Chapter 18

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."

···

It 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."

She lifted her chin to a large vase of thick, faceted crystal, stained now with blood. More blood on the floor, on the carpet by the cracked vase.

"What the hell were you doing here, Catiana?"

For procedure, she crossed to the body, used her kit to formally ID the vic. "Victim is female, mixed race, age thirty-three. Catiana Dubois, employed by Martella Schubert, who is the sister of Natasha Quigley. The deep gash, the bruising on the forehead appear to be COD. Fell or was pushed, face-first, hit the ledge, the edge of it, and hit hard. Skinny-heeled boots," she murmured. "Not much traction. She loses her balance, falls, smashes face-first into the edge here."

She took the gauges Roarke handed her. "She hasn't been dead an hour."

Gently, Eve lifted her hands, one at a time, by the wrist, examined them. "No defensive wounds I can see, no sign of skin under the nails, but Morris will look closer.

"She's got her coat unbuttoned, her scarf unwrapped. Pretty cold out there, so it's likely she did that after she came in. Comes to the door, the house droid lets her in. We'll go over the droid. She comes in here..."

Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around the room. "I don't see any cups, any glasses, broken or unbroken. No drinks, no refreshments. Coat's still on, so maybe she planned to make it quick. An argument, a fight, a confrontation. With who? Copley or Quigley? Head and face trauma for Quigley, but Catiana here has delicate hands. No sign she hit anyone. If she fought with Quigley, it got physical and she knocked her unconscious with that vase, why is she dead over here and the vase lying over there? Doesn't work. If she fought with Quigley, and Quigley shoved her, killed her, who bashed Quigley with the vase and why? It's shaky.

"So." She shoved up. "We'll see what Copley and the droid have to say."

Though Copley had stopped yelling, she followed the direction it had come from.

She found him sulking in a sitting room reflecting masculine decor. Deep colors, leather seating, hefty entertainment center, golfing art and memorabilia.

One of the uniforms—older, had vet written all over him—sat at his ease working on his PPC while a young female cop stood at parade rest.

She snapped to attention when Eve stepped in.

Copley lurched to his feet.

"For God's sake. My wife's been attacked. She may be dying, for all I know, and these—these—storm troopers are forcing me to stay here. I need to get to the hospital. I need to be with Tash."

"Officer." Eve looked toward the vet. "Would you contact the hospital, get Ms. Quigley's status and condition?"

"Yes, sir." He stepped out.

"Sit down, Mr. Copley. I'll be right with you. Officer Shelby, please step out with me."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

"I demand to be taken to my wife! Immediately!"

"I said sit down." Eve snapped it, cold and fast, had the shock of it jerking Copley back. "And do us all a favor, simmer down while I do my job."

She moved out of the room, took a few steps more, nodded to Shelby. "Run it through for me."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I was walking my beat, about to go take my ten sit-down, when the nine-one-one came in. I was only three blocks north, so I responded. The Dispatch call came in at eighteen-fifty- nine. I was at this location by nineteen-oh-one."

"You move fast, Officer."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. There was no response to my knock or buzz for two minutes, twenty-three seconds. I was about to relay same to Dispatch when the man, identifying himself subsequently as John Jake Copley, answered. He appeared visibly disturbed, shouted incoherently, and rushed back into the residence. I followed him in, observed the female victim by the fireplace, the female victim beside an overturned table approximately ten feet away. Both victims were bleeding profusely from the head. I was forced to order Mr. Copley to calm down, to no avail, while I checked the pulse on each victim. The woman he identified as his wife, Natasha Quigley, was alive. I called for medical assistance and for backup as Copley only became more agitated, and somewhat abusive in his language."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. He called me a useless cunt, a moronic bitch, and at one point laid hands on my person. I was forced to restrain him."

"He give you the bruise on your jaw?"

"During the restraining process, yes, sir."

"I might have been forced to kick his ass. Restraining him was the better choice."

Shelby's lips trembled into a quick smile. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Officers Kenseko and O'Ryan arrived on scene, as did the medicals at nineteen-oh-eight and nineteen-oh-nine respectively."

She cleared her throat, blinked a bit when Roarke offered her a glass of water.

"Go ahead," Eve told her. "Hydrate, then finish your report."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant, thank you." She gulped some down. "After my fellow officers removed Mr. Copley to another room, and the medicals began to work on Ms. Copley, I again spoke with Dispatch, which informed me Copley was to be detained here until your arrival. The nine-one-one caller, who identified herself as Natasha Quigley, was attacked while calling nine-one-one, and at the end of the call shouted out."

At this point Shelby swiped a fresh page on her notebook. "‘JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don't!' before the call ended. There's a broken pocket 'link on the floor in the kill room."

"Yeah, I saw it. Good work, Shelby. Stand by." Eve glanced over at Roarke. "Why don't you come in with me for this? You add an extra layer of fear and intimidation."

"Always glad to lend a hand. Officer Shelby. You should get a cold pack for that jaw."

"It's okay, sir, thank you. He just caught me with his shoulder when I restrained him."

"No cold pack till we document," Eve ordered. "Resisting and assaulting an officer dribbles on some icing."

Eve went back to the sitting room. Copley paced, drinking what looked like whiskey from a short glass. He'd obviously talked Shelby into removing the restraints, and just as well.

She nodded again when O'Ryan stepped up, murmured in her ear. "Stand by," she told him. "Mr. Copley."

He whirled around, nearly slopping whiskey over the top of the glass. "What the hell is going on here? Some maniac comes into my house and assaults—was that one of Tella's people? Was that Katherine?"

"Catiana."

"Yes! Good God. She was dead. You could see she was dead. Her eyes staring. And the blood. But Tash. I ran in after I heard her scream. Ran downstairs, calling for her, and there she was lying there, bleeding. I ran to her, tried to lift her up. I couldn't tell if she was dead or alive. I couldn't tell. I thought she was dead. Why would that woman attack Tash?"

"I don't believe she did. The scene doesn't read that way."

"But it had to be."

"You've got blood on your shirt. Blood on your pants."

"Tash—Tash's blood. I tried to pick her up. I heard Tash scream, and I ran down. It was only seconds. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds. No one was here. That bitch tried to kill my wife. Tash must have fought back, knocked her down."

"After getting knocked unconscious?"

"Before, of course, then when they struggled or fought—about God knows what—she struck Tash. Tash must have fallen, maybe the women slipped and fell. How do I know?"

"What time did you get home from your golf outing?"

"I'm not sure, not exactly. About six, more or less."

"And then?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you do upon arriving home?"

"I went upstairs, spoke briefly to my wife. We talked about going out later for drinks, for dinner. I had a quick shower, changed, if you want specifics, stretched out, turned on the screen. I was just relaxing, as many do on a Sunday evening, when I heard Tash scream from downstairs."

"Did you and your wife argue?"

"What? Of course not."

"Did you argue with Catiana Dubois?"

"No! I barely know the woman. She's one of my sister-in-law's staff. I want to see my wife. I want to know what's happening with Tash."

"She's in serious condition. She has some swelling of the brain, and is in surgery."

He went sheet white as Eve spoke. "The doctors are confident she'll recover."

"Lieutenant, your partner's on her way back."

"Thank you, Officer. Ask the detective with her to secure the house droid and question same."

"Yes, sir."

"Question the droid?" Copley shouted. "Question me, question a fucking machine! My wife's having emergency brain surgery. You can't keep me here."

"She can." Roarke moved to block his exit. "Yes, she can."

"Just stay out of my way," Copley warned, but backed up as he did so. "I have rights! You can't keep me in this room. I'm not under arrest. I'm free to come and go as I damn well please."

"We can fix that," Eve decided, glanced over at an out-of-breath Peabody. "Peabody, read Mr. Copley his rights."

"What are you talking about? You've all lost your minds. I'm leaving."

He tried a charge across the room. Eve pivoted, but Roarke was faster, and merely shot out his foot. It sent Copley on a face-first dive.

"Oops," Roarke said.

"Peabody, restrain the suspect, and read him his rights. John Jake Copley, you're under arrest for suspicion of murder, for attempted murder, for assault, for assault on an officer."

"You have the right to remain silent," Peabody began, then her voice was drowned out by Copley's raging.

"Give him to the female officer—Shelby. Have her and the other two officers transport him to Central. To a box. I'll be down to deal with him when we're done here."

"Let me give you a hand with that, Peabody." Roarke hauled Copley to his feet, and with Peabody taking the other side perp-walked him out, raging still.

"Whew." McNab stepped in. "And I thought the SkyMall was crazytown. The house droid's been shut down since sixteen-thirty, LT."

"Shut down?"

"Yeah. Turned off. There's a secondary droid, but that one's been turned off since about noon. The main house droid reports Ms. Quigley ordered her to shut down, as she routinely does on Sundays when they aren't expecting company or entertaining. She reports no one coming or going after you and Roarke earlier today. No help from that quarter."

"Check the security cam, and let's make a copy of that."

"On it."

She pulled out her comm, contacted Dispatch.

"Dispatch, play back nine-one-one call from this location made by Quigley, Natasha, at eighteen-fifty-six."

"Acknowledged, one moment. No video recorded. Audio only. Playback commenced."

Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

She's dead! I think she's dead! Oh my God, Cate. It's... Wait, please. Oh God. This is Natasha Quigley at 18 Vandam. I need to report a— JJ! Oh, JJ, something terrible happened. JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don't!

Eve heard a scream, a thud, pictured the 'link dropping to the ground. Then the recording stopped.

"Playback complete."

"Okay, copy recording to my files. Dallas and Peabody, along with Detective McNab, currently on scene. Dallas and Peabody will transfer to Central to interview Copley, John Jake, now charged with suspicion of murder and related charges."

"Acknowledged."

"Dallas, out. Got ya," she muttered.

"Your suspect's on his way to Central," Roarke told her.

"And he'll stew in it for a while. When we finish up here, we need to go by the hospital, check on Quigley. If she's awake, we'll get her statement. You can go home."

"Why do you want to punish me?"

She shook her head. "Suit yourself." She walked out with him, joined Peabody.

"I liked her," Peabody said. "There was something likeable about her."

"Yeah, there was. Contact the sweepers, the morgue. Let's get started on getting her justice."

"I was complaining, sort of, about working on a vic who was an asshole." Peabody looked back toward Catiana. "And now..."

"I know it." Eve crouched to study the broken 'link. "Looks like it's been stomped on. She drops it, he comes at her, stomps on it. The vase is right there. It sat on that table. He grabs it, comes at her, stomps the phone, smacks her with it."

Before she could ask, Roarke handed her an evidence bag. She bagged and sealed the phone.

"He drops the vase, doesn't give her the second smack like Ziegler. Vase is big and heavy. It cracks, but it didn't break. Does he think smashing the phone erases the damn nine-one-one? Was he too wrought up, too far gone, to think about it? Just attack, just cover it all up. Then blame it all on a dead woman? He was upstairs, minding his own, heard his wife scream, ran down."

"But there's no report, is there, that he called for help, for medicals, for the police."

She looked at Roarke as she marked the vase. "Nope. None. It took Shelby two minutes to get here, and took him another two to answer. Working on his story, getting himself under control. Not enough time to set up a fake break-in or burglary. He thinks he's got two dead women, until Shelby checks, gets a pulse. Now he's got to get to his wife, fix it somehow. Or run. But Shelby handled that, and then backup arrived. He can't push his way through three cops. He has to be outraged, the worried husband, the victim."

She stood again. "How it looks is, for some reason—and we'll need to talk to the sister—Catiana comes here. Copley lets her in. They come in here, argue. Maybe she knew something, maybe he thought she knew something. He loses his temper, pushes her. She falls way wrong, and that's it. He barely has time to think. Look what she made him do! And in comes his wife. Sees the body. Calls nine-one-one. He couldn't have been in the room."

Frowning, she turned a circle. "If he'd been in, he'd never have let her call through. So he ran out, to get something, to hide something, to get a damn drink, but he had to have come back in at that point in the call when she said his name. She's ruining everything. He has to make her stop. Snaps, or is still snapped, grabs the vase, charges in."

She turned again, studied the body again, with guilt and regret clawing at her. "What did you know? How do you fit in?"

"Dallas." McNab came in, passed her a disc. "Got it copied. You can see the vic come to the door. You can't see who let her in. You'll see for yourself, but to my eye she looked upset, worried. Rushed in, talking fast."

"No audio?"

"No, no audio."

Her eyes on Catiana, Eve slipped the disc into her pocket.

If you knew something, anything why did you come here? Why didn't you come to me?

But it was too late for that question, she thought.