“Of course—if you’re sure it can’t wait.”
“When we’re this close to wrapping things up, we don’t want any loose threads.”
“You know what happened?”
“I do. Mind?” Eve asked as she eased down at the foot of the bed.
“Of course not. I’m so grateful for your dedication.”
“Just doing my job. And doing it, I should remind you that you can have a legal rep present. I read you your rights the other day, but I can refresh you if you need it.”
“So formal. No need for that. Of course I remember. I don’t want a lawyer.” She actually patted Eve’s hand. “Ask your questions so you can go home and enjoy your own Christmas.”
“Thanks. I did speak with your doctor before I came. She’s very pleased with your progress, and expects you to make a full recovery, and hopes you can be released in just a few days.”
“It feels like a miracle.”
“I’m sure it does. I regret to inform you we have your husband in custody. He’s been charged with Trey Ziegler’s murder, with Catiana Dubois’s murder, and with the attack on you.”
“Oh God.”
“You have to be strong, Tash.” Martella gripped her sister’s hand as she turned to Eve. “Lance and I talked about this. We went over and over it because it just doesn’t seem possible. But it is. It’s the only possibility. He must have lost his mind.”
“He’s a difficult man. I understand your loyalty, Ms. Quigley—Natasha,” Eve said, and gently. “But it’s time for the truth.”
“He’s my husband. How do I accept all this? How do I accept my husband is a murderer?”
“It’s hard. It has to be really hard. But we’ve been able to put it all together. The events, the timelines, all of it.”
“JJ.” Natasha choked it out. “I tried to tell myself I was confused. It couldn’t have been . . . But why, why? Why would he hurt Catiana, why would he hurt me? Why would he kill Trey?
“Tella’s right. He lost his mind. I should have seen it, I should have gotten him help before it was too late.”
Martella slid onto the bed, drew her sister close. “Don’t blame yourself, Tash. Don’t.”
“I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it.”
“He knew about you and Ziegler,” Eve told her.
“Oh God. God, I knew he’d be angry if he found out, but . . .”
“He didn’t find out,” Eve corrected. “He arranged it.”
“What—”
“He paid Ziegler to sleep with you.”
“He . . .” The tears in Natasha’s eyes dried to hard embers. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he paid Trey Ziegler to initiate an affair with you, which, with Ziegler’s help, he documented in order to retain a generous financial settlement when he filed for divorce.”
“Oh, Tash.” Tella leaned in to offer more comfort. Natasha pushed her aside.
“He’s lying. JJ must be lying.”
“We have Ziegler’s records, corroborating the transactions. It was just another job for him—really lucrative since both you and your husband were, essentially, paying him for the same service. Just another way to cash in. You didn’t mean anything to him other than another body, another mark.”
“That’s not true. That’s absolutely not true.”
The flash in her eyes told Eve what she needed to know.
“He used you. Ziegler used you, and he and your husband laughed about it behind your back.”
“No. Trey cared about me.”
“He cared about the money you gave him, the money he got from your husband. He double-dipped, and it ended up killing him.”
“We had a relationship. Do you understand me?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Tash, don’t upset yourself. The man was a bastard. He took advantage of you.”
“Of you,” Quigley tossed back at Martella. “Not of me. No one takes advantage of me.”
“It’s hard to take.” Eve patted Natasha’s leg. “Really hard for a smart, strong-willed woman to take when she’s been duped. Everything he said to you was a lie, and one your husband paid for—worse, paid for with your money. I know it’s rough. It was bad enough when you found out Ziegler was seeing that idiot Alla Coburn again, bad enough when he lied to you about her, about others.
“He made you feel special, excited,” Eve continued. “When you snuck out to see him that day—the day of your party—you just wanted to see him before he left for the seminar. But you saw he’d been with someone else. The cheap bra, the slutty shoes, right there, in your face.”
“What are you talking about?” Martella demanded. Eve ignored her.
“He brushed it off. He had a way, didn’t he? She didn’t mean anything to him. Just sex. Did he laugh at you when you told him you wouldn’t tolerate it? Did he sneer when you said you loved him, wanted him to only be with you? Was he laughing when you picked up the trophy and swung it at his head?”
“You can’t talk to her that way.” Martella tugged on Eve’s arm. “She’s hurt. She’s been victimized. Lance, make her stop.”
“Wait.” He stared at Eve, shifted his gaze slowly to Natasha’s face. “Just wait.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Natasha plucked at the sheets, blinked tears into her eyes. “You’re saying horrible things.”
“You stuck the knife into his heart because he’d stuck one into yours. It was all lies, Natasha. Yours, your husband’s, Ziegler’s. Everything you did: lies. You thought you’d gotten off clear, you told yourself you did what you had to do, and that was that. But the time it took? That tripped you up. You had to cancel your hair and face techs. I’ve checked with them, too.”
“I was busy preparing for the party.”
“You weren’t home at the time Ziegler died. Catiana looked for you, couldn’t find you.”
“I was home. Of course I was home. Dozens of people saw me.”
“And when I interview them, each and every one, none of them will be able to verify you were there between six and seven that evening because you were rushing over to Ziegler’s apartment, killing him, and rushing back again.”
“I was home,” Natasha said coldly. “You’ll never prove otherwise.”
“Sure we will. And yesterday Catiana realized it. Talking with your sister, she started putting it together. Started wondering why she couldn’t find you in the house, why you’d canceled your hair and face time. Six to seven-thirty, according to your hair and skin techs. But she was loyal, Natasha. She didn’t run to me, to the police, she went to you. She went hoping you’d explain. But you couldn’t explain.”
“Tella, please. Call the nurse. My head hurts.”
“Tash.” Slowly, Martella eased back from the bed. “Oh my God, Tash. It can’t be true. Not Cate. You couldn’t.”
“But she did. She had to protect herself. Maybe you offered her money. She’d be shocked, insulted. You couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut, so you argued, you threatened. You shoved her. Did you mean to kill her or was it just a happy accident?”
Natasha shook her head, looked pleadingly at her sister. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. Believe me.”
“I think it was violent impulse,” Eve continued. “Like Ziegler. And like Ziegler, you couldn’t leave it at that. After you turned her over, made sure she was dead, you knew just how to use it all to your advantage. You could get rid of JJ—have him locked away like he deserved for cheating on you with that little stripper with the big tits. It would take some guts, but you’ve got them. So you made the nine-one-one call. You could claim you blocked video in your rush, your shock. You faked an attack, using your husband’s name. Then you dropped the phone, crushed it. You got your guts up, picked up that vase. You screamed—alerting JJ, boosting your adrenaline, then
you struck yourself as hard as you could manage. Harder than you should have. It nearly killed you. You nearly died for pride and ego and payback to a cheating spouse.
“Was it worth it?”
“Every bit.”
When Martella began to weep, Roarke put an arm around her, looked at Lance. “You should take her out. She shouldn’t be here now.”
“Come on, darling. Come on now.”
“Go on! You always were the weak one,” Natasha called after her. “Go crying to Daddy, like you used to.”
Martella stopped, looked back. “You’re my sister.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “But she was my best friend. Cate. I’ll never forgive you for Cate.” And she walked away.
“Staff.” Natasha leaned back. “Anyone who makes friends or family out of paid staff is a fool.” She looked at Eve. “I was under duress. My husband’s petty cruelties and neglect, a lover flaunting his flings. I had a breakdown.”
“You can play that tune.”
“A breakdown. What happened with Trey that day? It’s as if someone else was inside my body. I couldn’t control myself. Catiana? She slipped. We were talking. I was upset, of course, but she slipped, fell. I was in shock. Again, out of my mind. No one in their right mind would strike themselves that way.”
“You’re going to learn the difference between legally sane and just being a cold, vicious, selfish bitch.”
“I’m in the hospital. I nearly died. I have a great deal of money to pay hard-hitting lawyers. No one mourns for Trey but me. And Catiana? She slipped.”
“You’re a good liar, but with the evidence I’m going to have stacked up against you, even your lies will sink. Natasha Quigley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Trey Ziegler, for the murder of Catiana Dubois, human beings. Additional charges will include but not be limited to obstruction of justice, lying to a police officer during an investigation. You will be held here, under guard until such time as you can safely be transported to prison to await trial.”
“I’ll get out on bail.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Eve took out her restraints, stepped forward.
“Stay away from me. You can’t use those on me.”
“Wouldn’t bet on that, either.” Eve grabbed one of her wrists, managed to block the swipe of nails forearm to forearm. “Add resisting arrest to the aforesaid charges.” She let the slap come, though the woman had some punch to her. “And a little icing for me with assaulting a police officer. Which allows me to—”
She took out a second pair of restraints, cuffed Quigley’s other wrist.
“I’ll have your badge for this.”
“What you’ll have is a crappy life in a cage. Your cheating putz of a husband is probably going to get a nice chunk of your money after all. Your name and face are going to be splashed all over the media, and the only social club you’ll belong to is Big Nellie’s Bitch-Slapping Circle. You’ll be the mascot. Merry Christmas.”
“Big Nellie?” Roarke asked as they walked out.
“First thing that came to mind. Officer.” She signaled the uniform she’d ordered for the duty. “Sit on her. I’ve got you on four-hour rotations, so you won’t miss Christmas altogether.”
“I’m Jewish, sir.”
“Okay, Happy Hanukkah.”
She spoke to the head nurse on duty, relayed the status to Dr. Campo via ’link.
“Her sister’s going to suffer.”
“She’s married to a steady guy—a fricking rock. But, yeah, she’ll suffer. Murder doesn’t stop at the vic, not most of the time. She set him up good, and he was such an asshole, it played. Little niggles here and there, but it played. They’re so much alike—Copley, Quigley. He could’ve done it, for all the same reasons. Except, he doesn’t have the balls to damn near kill himself to get away with it.”
“You closed it. You got both your victims justice.”
“Messy, but closed. Now I have to go spring Copley, that asshole.”
“You could do it in the morning, let him rot just a bit.”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“It’s what makes you not a bit like either of them.”
“It’s a pisser right at the moment. It’s going to take me a while.” She looked up at him as they stepped out of the elevator. “Couple hours to deal with the paperwork, the lawyers. Screws up our Christmas Eve.”
“We’ve already had the crescendo, the rest can wait.”
“Yeah.” They stepped out into the night. The cold rain had stopped. She thought she caught the glimmer of a couple stars.
She took his hand, gave his arm a swing. “Nice coat,” she said, made him laugh.
She’d do her duty, do her job. Then she and the man who knew her and loved her anyway would go home for Christmas.
• • •
For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/robbchecklist
J. D. Robb, Festive in Death
(Series: In Death # 39)
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