Festive in Death

  “And still,” she said when they arrived at the morgue. “Both of them claim, with apparent sincerity, they can’t conceive of Copley hurting anyone.”

  “I think, speaking of general population and not cops, or me, most can’t conceive of someone they know well, are family with, killing anyone.”

  “A lot of the general population are wrong.”

  Eve strode briskly through the tunnel, and through the double doors of Morris’s room.

  He wore a clear protective cape over a steel blue suit with steel- gray chalk stripes, a braided tie that twined the two tones. His dark hair slicked into three slim, stacked tails. He sat at a counter working at a comp while some sort of hymn soared through his music system like angel wings.

  “Sorry to pull you in.”

  “Don’t be. The nights are long; work shortens them. And her nights?” He rose, walked to where Catiana lay on a slab. “Are over. Filling in for Peabody?” he asked Roarke with a faint smile.

  “I am.”

  “I spoke with our favorite detective shortly ago. Catiana’s family is coming in soon. They don’t want to wait to see her until tomorrow. I’ve enough time to soften the worst.” He indicated the head gash. “She has no other injuries to speak of. The fall broke her nose, and as you can see, there’s some minor lacerations, contusions on her knees, forearms. They would have been incurred in the fall.”

  “She went down hard.”

  “The depth of the wound would indicate considerable force. The secondary wounds on her limbs? She didn’t have time to brace for the fall, to try to catch herself. She fell face-first, striking a solid edge.”

  “Marble hearth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tripped or shoved?”

  “Hmm. It can be both. A slip’s unlikely, as unless she’d been impaired in some way—and I found no illegals or alcohol in the blood—she should have attempted to catch herself. Her palms would show some impact. Again the depth and width of the gash indicate force. I’d speculate she was shoved from behind, lost her footing—”

  “She was wearing those high, skinny heels.”

  “Harder to regain balance as heels, by construction, lean the body forward. She went down hard and fast, and had the very bad luck to have a marble ledge in the way of the fall. You won’t get Murder One on her. I found no sign of offensive or defensive wounds other than what I’ve told you.”

  “No, I know it. Murder Two’s enough. Still. Are you sure about her being shoved from behind?”

  “Highest probability given the angle of the wound, the lack of other injuries to the body.”

  “She turned her back on him. Maybe walking away, except the fireplace is on the other side of the room from the doorway to the foyer. But she turned her back.”

  “Pacing.”

  Eve glanced at Roarke. “What?”

  “Pacing. You do that when you’re thinking or upset. Stride away, back and away.”

  “Huh. Yeah. She was upset, had gone there without telling her boss—and friend. Distracted. Got a date with the guy she’s in love with, but upset and distracted enough to stop off there first. Talking, pacing, and telling him—speculatively—something she’s figured out or knows that could implicate him with Ziegler. That’s what plays for me. And, like with Ziegler, he goes with the raging impulse of the moment. In this case, he pushes her. She falls hard and fast, and she’s dead. Blood coming fast, too. Head wound, you always get plenty of blood.”

  Eve paced now, and the act of it made Roarke smile. “He left the room, had to leave the room or the wife would never have gotten so far on the nine-one-one call. Does he hear her? Maybe she screamed. People do when they walk in on blood and a body. So he rushes back in, sees her. And that rage is still pumping, so he goes after her. It’s what plays.”

  “And fairly tidily,” Morris commented.

  “Yeah, it’s the fairly I have to eliminate.”

  “It’s going to be difficult for her family—the holidays. Difficult enough,” Morris continued, “to get through holidays after a loss, but when the loss is so closely connected to them, harder still.”

  Hesitating, Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. “If they have any questions, you can tell them to contact me.”

  “I will, but I should be able to answer most.”

  “Okay, well. Listen, if you don’t have any plans for Christmas, you could hang with us.”

  Morris looked at her. His eyes darkened a moment—a war of emotions. Then he crossed to her. “You won’t mind,” he said to Roarke, and laying his hands on Eve’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks, one then the other. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . . we’re pretty loose that day. Depending. Right?” she said, appealing to Roarke.

  “We are. And no,” he said to Morris. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “I’m spending the day with my parents, and some other family. I plan to leave tomorrow, early afternoon, if possible.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Eve left her hands in her pockets, not sure what else to do with them. “Have a good one, Morris.”

  “And you. Both of you.” He looked back at Catiana. “And we’ll all do our best by her.”

  She worked on the drive home. She’d forgotten about dinner, Roarke thought, but he’d see she got food—even if it was that slice of pizza—once they were home.

  He found he wanted home—symbol and sanctuary. So much loss in one night, so much rage and grief. And all, from what he could see, generated from one man. Trey Ziegler’s greed had spread ripples of betrayal, fear, blood, and murder.

  Lost trust, lost love, lost joy, lost life.

  So he wanted home, even though those losses would follow them.

  “Mira reports severe anxiety attack as believed. No other issues, and no reason Copley can’t be interviewed tomorrow.” She frowned as they wound up the drive. “The lawyer will try to block. I may need to pull Reo in, block the block. I want to finish that fucker off. Check on Quigley, because I want to talk to her first thing in the morning, toss whatever she tells me at Copley.”

  She got out of the car, looked up at the sky for a moment. No stars, she noted, no moon. A cold rain was coming.

  “If they hadn’t had sex, they’d have been gone when we got there, had another few hours without knowing they’d lost someone they loved. The Schuberts.”

  “I’m aware. The grief would still come, Eve, inevitably. And the fact they’d been together shows they’re not letting what happened with Ziegler divide them, mar their relationship. They’ll get through this easier because they’re together.”

  “She’s disappointed in her sister,” Eve added as they went inside, started up. “She won’t let it get in the way, or not for long, but she’s disappointed not just because Quigley didn’t tell her she’d paid Ziegler for sex, but because Quigley cheated on Copley. She doesn’t have much respect for Copley under it all, but my sense is she has a lot for marriage—for the promises made.”

  “And Quigley doesn’t.”

  “The second time—we know of—she’s cheated. She doesn’t deserve to get her head bashed in over it, but she doesn’t earn a lot of respect, either.”

  In her office, still wearing her coat, she walked around her board. “If she’d been straight with me from the start, maybe things wouldn’t be as bad as they are. Maybe I wouldn’t be moving Catiana’s photo to victim status, and she wouldn’t be in the hospital. Martella might come to think that, and if she does, it’s going to crack their relationship, too.

  “Fucking sex and money,” she muttered.

  “Both of which can be enormous pluses as well as motives for murder. We need to eat.”

  “What? Oh, we were going to stop for a slice. We forgot.”

  “You may have, but I thought we’d have it here, at home.”
>
  “Even better.” She’d hauled him all over the city, she thought, looking at death. “I’ll get it.”

  “Deal with Reo, set up your block with our favorite APA. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Roarke? A whole shitload of things are better because we’re together.”

  “Truer words,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

  She ate. She contacted Reo, talked to Peabody, checked on Quigley’s status—stable, still out, sister and brother-in-law by her side—checked on Copley. Sedated, in a cage.

  After another review of her notes, she streamlined a report. She studied her board, ran probabilities. And to eliminate any possibilities, took a good look at Catiana Dubois’s financials.

  Pretty generous salary, to her mind, but probably not out of line, considering who she worked for, and their relationship. Lived within her means, saved up for rainy days.

  Why did rainy days require more money than dry ones? she wondered. Really, how much did an umbrella cost?

  When her mind wandered, she pulled it in again, rubbed the back of her aching neck.

  She had Copley. She had him cold, but it all just nagged at her.

  Ziegler to Quigley—sex for money. To Copley—money for silence. Then to Martella. Was that Ziegler’s shot at Copley, or just another conquest? Why do the sister of a paying client? Had he just been that arrogant?

  Not impossible.

  He’d hit on Catiana, too—a close family connection.

  She shut her eyes, tried to work through it.

  The next thing she knew, Roarke was carrying her out of the office.

  “I’m awake, I’m awake.”

  “You weren’t. Give it a rest.”

  “I was working stuff out. He hit on all the women—the Quigley-connection women. Was it to give Copley a jab? Sure you take me golfing at the club, but you make sure I know I’m the help. Guess what, fucker? I’m doing your wife. I did your sister-in-law. I’d do your sister-in-law’s best pal, but she’s a lesbian. Except not. Catiana’s connected to both. I checked her financials, but maybe—”

  “No other accounts, no secret money hidden away. I looked.”

  “You did?”

  “I did.” He set her on the bed. “Anticipating you.”

  “Oh.” She watched him, with sleepy affection, as he took off her boots. “It didn’t feel right anyway, but you’ve got to think about it.”

  “Suspicious minds do, which equal yours and mine. Now, we’re both going to turn off those suspicious minds so we can put them to work for us tomorrow.”

  She peeled off her clothes, didn’t bother with a nightshirt. That took too much energy.

  “Do you need a suspicious one tomorrow?”

  “I need one every day—yours and mine,” he repeated and slid in beside her.

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “Well after.”

  “So it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I’m going to wrap this up by tomorrow afternoon, then we’ll have ours, right?”

  “We’ll have ours.” When she stroked his cheek he drew her in and, knowing how to lull her, rubbed her back lightly until she dropped away.

  They’d have theirs, he thought, but for a moment he saw Catiana lying in her own blood. Others, no matter the justice, would grieve.

  He pressed his lips to Eve’s hair, drew in her scent, and let it lull him to sleep as well.

  In the morning, Eve got out early and still the traffic was vicious. The cold rain came, as predicted, and brought a bonus round of icy sleet that sizzled like frying meat when it hit the pavement and slicked the roads.

  She watched a guy—she assumed male though he was wrapped up like an Arctic explorer in a hooded parka—make a dash for a glide-cart, slip and land solidly on his back, where he wobbled like an upturned turtle.

  While the cart vendor—probably sensing a sale—clomped over to help him up, a skinny guy wearing a grimy cap with grimier earflaps reached into the cart and helped himself to some bags of chips and a soft pretzel he shoved into the pockets of his even grimier trench coat.

  Spotting the thief, the vendor gave chase, dropping the Arctic guy so he once again wobbled and flopped.

  The short vignette on street life entertained her during the red light.

  She watched people slip and slide, cars fishtail as they took a turn too fast, listened to the harsh music of horns blasting when other vehicles didn’t move fast enough to suit. Overhead, over all, an ad blimp blasted frantically through the dull gray sky, announcing THE LAST CHANCE! THE FINAL HOURS! so that Christmas Eve in New York took on the aura of the apocalypse.

  Since the weather seriously sucked and Peabody’s apartment was nearly on the way to the hospital, Eve arranged to pick up her partner. Five minutes out, she sent Peabody a text.

  Pulling up in five. I wait, you walk.

  When she did pull up, she glanced up at her old apartment windows—currently Mavis and family’s windows—and found them outlined with festive green and red lights. They shined happily against the cold, gray rain.

  She imagined them up there, maybe dealing with breakfast, the kid jabbering, Mavis laughing, Leonardo beaming at “his girls.”

  They’d carved out a good life, she mused. A colorful one, by anyone’s standards, but a good, solid life. Who’d have thought, only a few Christmases ago, either of them would have a real home, and all that went with it?

  Even as she thought it, she spotted Leonardo at one of the lighted windows—hard to miss with his big frame draped in a robe swirled with psychotic rainbow ribbons. On his hip Bella, all sunshine curls, bounced—and, yes, jabbered. Mavis slipped into view, and under Leonardo’s free arm.

  Nice, Eve thought, a nice little scene of home life in what had once been little more than a place to work and sleep.

  Then she watched another scene as Peabody came out.

  Strutted out, Eve thought. Oh Jesus, what had they done?

  Pink coat, pink boots, a multicolored cap—heavy on the pink—with a fuzzy pink ball on top.

  Peabody got in the car with a whoosh of cold air and rain.

  “It could snow! They’re saying no way, but I think maybe. Wouldn’t it be sweet if it snowed? Even though we’re heading out tonight, it would be sweet.”

  “You’re not allowed to strut.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can walk,” Eve continued as she pulled away from the curb. “You can stride or clomp. You can run in pursuit. You can hobble if wounded. In certain circumstances you can stroll. But you are not allowed to strut. Cops don’t strut.”

  “I was strutting?”

  “You look like some sort of pink candy with a fuzzy ball on top. Strutting pink candy. The strutting ceases immediately.”

  “Pink candy.” Instead of the insult Eve intended, Peabody appeared pleased. “I love my coat. Love, love my pink magic coat. It makes me feel pretty. Sexy and strong and styling. Therefore I strut.”

  “Well, stop it or . . . Crap, is that Drunk Santa currently mooning passing traffic?”

  “Wow, that’s some ugly ass he’s got there. It is Drunk Santa. Oh, please, do we have to stop? Think of the smell. Fear it.”

  “We can’t leave that ugly ass hanging out on Ninth Avenue.” Resigned, Eve started to pull over, then spotted two hustling beat cops. Pitying them, she kept going.

  “It’s a Christmas miracle,” Peabody said, reverently.

  “Why do people do that? Why? Why dress up like an icon—which I don’t get anyway. He’s a fat guy with a big white beard in a strange red suit who wants kids sitting on his lap. Kids should be afraid, but instead we make him an icon. Then assholes dress up like him and wave their ugly asses at traffic. What do they get out of it?”

  “On a morning like this? A cold, wet ass a
nd a few hours in the drunk tank.”

  “True, but somehow that’s not enough. Maybe if they played those poppy, jingling Christmas songs on an endless loop in the tank it would be enough. Maybe.”

  “That has to be against the Geneva Convention.”

  “And still.”

  After parking in the hospital’s underground lot, they rode the elevator up to six. Eve wondered how many sick germs floated around like invisible gnats, just looking for someone to land on.

  The woman in the sixth-floor lobby glanced at Eve, nodded in recognition, buzzed her through. Inside, Eve snagged the first nurse she found.

  “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We need to talk to Natasha Quigley.”

  “She’s Dr. Campo’s. Let me page her, then—”

  There was a dramatic crash from a nearby room, followed by wailing.

  “I don’t want that slop! I want to go home.”

  “The fun never ends,” the nurse said wearily. “Henry, it’s Ms. Gibbons again. And you got the short straw.” The nurse took a handheld out of her tunic pocket, keyed in the page.

  “Can you give us Quigley’s status?”

  “I can tell you she had a quiet night, and was taken down for tests early this morning. It’s better if you speak to Dr. Campo—and there she is. Dr. Campo, the cops are here about Suite 600.”

  Eve shook hands with a short woman wearing a white tunic over black pants. Her hair sprang out in short, dark curls around a thin, long-jawed face. Her sharp green eyes assessed Eve, then Peabody.

  “I knew the Icoves,” she said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Both of them.”

  “Me, too. Briefly.”

  “Didn’t like them, never did. Like them less now. That said, our Ms. Quigley is very lucky. Without quick medical intervention she’d be facing a much harder road—if she’d lived. I don’t suppose you want all the medical jargon any more than I want a bunch of cop talk. Comes to a trial, I can give all of that. Now, I’ll tell you she’s lucky. No brain damage, and no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. Her memory’s a little spotty, and she’s experiencing occasional double vision, but that’s not uncommon in these cases. I’m going to tell you what I expect you already know I’m going to tell you. She’s been through a physical and emotional ordeal, requires rest and as much calm as possible. You can talk to her, but keep it brief. If she becomes overly upset, that’s it.”