Chapter 10

She let it all circle in her mind on the drive home, hoping she'd find a solid place for a theory to land. But the ground remained too soft.

Too many people, she thought, with too many motives. Alibis that she imagined could be toppled or at least shaken with enough of a push.

Maybe it was the season of goodwill toward men—not that she'd found that ever held fast—but with Ziegler ill will seemed the primary emotion.

And damn it, she felt some ill will of her own. She wanted to shut the door on the investigation—and the killer—tie it all up so she could enjoy the festivities, the holiday, the lights, the tree, the time with Roarke.

Throughout her childhood Christmas had been empty or painful or just lacking. A day other kids rushed out of bed to tear off paper and ribbon and find shiny dreams realized.

Until she'd been eight, her best gift had been if her father had been too drunk to knock her around. Or worse.

And after she'd killed Richard Troy—to save herself from the "or worse"—she'd been no one's child. A foster, an add-on, a token. Part of that was probably her own attitude, she admitted as she drove through the gates. But she'd had pretty bad luck in the system. State school had been bland and gray, but easier.

But now, she had home—as bright and shiny as it got. She had Roarke, the epitome of all gifts. And for reasons that often baffled her, she had friends. More than she sometimes—most times—knew what to do with, but they'd added dimension to her life while she wasn't looking.

Thinking of her victim, of what he'd done to fill his own life, she found herself grateful for what she had.

Even—when she walked in and saw him—Summerset.

Sort of.

The cat pranced over to her, jingling all the way. She supposed it had been Summerset who'd added the bow and bell to Galahad's collar.

She'd have said something snarky, but the cat appeared to enjoy the adornment.

"The first team of decorators will be here at eight A.M. sharp," Summerset informed her. "They'll begin in the ballroom. A second team will arrive by ten to complete work on the terraces. Catering arrives at four in the afternoon, and waitstaff at six for a run-through. Other auxiliary staff will arrive by six-thirty."

"Okay."

"Your stylist will arrive by six, giving her ninety minutes to deal with you. You'll be finished, prepared to greet guests at seven-fifty-five."

"I don't want ninety minutes, for God's sake, with Trina. Who needs ninety minutes to get ready for a party?"

Eyebrows raised, Summerset looked down his nose.

"The arrangements have been made. The schedule is set. The gifts you brought home are wrapped, labeled, and under the tree in the master suite. What you've had wrapped or are in the process of inexpertly wrapping for Roarke remain in the Blue Room."

Her eyes narrowed. "What were you doing in there?"

"My duties. Do you want the rest of those gifts wrapped and brought down to the tree in the main parlor."

"I'll do it." Her back stiffened. "I know the rules. I'm supposed to do it. There's still time. Just... stay out of there until I'm finished."

Flustered, she shot up the stairs with the belled cat jing-a-linging after her.

She hadn't forgotten Roarke's gifts—God knew she'd squeezed her brain to putty to come up with things the richest man in the free world wouldn't have and might want—but she'd mostly pushed aside the reality of wrapping them up.

Now she had to do that, order decorators around, deal with Trina, make nice with a houseful of guests, and, oh yeah, close a murder case.

Maybe she could hire someone (not Summerset) to finish wrapping Roarke's stuff. It wasn't really cheating if she paid. People did it all the time, didn't they?

In fact, how did she know Roarke personally, physically wrapped up whatever he got her?

Stewing over it, she marched into the bedroom where Roarke stood pulling on a steel-gray sweater.

"Do you wrap my gifts yourself?"

He finished pulling on the sweater, shook back his hair, eyed her. "Isn't that what elves are for? Why would I put good, enterprising elves out of work?"

"That's right." She jabbed a finger at him. "That's fucking A right!"

"I'm glad we agree."

"Where do you get the elves?"

"Each must find one's own." He walked over, caught her face in his hands, kissed her. "Hello, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, hey. Let me ask you something else."

"I'm here to serve."

"What's the first thing you'd do if you found out I'd cheated on you with... an elf. A sexy, buff elf."

"The first thing?"

"Yeah, go with the gut."

"I'd toss you out on your ear, naked as I'd have burned all your clothes along with the rest of your belongings."

Reasonable, she thought.

"What if things were reversed, financially, and the big bulk of the dough was mine."

He flicked a finger over the dent in her chin. "What difference does that make? You'd be naked on the street, weeping as you begged for forgiveness that would never come."

"Harsh, but fair."

Amusement lived in those wild blue eyes, but she seriously wanted that gut instinct.

"Okay. What if you found out I'd been duped, slipped an illegal so the elf could bang me without my consent, but without my objection as I was under the influence?"

"I would beat the elf into elfin ooze immediately and mercilessly, then... acid, I believe," he said after a moment's thought. "Acid would be the final touch, poured liberally over the ooze."

"Nice. With your fists—the beating into ooze part?"

"Do I love you?"

"Yeah, you do." She gave his chest a light punch. "Sap."

"Then it has to be my fists. He put his hands on you. Mine have to be on him."

"Yeah. Yeah." She sat, pulled off her boots. "Yeah. They love each other."

"Who are they?"

"The Schuberts—Martella and Lance. The vic dosed her, and he's on my list. But he's down the bottom because, yeah, I think he'd have confronted Ziegler if he'd known. I think he'd have hunted him down like a sick dog, and I think he'd have gotten physical. But not the grab-a-blunt-object physical. If he'd known she'd rolled with Ziegler, whether or not he'd known about the date-rape drug—he'd have used his fists. That's how he strikes me. Still, I have to consider."

She got up to dig out thick socks. "She's the sister of another of Ziegler's marks—though the sister—Natasha Quigley—was willing, and paid for sex. I don't like the husband—Quigley's. He's got a wussy, entitled thing that rubs me wrong. I can't tell if it's just that or if he's sending off bells. But I want a good dig on his financials."

"Ah. Playtime for me."

"It would help me out, if you've got time for it."

"Why don't we have a drink, some food, and you can tell me more about it?"

Her first thought was to get everything down, write it out, then she realized she might have it more concise after rolling it around with him.

"Works for me. Oh, I nearly forgot. We got a Christmas present."

She dug into her coat pocket, took out the box. "From Feeney. He warned me his wife's made us a bowl, but this is from him to both of us."

"I find his wife's pottery charming."

"Yeah, I know, since you actually find places for it instead of accidently breaking it or hiding it in some dark closet. Go figure. But I think you're really going to like this."

He opened the box, took out the glass, and simply stared at it.

"I had the same reaction. He said he wanted us to have it, to remember, to be able to see it when things got heavy. He said he was really proud of us. And like that. I didn't really know what to say."

"It means a great deal," Roarke murmured. "A very great deal that he'd do this, think of doing it."

"I know. And he got that. He said he thought we should keep it at home, because if I put it in my office, it was sort of like bragging."

Roarke's lips curved. "Trust Feeney."

"I figure he's right, that it should stay here. And I thought, not my office, not yours, because it's ours together. I thought maybe it should stay in here because this is our space. Especially ours, I mean."

"Yes. Especially ours." After a glance, Roarke moved over to a table in the sitting area, set the gift down. "How's that?"

"It's good."

She joined hands with him, started out. The cat raced ahead, ringing cheerfully. "Did Summerset put that stupid bell on him?"

"I put that stupid bell on him."

"You?" She shot him a stunned glance. "Seriously?"

"It was a weak moment," Roarke admitted. "Give him a bit of the festive, I thought. And now he's ringing like a mad thing, most of it on purpose to my mind. He's enjoying it."

"The bow, too?"

"I said it was a weak moment. I had to put in several short appearances at a number of office parties today. Obviously, it lowered my resistance."

"How much did you drink?" she wondered.

"Not at all, but I will now." In her office he opened the wall slot, chose a bottle of wine. "A good, hearty red. How about a steak? All the mingling between meetings meant I missed lunch altogether. I'm starving."

"I could go for steak. It's the first thing I ever ate in this house. Why did I remember that now?"

"Holiday sentiment."

"I love you."

He set the bottle aside, stepped over to gather her in. "It's always lovely to hear you say it."

"I thought of it today when I was listening to, watching the Schuberts. They love each other. I could see it, clear as water, because I can feel it, all the way through me. So I don't think they're involved with Ziegler's murder. Which is stupid because loving each other doesn't mean one of them didn't bash Ziegler then shove a knife in him."

"But you don't think so."

"I don't. But I'm a little worried about that holiday sentiment. I never used to have it."

"A by-product of having love, and home." He drew her back. "And life."

"I guess so. I'll get dinner."

"No, you deal with the wine and I'll get dinner, or else there'll be nothing on the plates but steak and potatoes."

"Why does there have to be anything else?"

"Because I love you."

"Yeah, yeah." But she opened the wine, poured for both of them.

"Let me tell you about Martella's social secretary."

As they sat, she went over it from the start.

"I believed her," Eve said. "There was something so upfront and clear-eyed about it. And still, it's so damned convenient. No way I can prove or disprove what she told me, and it lays on the pattern, gives Martella, even the husband, some cover."

"And still you believe her."

"Do I just want to? Maybe I'm losing my cynical edge."

"Never." Laughing, he toasted her. "You're a cop through and through, Lieutenant. Your cynicism and your instincts remain solid. To me, the story sounds plausible, and slides right into the pattern of your victim's behavior. She's attractive, this Catiana?"

"A stunner. More a stunner than her employer, and I got no vibe—not even a sniff of one—of interest between her and the husband."

"But you're going to run her."

"Sure."

"There's my point." He tapped his glass to hers. "Your cynicism remains intact."

"Whew. So the sister." Eve cut more steak, considered it another miracle she could indulge in actual cow meat on any sort of regular basis. "Yesterday she says nothing went on between her and Ziegler. I let it go because we got information from Martella, but it didn't jibe, not altogether. And it fit less when we confirmed Ziegler used the drug on several women, did the extracurricular with several more for pay. And the straight sex for pay? He exploited female clients with money, and looks, and with about ten to fifteen years on him. Rich older women with time and money to spend. Natasha Quigley fit that criteria, but she wants to say nothing happened?"

"Not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall in bed with a gigolo."

"Gigolo."Experimentally, she let it roll over her tongue. "That word's too fun and fancy for Ziegler."

"You prefer?"

"Scumfuck, but back to the point. Sure, not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall, but she fit his pattern of mark right down the line. So if she'd said, yeah, he made the moves, but she doesn't pay for sex, or she gets so much sex at home she can't handle more, or anything that rang true, okay. A dozen ways she could have played it, but she played it wrong, so I knew damn well she'd done it with him."

She ate, lifted her glass, then grinned. "Hey, you're right. Cynicism intact."

"And instincts correct, I take it."

"Yeah, she spilled it once I popped the cork. Rough patch in the marriage. That's par for the course, right? I don't get using that as an excuse to play around."

Playfully, he walked his fingers up the back of her hand. "Which is why you're not naked on the street, my darling Eve."

"Two can say that. Anyway, made a mistake, blah blah. Trying to fix the marriage, please don't tell my clueless spouse or he'll leave me and so on. Tells me he never dosed her, but she willingly accepted, booked a hotel suite, paid him for services rendered. But she was done with it when she and her husband decided to try to patch things up, and how they're taking a trip after the holidays."

"She thinks lying to him, deceiving him about this, will improve things?"

Pleased he had the same reaction, the same question, she scooped up a bite of some sort of creamy potato. "A lot of people think that way. When I nudged her on what would he do if he knew, she claimed he's not violent. But there was a little hesitation. And with some checking I found he's got a quick fuse. Nothing really physical, but a lot of mouth that's gotten him in trouble.

"And he's an asshole."

"What sort? There are so many kinds," Roarke pointed out.

"That's so true. Misogyny, which is just a fancy word for a man who treats women like props or lesser conveniences. He was nervous when we talked to him, but snotty, too. I don't think he cared for being interrogated by a couple of ‘girls.'"

"Well now, he'll rue the day."

"Which is fancy talk for I'll kick his ass in the box if I can get him there. Which leads me to looking for money. Most of it's the wife's. So a guy like that has a rich wife, I just bet he's got some hidden away so he never ends up naked in the street. And if he's got some hidden away, just maybe we can find withdrawals that may indicate he was paying Ziegler to be quiet about something. Or that he has a skirt or skirts on the side for those rough patches. Hotel rooms or gifts, or a little love nest. Something."

"Well now. You didn't like him at all."

"Not even a little."

"I'm happy to look. What did you say he did?"

"Public relations. Something he's apparently pretty good at. So he's high on my list. Along with him, I have a female writer type who was one of the vic's clients, who he slipped the drug to, who has no alibi for the time in question. And a former boxer, current gym owner and trainer who hated the vic, and had good reason to want some payback.

"There are others," she added, "which is the problem. We have no shortage of people who might have given Ziegler a good whack, with what could be argued as cause."

"You could give me an early Christmas gift," Roarke suggested. "Provide me a list, and I'll comb over all the financials."

"You really would consider that a gift."

"Stealing was such bloody fun." He leaned back, gesturing with his glass before savoring more wine. "The thrill of sliding through the dark, into places meant to be locked and barred to me. Places with such beauty—the sort a Dublin street rat could never hope to see, much less touch. And never hold, never keep. Beyond the need for survival that started it with lifting locks or pinching purses, it became a world of possibility, as much an art as the paintings or jewelry I might have nicked."

"Did nick," she corrected.

"Did indeed," he said with the wistful affection of memory. "And beyond the light fingers and slipping into the dark, there was the technology that so appealed to me."

"A geek thief."

"As you like. More slipping, more sliding, more lifting. More worlds of possibilities. Now the stealing's off the table, isn't it?"

"It is—you took it off yourself."

"Without a single regret from where I'm sitting now, looking at the only world of possibilities I need for a lifetime."

"Is that like saying there aren't enough stars?"

Curious, he smiled at her. "It could be. But the point is, darling Eve, survival through possibilities, and those possibilities became a kind of game or indulgence as I'd learned to make my own through business. Legitimately. A man can put aside games and indulgences for bigger prizes."

He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. "It doesn't mean he can't enjoy a bit of the slipping and sliding, if the lifting is in a good and righteous cause. You give me that, by trusting me, and sharing what you are with me. I've a medal that sits beside yours, floating in glass, given me by a man who stands as your father. A man I respect more than most. I have that as well because you gave me other possibilities, opened other worlds to me that were once barred and locked."

"You opened them yourself. You earned them yourself."

"I'd never have looked toward them at all without you. It doesn't mean I can't enjoy poking my fingers into bits of business some would say I have no business in.

"I'll find the accounts," he promised her, "as I agree they're there to be found. And consider the time well spent."

She brought her hand to his cheek. "Then Merry Christmas. Oh, wait. Shit. Don't wear a tux."

"I had thought to change into black tie for a bit of cyber stealth, but I can stay as I am if you like."

"No, tomorrow. Feeney's wife's been on him about wearing one, and he's standing firm—but if you wear one, she'll dog him on it. So don't."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good. Then it's simple. What am I wearing?"

"Not a tux."

"Again good, because she'd probably dog him for that, too. You aren't going to tell me," she decided after a moment.

"If you don't like what Leonardo designed for the occasion, you can choose something else. I hope you won't." He kissed her hand again. "I've seen the holographic image, and you'll look amazing."

"If I'm going to look so amazing after I put it on, why do I need an hour and a half with Trina slathering stuff all over me first?"

He gave her hand a squeeze, then a quick pat. "I stay out of such matters—for my own well-being."

"I'm not going to think about it. That's tomorrow, and this is now, and who knows anyway?"

"Succinctly put."

"Shut up. Money for you, murder for me." She rose, bent over, kissed him. "And, I guess, for us it doesn't get much better."

···

She sat at her desk, coffee at the ready, her board in full view. And went back to the beginning.

She brought the crime scene reconstruction on screen, studied the two figures, the angles, the arc of the first blow, the second.

To be thorough, she checked her notes, found Sima's statement, rechecked Alla Coburn's. The two women known to have had access to the bedroom both stated the vic's latest trophy stood prominently on the bureau.

So the reconstruction held from her point of view. As did the probability—97.4 percent—the murder was the impulse and passion of the moment.

A man, approximately six feet in height—or a woman of that height or in heels that lifted her to it.

Unless Sima had been standing on a box, that left her out. And however Eve felt personally about Trina, she couldn't see the hair-and-skin monster beating a guy's head in because he'd dissed a friend.

Coburn. Possible if she'd worn five-inch heels, which strangely women did. But then why leave so much evidence tying her to the scene? Panic? Possible. But writing a note, getting a knife from the kitchen, jamming that knife into a dead body, didn't speak of panic.

If a woman had the cold blood for that, she had enough control to grab her bra and her shoes.

Still... Eve played with her notes. Would that same woman be clever enough to leave incriminating evidence behind as a kind of cover? A stretch, Eve thought. Something to weigh in, but she just hadn't gotten shrewd calculation from Alla Coburn.

Lill Byers, the vic's supervisor. Absolutely no evidence she'd had anything but a professional relationship with the victim. Physically, she'd fit. Height, strength, and she'd have known the vic's address. She'd known at least some of what he did on the side.

Possible kickback? Vic pays her a percentage of his side business in order to run it smoothly out of the facility. She wants more, they argue over it, she loses it.

Weak, Eve thought, just weak. And the computer agreed with her at a 53.6 probability.

David "Rock" Britton. About the right height, certainly strong enough. Motive and potential opportunity with the lack of an alibi.

The computer liked him, she noted, with a probability of nearly ninety percent. But the computer hadn't looked in his eyes. If he'd gone after Ziegler, he'd have used his fists.

The fashion blogger. Tall enough, fit enough. And if her previous experience with date rape held true, more than enough motive. Somebody got away with it once, by Christ, this fucker wasn't getting away with it.

So motive, no alibi, physically able.

Eve rose, walked around her board, rearranged some photos, some data.

She sat again, studied it again.

Of that group, the blogger went to the top. The flourish of the note, the knife? Yeah, she could see it. Insult to injury.

Martella Schubert. Delicate—but that was personality more than physicality. She seemed delicate, a little on the fragile side. Monied, pampered—and there was always power in money. Taken at face value, her statement indicated she hadn't known she'd been dosed, felt guilty for betraying her marriage.

And, taken at face value, her statement could indicate she felt guilty enough to confront the vic, argue with him. He wants more money to keep their tryst a secret. She loses it.

It could play, Eve mused. She could see that playing out. But she couldn't see the delicate Martella adding the flourish.

But who was she with the first time Eve had interviewed her?

The sister. Big sister.

Impulse, rage, violence, panic.

What if she'd called on the sister.

Tash, I'm in trouble. Oh God, he's dead! I killed him. What should I do?

What would big sister do? Would she run to the rescue, assess the situation? And with the knowledge the vic had slept with her and the sister, lead with a little of her own rage?

The note, the knife, then unity. Each keeping the big secret while dribbling out bits of the rest.

Maybe.

Or Natasha Quigley alone. She claimed the arrangement with Ziegler was over, ended with her hopes of mending her marriage. Maybe Ziegler didn't want it over—wanted her to keep paying. Or maybe she'd found out about her sister, confronted Ziegler.

Alibi reasonably tight, Eve mused. But all from staff of one kind or another, and staff often said or did what they were told to say and do.

And physically she fit the bill.

As for the husbands, she couldn't see Schubert. Like Rock, he'd have used his hands, his fists.

Now JJ Copley didn't strike her as a guy who led with his fists. A blunt object seemed more his style. And the flourish, well, that fit, too. Payback without any chance of confrontation.

She could see him stabbing a dead man. Yeah, she could see it.

But maybe she could see it because she just didn't like him.

Regardless, he topped the list of this next group, with his wife running a close second.

And still, not enough, Eve thought.

So she got more coffee, sat again, put her feet up on the desk and let the entire business begin again inside her head.