

“Of course. I heard Nadine Furst is working on a second book based on one of your cases. I’ll look forward to reading it even more now that we’ve met. Even under the circumstances.”

“Where’s your husband?”

Natasha blinked once at the flat tone, but kept her smile in place. “JJ’s golfing. He and Lance and two of their friends have a regular game every fourth Sunday, in Florida. They took the corporate shuttle this morning. He’ll be back by six, if it’s important.”

“You’ll do. The last time we spoke you expressed considerable concern about your husband learning of your affair with Ziegler.”

“I . . .” The faintest flush—embarrassment, anger, a combination, rose into her cheeks. “I was forthright with you, Lieutenant. I’d prefer not to discuss it again.”

“If you know Nadine’s book, the vid, you’re aware Roarke often serves as an expert civilian consultant.”

“You can rely on my discretion, Natasha.” Roarke spoke smoothly, and with the lightest touch of sympathy.

“I appreciate that, of course. Still, it’s very uncomfortable. It wasn’t an affair, though I pretended it was to, well, sugarcoat it for myself. It was a business transaction, on both sides, which I engaged in during a difficult time in my marriage. I’m certainly not proud of it.”

“You were concerned if your husband knew, he’d end the marriage. Yet this wouldn’t be the first time either of you engaged in affairs.”

The color deepened. “I don’t see what that has to do with Trey’s death, or my current marital status.”

“It’s harder for me to believe he’d toss it all out over . . . a business transaction, given the history.”

“The history is precisely why. We’ve made mistakes, we’ve both been unfaithful in the past. We promised each other we’d never do so again.”

“Felicity Prinze.”

She saw it, immediately. Natasha knew.

“You’re not tossing it all out over your husband’s . . . business transaction.”

“That business has been concluded.” She shoved to her feet. “I won’t have you come here and insult me, I won’t have you pry into my personal life.”

“Your personal life is part of my investigation. Try telling me the truth, and I won’t have to pry. You knew about Felicity Prinze.”

“Yes, I knew. It’s over.”

“How long have you known?”

“Weeks.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’m perfectly aware of JJ’s pattern, and his weaknesses. The situation put a strain on our marriage.”

“The rough patch.”

“Yes. We discussed counseling, argued, discussed divorce. And I . . . I began my business with Trey. I was so hurt and angry. Then JJ promised to end it, asked for another chance. I needed to think about it, of course, to search my own heart, but under it all I wanted to save my marriage. I intended to end my association with Trey, as I told you. And when JJ asked if I’d go away with him after the holidays, just the two of us, I knew I had to give him, give us, a chance.”

“You caught him cheating. How do you resolve your frantic concern about him finding out about your relationship with Ziegler.”

Natasha closed her eyes a moment, then released a breath. “One moment, please.” She stepped over to the house comm. “Hester, please contact Brianne and tell her I’m going to be just a little late.”

She came back, sat. “I’d lose my leverage. I’d lose any chance of patching this up, moving on. I was furious when I learned about this—this—
dancer
. I nearly tossed JJ out then and there, but . . . We argued, we said the usual horrible things to each other. But among those horrible things he had a point or two about my neglecting . . . some areas of our marriage, about expecting him to be present for my events and social needs while often not being available for his.”

She pushed at her hair, seemed to gather herself. “You’re married. There are ups and there are downs. I wanted time to think, to evaluate what I really wanted from JJ, for myself. And at a weak moment, I leaped into this business with Trey. It was stupid, it was emotional. By engaging with Trey I did precisely, or nearly, what JJ had done. I can hardly pretend to be outraged and list all the requirements for
staying married to him if he learns I had sex with our personal trainer, can I? We’re working toward making it all whole, and this would tear it apart again.”

“Not tit for tat?” Eve said.

“Like most men—at least in my experience—he has the mind-set that it’s one matter for a man to dally, another for a woman. I can put aside what he did. He’d never do the same.”

“What would he do?” Eve asked.

“He’d slap me with it and walk away, or slap me with it and stay to slap me with it every time we had a problem. I can live with the secret. I can forget it. I can’t live with him holding it over me.”

“You told me he wasn’t violent, but you use a violent word to describe his reaction.”

“Verbally, of course. And . . . emotionally.”

But there was a hitch, a slight one.

“Has he ever hit you?”

“No! Absolutely no! Yes, he has a temper, it’s foolish to deny it. But he takes his anger out on inanimate things. He might throw something, or slam doors. He’s . . . it’s a bit like a child really, a tantrum. One of the things we’ve discussed is anger management.”

She leaned forward, earnestly. “He shouts, and it annoys people, puts them off. We have house droids rather than human help as they don’t become offended. I can promise you, if he knew about Trey, he’d make me pay, but he wouldn’t physically harm me. Or anyone.”

She rubbed her hand up and down her throat. “You can’t think he had anything to do with what happened to Trey. I’d know. I would. He was here, getting dressed for our party that night. And he was calm and even cheerful. He’d have been enraged, but he wasn’t. We even . . . we were together that night, for the first time since I learned
of that dancer. He could never have done what you’re thinking then come home, and been so calm and cheerful, hosted a party, made love with me. He couldn’t have.”

•   •   •

A
lot of ‘he couldn’ts’ in there,” Eve observed when they walked back to the vehicle.

“You unsettled her.”

“I meant to.”

“Not enough for her to agree to any taps, which is a pity.”

“She was pretty unsettled about that, too. Lots of ‘absolutely nots.’ No spying on spouse. No more prying into personal lives.”

“She may have protested—and too much as the bard would say—but she showed some fear, plenty of doubt.”

“Yeah, she did. Still, the leverage makes more sense, rings truer to me than the ‘Oooh, don’t tell JJ I did the nasty with the trainer.’ There’s some truth rolled in there, it’s just rolled in with lies, half-truths, and bullshit. I need some time to sort it all out.”

“She doesn’t love him.”

Pausing, Eve narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you say that?”

He opened the car door for her, walked around to slide behind the wheel. “The bit about leverage? That’s something you and I might joke about, as we do cutting out hearts or dancing tangos on battered bodies if unfaithful.”

“Who says I’m joking about dancing on your battered body?”

He leaned over, kissed her. “That’s love. She wants that leverage—as if she’s to be believed he would hold a mistake over her head. Leverage, weight, payback. It’s not love.”

“No. It’s a power struggle with sex. Marriage is that, sort of—but
it’s only right with the love in there. She’d go on this trip with him, and they’d make love noises—I don’t mean sex noises. Then, if he isn’t the killer—in which case I’ll have him in a cage—he’ll cheat again. She expects it. Next time she’ll boot him. They’ll have a prenup so he’ll get something, but she’s too smart, the money’s too old, for her to go into it without planning for this. Cheated with her, will cheat on her.”

“Logical enough,” Roarke agreed.

“Same with her. Cheated with him, and so on. Shit, when it comes down to it, they deserve each other.

“We’ve got a prenup, right?”

“We do, yes. You read it, had your lawyer go over it. We signed it and put it away where we never have to think of it again.”

“Yeah, right. I didn’t read it or do the lawyer thing. I just signed it.”

He stopped the car, annoying several cars behind him. “What? Christ Jesus, Eve.”

“Drive, before they get out the bats. What the fuck do I care? Your money was a big strike against you at the start anyway, pal. I never wanted it.”

“That’s not the bloody point.”

She heard the temper—very real—edge his tone and just shrugged it off. “It’s exactly the bloody point. You’ve got billions of billions, organizations, corporations, enterprises on and off planet, and I don’t even
want
to know all of it anyway. You have people depending on the income they earn from those organizations and the rest. All that needs to be protected, and if you didn’t you’re a moron. You’re not a moron or I wouldn’t have married you and we wouldn’t be talking about this anyway.”

“The bloody point is, you have rights, expectations, rights to those
expectations. And speaking of morons, who signs a shagging legal document without reading it first?”

“Roarke Industries needed the legal document. You and I never did.”

Just like that, she saw the temper dissolve. “Ah, Christ, Eve.”

“You think I don’t know the difference? That I didn’t always know? I signed it because I thought: Great, this takes what gives me the jitters out of it. Not all the jitters because getting married gave me plenty. But the main jitters, signed away, and it gave me some peace of mind on it. And if you think I’d take a penny with me if you boot me, you are a moron. I take what I came in with. Except this.” She tapped her wedding ring with her thumb. “And this.” Lifted the diamond from under her shirt. “They’re mine, and if that’s not in there, it’s going to be amended.”

“You leave me speechless.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“I love you beyond speech. Beyond reason.”

“That works for me. You work for me.” She leaned back, looked down. “I might keep these boots, too, and the coat. Yeah, if you boot me, I’m definitely keeping the coat.”

He grinned at her, took her hand.

“You keep Summerset—that’s firm.”

“I’m completely agreeable to all your terms.”

She glanced over as he drove through the gates. “Can I get a lifetime supply of coffee tossed in? That should cover it all.”

Again he stopped the car. This time, he released his safety belt, hers, and pulled her into his arms. “I adore you. But none of this matters as I’d only boot you if you cheated on me. Then there’s the whole business of cutting out your heart and setting it on fire to follow.”

“Right. I forgot about that.” She held on a moment, content. “I’d love to read the Quigley-Copley prenup.”

“Would you like me to arrange that?”

“Tempting, but no. There’s no urgency on it, and I think I stirred up some dust. Maybe Peabody did the same.”

She leaned back. “I’m going to check in with her, write all this up. Then let’s pick a vid where lots of shit blows up, and eat ourselves sick with popcorn.”

“A fine plan, with one addition.”

“What?”

“Let’s drink considerable wine with the popcorn, and have crazed sex after the vid—as a double feature.”

“A better plan. Let’s get it done.”

It took some time, getting everything in place to the point she felt justified in taking another few hours off.

She talked to Peabody at length, briefly to McNab. Wrote her update, read Peabody’s. Updated her board, her book.

The Quigley-Copley household was a mess, she mused. Then again in her experience a great many households ran on rocky, pitted, often ugly ground.

“Sometimes we do,” she told the cat, who seemed more interested in taking the next of his long series of naps in her office sleep chair. “The rocky part. We’ve got the smooth running right now, but there are always going to be bumps ahead.”

Stepping back, she hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studying the ID shots, the way they looked together. “Both attractive—got a polished-up look about them that says money even just in the IDs. They even look like a couple, like two people who should fit. But they just don’t.

“They just don’t,” she repeated, leaned back on her desk.

“People could say that about us,” she said when Roarke moved from his office to hers. “Probably a lot of them do.”

“What would that be?”

“That we don’t fit.”

“I beg to differ.” He walked to her, leaned on the desk beside her. “We fit as cleanly as a bespoke suit.”

“I’m saying what people outside it all might say. It’s perception, pal. Look at them—Quigley, Copley. They look like a set—that’s visual perception, and probable social perception. But when you crack the lid, it’s a bad fit. She’s never going to trust him, not down to the deep, and he’s always going to look for the easy way to get more. Sex, money, prestige. When threatened, or maybe just bored, they lash out. Both of them used sex for that.”

“And possibly a blunt object.”

“Yeah, very possibly. Peabody said Martella was very cooperative, got a little overwrought here and there. The secretary, Catiana, kept her calm, as did Peabody’s innate there-there approach. She agreed to the tap, with a little nudge on how it might help clear things up, might protect her sister. It meant she had to use the angle I’m looking at her spouse, but she’s looking at Copley, and feels she’s got the stronger case.”

“Essentially playing the couples against each other to see what breaks.”

“More or less. It’s in there. My gut tells me it’s in there. I had another round with Robbins, the blogger, and there’s nothing there. It’s not just because I get the rape angle, it’s because I think I get her. And there’s nothing there on this.”

“Then you’re definitely shortening your list.”

“It looks that way. Peabody’s going to take another pass at the girlfriend, but I don’t see that, either. If we don’t tie it up tomorrow . . .”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah, that. If we don’t, it could take days more, if we’re lucky, with Peabody heading off to her family, and everything shutting down. Hell, half the city closes up between Christmas and New Year’s, and if my prime suspect flies off to the tropics, I can’t stop him. Not with what we have.”

“You’d like him to have his Christmas goose and pudding in a cage.”

“I think the best he’d get in a cage would be fake turkey, maybe a slice of pie, but yeah.”

“Does the idea that with you nipping at his heels he’s unlikely to have happy holidays help?”

“I think anybody who could shove that knife into dead Ziegler, and according to the statement of witnesses, party directly thereafter, isn’t going to sweat it. It’s all about the right now. It’s how he could set Felicity up in a swank condo, forget about his marriage while he was there, forget about her when he was with his wife.

“I’ll tell you who fits,” she added. “Ziegler and Copley. Two greedy, selfish, cheating assholes. And that’s all of our time they get for today. Let’s pop some corn.”

“I want my own,” he told her as they walked out of her office. “I’d actually like to taste it rather than butter and salt.”

“I keep telling you, the corn’s just the delivery system for the butter and salt. What’s the vid?”

“We’ve an advance copy of
Unbidden
. It’s being released Christmas Day—very hot property. Alien invasion, top-flight cast, strong FX.”

“But do things blow up?”

“Indeed they do if the trailer I previewed is any indication.”

“Sounds perfect.”

•   •   •

I
t was. Stretched out hip to hip on the sofa, plenty of popcorn and a nice, smooth red wine to wash it down. And the action on screen hit all the notes.

Alien invaders bent on conquering the planet, decimating or enslaving its human inhabitants. It offered a feisty yet emotionally scarred female lead, the reckless but charming male counterpart, and the motley and courageous band of resistance fighters who joined them. The story worked, the romance clicked, and lots of stuff blew up.

The effects worked so well she got mildly queasy during an air battle. And the characters resonated, causing a pang when the hero’s feckless screwup of a brother sacrificed himself for the cause.

All in all, it provided an excellent excuse to laze around on a Sunday eating popcorn and getting a little buzzed on wine while Galahad sprawled over their legs.

“Good one. It was fun watching the guy who played Feeney in the
Icove
vid play the tough ex–Army vet. Figured he was going down, but he copped to the whiny redhead being an alien infiltrator in the nick. I don’t get aliens.”

“Don’t you?”

“They’re always zipping down, wanting to take over the planet, and blowing up major cities on the way. It never works out for them.”

She tossed more butter-and-salt-saturated popcorn in her mouth. “Smarter to start in the middle.”

He managed to reach around, snag the wine bottle, pour the very last of it into their glasses. “The middle of what?”

“The country—since they’re apparently all about the U.S. on top of it. Start in the middle, the less populated areas—like, say, Shipshewana, Indiana.”

“Of course it must be Shipshewana.”

“Then, work your way out to the cities as you gain ground, eliminate the populations.” She took a long, happy drink of wine. “You’d think if they could get here from wherever the hell, they’d be smarter.”

“Lucky for us, for Shipshewana, and the planet, they aren’t.”

“I’ll say. Who wants an implant shoved into the base of your skull to control your thoughts and deeds?”

“Not I.”

“And what do the aliens accomplish?” Wound up, she drilled a finger in his chest. “Sure they level some cities, kill a bunch of people—and there’s always at least one of those people who tries to negotiate with them.”

“Fools.”

“You bet. After they destroy New York or New L.A. or East Washington, because those are usually prime targets, the survivors end up uniting the fractured world, creating heros out of the ordinary, and helping a couple of really pretty, bloodied, and sweaty people to find true love and hot sex.”

“Looking at it that way, we should hope for an alien invasion.”

She set her popcorn bowl aside, shifted over a little onto her hip. “We don’t need one. We found all that already without them.”

“And I didn’t have to risk being vaporized to get you here.”

“True, but that’s not a bad way to go, right? Getting vaporized is quick. You wouldn’t even know it, just
ppsssht!
Gone. Better than getting run over by a maxibus or barely surviving an air crash, or getting bitten in half by a shark. Then there’s—”

“Quiet.” He stopped her mouth with his, added a dance of his fingers along her ribs to make her laugh.

He rolled her over, then under him, pleased himself by ravishing her neck, her throat.

Galahad squawked, then hit the floor with a sharp ring of collar bells.

Sinking, she slid her bare foot up and down Roarke’s leg, angling her head to give him freer access before turning back again to offer her lips.

She twined and twisted her fingers in his hair, felt lazy and loose. Wine fogged her brain; pleasure misted it. She embraced both, embraced him.

The screen switched to its holding hum as the vid credits ended. Now she heard the quiet pop and crackle of the fire, the whisper of their movements in the nest of the sofa.

The tree’s lights shimmered as the short day slipped into the long night.

He peeled off her sweater, slid down to possess her breasts with his mouth, his hands. As those mists thickened and swirled, she pressed up, stirring more heat. Moaning with it, she tugged at his shirt.

“Off, off. Too many clothes.”

She found his mouth with hers again as she fought off the shirt.

She had her teeth on his shoulder; he had her trousers halfway down her legs. Her communicator beeped.

“Ah, bloody hell” was his breathless and bitter response.

“I didn’t hear anything. Don’t stop—” It beeped again. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”

She dragged herself from under him, stumbled toward the table as she struggled to yank up her trousers.

“Block video,” she ordered. “Fuck. Fuck. Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She muttered, “Why?” Then with her trousers still unsecured, sat on the table.

“Report to 18 Vandam. One person dead, another injured. Possible homicide.”

“Who’s dead?” she demanded, shoving up to hook her trousers.

“Data incomplete. See officers on scene.”

“Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. On my way.”

She shoved the comm in her pocket. “That’s the Quigley brownstone.”

“I know.” He was already up, putting on his shirt. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’ve got Peabody—”

“Christ, Eve, we just sat in that living room a few hours ago. I’m going with you.”

“God, I’m half drunk.” She reached for her weapon harness.

“Take some Sober-Up before you put that on. And I could use some myself.”

“What the hell time is it?” she muttered on her way to the bathroom.

“Twenty after seven.”

She paused, glanced back. “She said Copley would be home by six.”

Grim, she dashed to the bathroom for the Sober-Up.

With that, and the coffee Roarke programmed in go-cups, the mists lifted, the fog parted. For the second time that day, she climbed into the muscular SUV.

“I planted it in her head. I did it deliberately, figuring she’d let something slip to me, or dig out something and come to me with it. I
never figured he’d go at her, never figured he’d be that stupid. If he killed her—”

“You’re jumping your fences, Eve. That’s not like you.”

She closed her eyes, pulled herself back in. “You’re right. I know better. No preconceived notions. But you said it yourself. She seemed a little afraid of him. I didn’t offer her protection, didn’t drive that lane, because she could’ve been part of it and the fear was useful.”

No point, no point in speculating, she warned herself. For all she knew, Copley could be dead.

Her comm sounded again. “Dallas.”

“Dallas, we’re heading in,” Peabody talked fast, “but it’s probably going to take about twenty minutes. We were at the SkyMall and traffic’s insane. We called in a black-and-white to speed it up, but we’re probably twenty out.”

“Just get there.”

“Soon as we can. Do you know the DB?”

“Not yet. I’ll get back to you.”

She shoved the comm in her pocket again.

The minute Roarke pulled behind a black-and-white, she jumped out, drew her badge out of her pocket.

Long strides took her to the door where a uniform scanned her badge, her face, skimmed a glance over Roarke. Nodded.

“What have you got, Officer . . . Kenseko?” she demanded, reading his nameplate.

“DB, female, head trauma. Another female, en route to the hospital, unconscious. Head and facial injuries. Male held on premises, ID’d as John Jake Copley, of this address. He ID’d the injured female as his wife, Natasha Copley. Wanted to go with her, but we held him here. He’s a handful, LT.”

“I got it. Keep him out of my way for now. Are you first on scene?”

“No, sir, that would be Officer Shelby. She answered the nine-one-one. She and my partner have Copley secured.”

“Stay on the door, Kenseko. My partner will be here in about fifteen.”

As she moved in, she heard Copley shouting from another room, threatening to sue the officers, the entire department, the state of New York.

Ignoring him, Eve took the Seal-It out of the field kit Roarke offered, used it while she studied the scene.

She’d expected to find Martella, which proved the rule about no expectations.

A brunette lay with her head on the marble ledge of the hearth. Faceup, a deep, long gash scoring her forehead and right temple. Blood pooled, on the marble, on the floor, painted the hand flung out, stained the bright blue coat, the boldly patterned scarf.

“Catiana Dubois.”

“The social secretary?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Somebody turned her over, somebody moved the body. Damn it. Kenseko!”

“Sir.” He hotfooted from the door.

“Did you or your partner turn the body over?”

“No, sir. Officer Shelby told us the scene had been compromised on her arrival.”

“All right. Had a struggle here, chair’s shoved, table overturned, broken crockery and glass. And that.”