Chapter 19

The burly SUV proved a good choice since McNab and Peabody needed to pile in. Eve ignored McNab as he played with controls and options in the back while she worked on her PPC.

Catiana had parents—divorced, mother remarried, living in Brooklyn. Father also remarried, living in Phoenix, Arizona. One sibling, a sister, married, two children, in New Rochelle.

She'd need to go to Brooklyn, do the notification. But that misery would come after she'd checked on Quigley. She needed to... Was that chocolate she smelled?

She shifted around in her seat, narrowed her eyes at Peabody. "What's that on your upper lip, Detective?"

Hastily Peabody swiped at it. "Ah, um. A little whipped cream. It's hot chocolate. It's real hot chocolate. I couldn't help it. McNab did it."

Unabashed, McNab grinned at her. "Mini AutoChef back here has a full beverage menu. Peabody's been jonesing for hot chocolate. Want some?"

Yes, Eve thought, but said: "No."

"Iced squared accessories back here," he said to Roarke. "The total."

"We do what we can," Roarke responded.

"You got your entertainment with vid, straight screen, tunes, books, full D and C capabilities, mapping—solo, duet, or full vehicle modes. Then there's—"

"He probably knows what's loaded in this thing," Eve interrupted.

"Add in the eats and drinks, we could motor to Utah."

"Next time we plan to go to Utah, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, we're a little preoccupied here with murder."

"Yeah, about that. Got the security disc from the crime scene on here." His green eyes shifted from hers down to the screen while he took a contented glug of his own hot chocolate. "We might be able to enhance and analyze the shadow of whoever opened the door for the vic. It's a long shot, but you gotta try it. Lipreading program's running on the vic. We've got a better chance at that, but her face angles away from the cam, and she puts her hand over her mouth once so it's going to be jumpy."

Sometimes, Eve thought, she forgot he wasn't an idiot. "Good. Stay on it. Here's the play," she said to Peabody. "We talk to Quigley, if possible, get the details. Odds are slim she'd try to protect Copley at this point, but if she tries, we could run the nine-one-one call for her, push it. DB, spouse in the hospital, no break-in, a fleet of lawyers isn't going to loosen the noose."

She glanced at McNab. "If we get lucky with the shadow ID, all the better. Confirm Copley opened the door to the vic, it throws out his claim of being upstairs when this went down. In addition, we tie him into Ziegler—that'll take more, but we're going to do it. With Quigley's statement, we can let him sweat. The victim's mother lives in Brooklyn. We have to go, notify her."

"Man, two days—less—before Christmas. It's always hard, but this is just harder."

"She has a husband and a stepson living at home, another daughter in New York. That'll help some. The vic may have talked to her about Ziegler, about Copley. We have to get whatever we can. We'll need to talk to the Schuberts again, asap, and I want to check in at the morgue, give an official COD, get Morris's—I've already requested him—take on her."

"That's a long time sweating," Peabody said as Roarke worked through the parking garage at the hospital. "A long time for him to come up with a story, for the lawyers to shine it up."

"It's not going to shine, not when his wife tells us he attacked her. Not when she gives us a statement from her hospital bed. I get in the box with him, he's going to break. I'm going to break him."

She would damn well break him, Eve thought as they piled out, walked to the hospital's main entrance.

"Lipreading doesn't give us much, Dallas." McNab held up his PPC. "It has her saying: Need to talk. Break. Come in. Break. I remembered. And that's it. Vic moved into the house, out of range."

"The shadow?"

"Working it, but hell, Dallas, there isn't much there."

"Play it out," she told him.

She crossed the colorful lobby with its busy food court, passed a group of kids in school uniforms singing carols in front of a big tree, and arrowed in on a security guard.

"NYPSD." She held up her badge. "Here's what I need you to do, and fast. I need the floor, the room, and the doctor in charge of Quigley, Natasha, brought in earlier this evening via ambulance, with severe head trauma."

"I'm not supposed to access patient information without my supervisor's authorization."

"Right now, I'm your supervisor. Quigley, Natasha. Now. If she dies before I get to her, I'm coming back for you."

"Yes, ma'am."

He scrambled off.

"I hate that ‘ma'am' thing, but okay."

"Between McNab and me," Roarke commented, "we could have hacked that data for you in about the same amount of time."

"Would've been fun, too," McNab said wistfully.

"Next time." Eve met the security guard halfway.

"She's on six. I meant to say they'll bring her to six. She's still in surgery. Dr. Campo's in charge."

"Good. Thanks."

She zipped straight for the elevators. "Still in surgery, damn it. It's not likely we're going to be able to interview her anytime soon," she said as the got on. "We'll push on the nursing staff to give us a more detailed update, go from there."

The sixth-floor elevator opened into yet another lobby—smaller, but all spruced up for the holidays. It held a waiting area, Vending, and a scattering of people sitting anxiously in miserable-looking chairs.

The woman at the desk beamed a bright smile that dimmed when Eve badged her. "I need data on Quigley, Natasha. A Dr. Campo's operating on her."

"The Patient Privacy Act—"

"Is trumped." Eve slapped her badge on the counter. "Quigley is the victim of an assault. I have a suspect in custody who killed another woman and attempted to kill Quigley. I need her status, and I need it now."

"I need to check your identification, and the identifications of those with you. Once verified, I can pass you through to the nursing station. The head nurse, Janis Vick, would be able to give you the information available to her."

"Do it."

While she did, Roarke wandered over to Vending. He knew the preferences, and offered Peabody and McNab fizzies, handed Eve a Pepsi.

Before she could crack it open, the woman at the desk shifted back. "You're verified. Straight through the double doors."

They buzzed, clicked, slowly swung open.

More decorations, brighter lights, and the sound of rubber soles padding on tile. Eve smelled hospital, a scent that always hit the center of her gut. Sickness, antiseptics, heavy cleaners—and a metallic underpinning she thought of as fear.

She moved to the wide semicircle of counter where some of the staff—all wearing a variation of a bright-colored tunic she supposed was meant to be cheerful—worked on 'links or comps.

"Janis Vick."

A woman on a comp held up a finger. She had brutally short stone-gray hair with a snaking blue streak. Rising, she came around the counter.

"Lieutenant Dallas? You want the status of Natasha Quigley. She's still in surgery."

"That much I know."

"I can tell you there were some complications. Her BP dropped, and at one point her heart stopped. Dr. Campo found a second, smaller bleed. They were able to stabilize the patient while Dr. Campo closed the bleeds. While the patient has been downgraded to critical, the head surgical nurse reports the patient is, as I said, stabilized at this time."

"How much longer will she be in there?"

"I can't tell you that, but from what I can gather, the surgery should be done within the hour. From there, the patient will be monitored in Recovery. It could be two hours, or several hours, before she's able to talk to you."

"What are her chances? You're not head nurse on the surgical floor for nothing," Eve pushed when Vick hesitated. "You have a gauge."

"I can tell you, the patient's lucky. Dr. Campo, in my opinion, is the best neurosurgeon we have. With her performing the surgery, I'd give the patient strong odds. If you give me your contact information, I can see you're notified when she's in Recovery."

The best she'd get, Eve determined. They couldn't wait hours to move on the rest.

"You want to start on Copley," Peabody said as they rode down to the lobby again. "I can do the notification. I can handle it," she added when Eve glanced at her. "You can be working on Copley while we—McNab and me—head to Brooklyn, take care of that."

Eve cracked the soft drink tube, considered it. "It'll save time. I'll take the first pass at him while you notify next of kin. If I don't crack him, first pass, we'll try for Quigley again, take him on together. You need to get the mother, and have her pull in the sister so you can work her. Get them to tell you anything, I mean anything, the vic might have said about Ziegler, about Copley, Quigley. Get a sense of the connections. Everything plays now."

"I know."

"Do you want transpo?"

"Be nice," Peabody said, then sighed. "But the subway's probably quicker."

"Contact me once you have it done," Eve ordered, and parted ways. "I don't like dumping the notification on her. She'll carry it longer than I would."

"I doubt that," Roarke said. "You carry them all."

Claiming otherwise would be a lie, she admitted, and why bother. "I'll waste my time saying this again, but you could go home."

"It's never less than entertaining, watching you interrogate a suspect."

"Whatever floats." She pulled out her 'link as he drove, contacted Mira. "Sorry to disturb you at home," she began, "but you said you were interested in observing when I had Copley in the box."

After making arrangements with Mira she contacted Central to make certain Copley was where she wanted him.

"Interview B," she said when Roarke drove into Central's garage. "Reo's heading in. He used his one contact for his lawyer. Didn't use it to check on his wife. The lawyer's with him, making lawyerly noises."

"One expects no less."

Eve eyed the elevator with distrust, but got on. "The last time I was on this, Drunk Santa let loose a nuclear fart while showing me his grimy little dick."

"You lead such a colorful life."

"I'm pretty sure he puked right after I got off, because I heard they had to shut down this car for two hours." She sniffed cautiously. "You can still sort of smell the detox."

"We can hope this ride proves less eventful."

As it did, she peeled off straight to her office. "I'm going to put a file together—DB, the first-on-scene's record of Quigley, the scene itself, the nine-one-one."

"And Ziegler?"

"Second file. I may hold that back, depending. He doesn't know his wife's status, and I can use that. His lawyer can't access it—Patient Privacy Act—so they don't know I haven't interviewed her."

"You'll lie."

"Fortunately, I can lie my ass off." She checked the time. "He's had a good long sweat, the lawyer's told him to keep it zipped, but he won't."

"He's... excitable." Roarke looked over at her. "You'll use that."

"Damn straight. He doesn't know what the hell's going on regarding Quigley. He'll have a story though, and he'll want to tell it."

"And lawyer or not, you'll make sure he does."

"That's the plan." She picked up the files. "If you get bored in Observation, I'll find you. If you want to go home, just go."

He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her. "I'll be here."

Armed with her files, she walked to Interview B, and went in.

"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Copley, John Jake, regarding case files H-28901 and H-28902. Mr. Copley has exercised his right to legal representation."

"Edie McAllister with Silbert, Crosby, and McAllister, representing Mr. Copley."

"So noted."

"As Mr. Copley's legal counsel I demand his immediate release." She clipped the words out, all confident, outraged lawyer. "He's been held here for nearly three hours. He's been prevented from accompanying his injured wife to the hospital. He's been prevented from contacting the hospital to learn his wife's condition. This extreme hardship is—"

"You are aware evidence strongly indicates Mr. Copley is responsible for his wife's injuries?"

"That's a lie!" Copley banged his fist on the table, rattling the chains that secured him.

"JJ." The lawyer, a swirly-haired blonde in potent red, laid a hand on his. "You have no tangible evidence, and, in fact, have Mr. Copley's own account that he found his wife unconscious. We strongly believe, and evidence will show, that Catiana Dubois assaulted Ms. Quigley, was killed during the struggle."

"If you're thinking of that as your opening statement at the trial, it's not going to get you far. Catiana Dubois came to your residence—your own security disc clearly shows this, and shows she was upset at this time. You let her in, you argued. You've got an impressive temper, Copley, which I can testify to personally. You pushed her. She fell, striking her head on the edge of the marble hearth in your living area."

"I never touched her. I barely know her. I never saw her."

"You didn't see this?" Eve took the crime scene photo of Catiana from the file, tossed it on the table. "In your living area?"

He glanced down at the file photo, quickly away again. "I meant I didn't see her before. I didn't let her in. I was upstairs. Natasha must have let her in."

"And, according to your fairy tale, Catiana subsequently attacked your wife. Why?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"Mr. Copley is unaware of any friction between his wife and the deceased." McAllister spoke firmly, working to focus Eve's attention on her and away from her client. "However, in her capacity as social secretary for Ms. Quigley's sister, the deceased often inserted herself in personal affairs."

"How did she do that?" Ignoring the lawyer, Eve spoke to Copley directly. "I thought you barely knew her? Which is it, Copley? You barely knew her or she stuck her nose in your business?"

"I didn't pay any attention to her. She dealt with Tella's social stuff, with women's business."

"Define ‘women's business.'"

"Parties, shopping, lunches." He shrugged it off. "Garden clubs and whatever women do."

Eve smiled toothily at McAllister. "Is that your business? Parties and lunches? Is that how you got your name on the letterhead? Going to garden clubs?"

"Obviously, my client means the victim handled his sister-in-law's social calendar."

"I think we both know what he meant, and that he's a misogynistic asshole, but we'll let that slide for now. Were you aware of any tension between your wife and the deceased?"

"No. I don't get into that sort of thing. But she attacked Tash. It's obvious."

"Contrarily, it's impossible." Eve took out another photo. "As you see, there are ten feet, four inches between the deceased's body and Ms. Quigley's. Just how did Catiana DuBois manage to bash your wife over the head with this lead crystal vase while she was dead, ten feet, four inches away?"

"Don't be stupid," Copley snapped even as his lawyer ordered him to stay quiet. "That bitch attacked Tash, Tash fought back. The bitch fell, hit her head. Clear self-defense. Then Tash tried to get out, get to me, and only made it that far."

"Let's have some fun with that. You're already seeing it," she said conversationally to McAllister. "Catiana attacks your wife, smacks her upside the head with this vase—the vase that's here, cracked and bloody on the floor right beside your wife's unconscious body. Then, somehow, with a fractured skull, with a brain bleed, your wife manages to struggle with the deceased, drive her across the room, where she conveniently falls and kills herself on the hearth. Then, in this miracle of physical determination, your wife gets back across the room, neatly hits the mark where she was attacked, and drops."

"She's a strong woman."

"Her neurosurgeon agrees with you. She also says your creative scenario is impossible. Our reconstruction will back that up."

Eyes on him, Eve leaned back, kept her voice, her body language almost casual.

"You argued with Catiana, you shoved her—like you shoved your golf buddy, Van Sedgwick, at your country club."

"That's ridiculous. That's a lie. He slipped. I never—"

"Only you don't have a handy water trap in your living area, so this shove resulted in Catiana Dubois's fall, in her death."

Eve angled forward, just a little, hardened her tone, just a little. "Where did you go after? Did you panic, run off, trying to figure out how to cover it up? An accident, it had to look like an accident."

She built the edge—harder, stronger—tapping her fingers faster, faster, on the crime scene photo.

"But when you came back in the room, Natasha had come in, had seen. She's in the way, damn it! You had to get her out of the way. To shut her up, just shut her up, so you picked up the vase, charged at her."

"I was upstairs!" He shoved up, shook the table. "I heard Tash scream, and I ran down to help her. She's my wife, you ignorant cunt."

"JJ, stop! Sit down, and stop. My client has nothing more to say at this time."

"Fine, let's hear what Natasha Quigley has to say."

Eve set the mini recorder with its copy of the nine-one-one call on the table, ordered on.

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!

Copley stared at the recorder, mouth agape.

"You were too enraged to hear her." Eve tapped the recorder. "Too caught up to think. It was act. Act now."

"That's a fake. It's a fake! She was on the floor when I ran in. She... there must have been someone else there. Someone else must have been there. Maybe he looked like me. She was upset. She... she wasn't talking to me. She was... calling for me so I'd come help her."

"Maybe you need to hear it again." Eve replayed, letting it run under Copley's increasingly hysterical rants.

"You're doing this. It's you, it's you! You have it in for me. I knew it the minute you came into that meeting. You're trying to frame me. Someone else was there. I was upstairs."

"JJ, we're done," McAllister said, all but physically holding him down in the chair. "Not another word. Do you hear me?"

"Maybe it was more than rage, more than panic. Maybe you saw your chance. Kill her, kill them both, make it seem like they fought. It clears the path for you and Felicity."

"I didn't... How do you know?... It was you! You're the reason Felicity moved out, you're the reason she won't answer her 'link. You bitch! I could kill you!"

"No handy blunt object." Like Copley, Eve surged to her feet. She leaned in, leaned hard. "Ziegler knew, blackmailed you, and it's never enough. It would never stop. You made it stop. Taught that ungrateful bastard a lesson. Catiana knew, wouldn't listen to reason. You lost your temper, shoved her. Then it's Natasha. It's time to finish it. Just finish it. So you fractured her skull. You thought you'd finished it, would have finished it, but the cop's at the door so fast, too fast."

She kept going, raising her voice over his rants, his lawyer's shouts. "Girl cop at your door, stupid cunt, what the hell does she know? But she gets in your way, she won't do what you tell her to do. You have to make your best pitch, it's how you make your living. But it won't work, Copley. It's all right here."

She slapped her hand on the file. "It's all right here. Ziegler." She dug out the crime scene photo. "Catiana." Slapped hers beside it."Natasha." Added the last. "But you left Natasha breathing. And she's going to bury you."

His face glowed red. His eyes literally bulged. Eve half expected him to just explode, spewing flesh, brains, and fury all over the room.

Instead, he collapsed, wheezing, with sweat slicking those bright red cheeks.

"Get a medic!" McAllister ordered, and leaped to kneel beside him.

Eve glanced toward the two-way glass, turned to the door, wrenched it open. In seconds Mira rushed in.

"I'm a doctor. Lieutenant, some water?"

"Shit. Mira, Dr. Charlotte, entering Interview to treat suspect. Dallas, exiting Interview for—"

She broke off, took the bottle of water Roarke offered from the doorway.

"Correction, Dallas remaining in Interview."

She cracked the water open, offered it to Mira.

"Slow your breathing, Mr. Copley. Look at me now, you're having an anxiety attack. Slow your breathing. Sip some of this."

"Can't breathe." He wheezed, staring out with eyes the size of moons. "Can't."

"Slowly. You need to take slow breaths. Lieutenant, send for a medic."

"Already done," Roarke told Eve when she reached for her comm.

"We're going to get you some oxygen, Mr. Copley. That will help. We're going to help you, and take you to the Infirmary."

"His heart," McAllister began.

"We'll run all necessary tests, but this is a severe anxiety attack."

"Dying. Chest..."

"You're not dying," Mira said calmly. "Look at me. Mr. Copley, look at me. I'm Dr. Mira. I want you to look at me, hear my voice." She signaled for the med kit when the medic ran in. "Get his BP," she murmured as she took out the oxygen mask, activated it. "I'm going to put this over your nose and mouth. Look at me, JJ. I want you to take slow breaths once I do. Slowly."

"Two-ten over one-ten, Doc. Benzodiazepine in the kit."

"Let's wait a minute. JJ, I know your chest hurts, it's difficult to get a breath. It will pass. Take those breaths, slow. That's good, very good. You're going to feel some relief in a moment. Breathe in. Let's transport him down to the Infirmary."

"Will do. BP one-ninety over ninety. It's leveling down."

"No one talks to him outside of my presence."

"Get a grip, McAllister," Eve advised.

"You badgered him into a heart attack! Don't tell me to get a grip."

"Ms. McAllister, is it?" In that same calm tone, Mira shut the lawyer down. "Your client hasn't had a cardiac incident but an anxiety attack, which is passing. We will, of course, examine, test, and treat him."

"I want him taken to the hospital immediately, and examined by his own physician."

"Not going to happen," Eve countered, "unless Dr. Mira deems it necessary. Out here," she ordered when McAllister started to protest.

She stepped out, moved several feet away from the room. "Look, you and I both know the record will show he worked himself up into a rage that turned into a panic attack. Fricking apoplectic. Medical assistance was speedy, and medical treatment will continue. But he gets it in my house."

"I'll get a court order for his transfer to an outside medical facility."

"Try it, go ahead. The record and Mira's rep will hold. I'm taking him down for two murders and an attempted. I've got him cold, and his own wife's adding the ice. He had a fucking panic attack. She's been on the table getting her brain put back together for the last few hours, so don't try to twist it."

"You will not speak to him again without medical clearance."

Eve shrugged. "I'll wait." Eve angled her head. "The other two partners are men, right?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"And out of town for the holidays, unavailable tonight in any case. Otherwise, he wouldn't have you as his legal rep on this. He doesn't respect you. You and I both know it. He'll use you, until one of the male types gets here, but you're a placeholder to him."

"You're insulting."

"Me?" Eve watched another medical hustle a gurney toward Interview B. "You've got a strange way of defining insulting."

Eve waited until they'd wheeled him out, with McAllister striding alongside the gurney like a guard dog.

Mira stepped to Eve. "I'll go, oversee the tests, but I'm confident he suffered a panic attack. His BP is in the safe range now, and he's breathing normally."

"Sorry to mess up your evening."

"Not at all. It's part of the job, isn't it? You won't be able to continue the interview tonight. I couldn't approve it, medically, and his lawyer will certainly do what she can to block it in any case."

"Figured."

"It was real. The panic attack. And that's something to consider. His reaction to the extreme stress was both physical and emotional. Ziegler's killer didn't panic."

"Killing doesn't upset him as much as being pinned for it does." But it left a little hole she'd need to fill in. "He was trapped in there, with me. With the evidence. With the truth. He couldn't handle it."

"It's certainly possible. I'll review his medical history to determine if he's experienced these attacks before or been treated for them." Mira let out a breath of her own. "He's an ugly little man, isn't he? Still, I'll treat him to the best of my capabilities, and unless the tests prove me wrong, he'll be clear for you to interview tomorrow. I'll send you a report."

"Thanks." Eve stood where she was a moment as Mira walked toward the glide. "Fuck. I want coffee."

"I could do with some myself," Roarke told her, went with her to her office.

"I had him. I would've had him." She fisted her hand. "He wasn't listening to the lawyer—the girl lawyer. Tripping himself up with this story, then another. Somebody else in there who looked like him? I mean, Jesus."

She dropped down at her desk, drank coffee, scowled. "Panic attack. His eyes actually bulged out of his head. More like a temper tantrum, all respect to Mira. He wanted to go at me. If he'd had a weapon, he'd have used it." She pushed up, paced the small office, while Roarke sat with his coffee in her miserable visitor's chair.

"He couldn't get that release, so he had the attack. Maybe, maybe. He couldn't release the rage in any way, so his body went whack. I should've asked Mira about that, for the medical/psych terms for that."

"I can only agree with Mira. He's an ugly little man."

"How do ugly little men get laid the way he apparently did?" Eve wondered. "I'm going to contact Felicity, who apparently had the good sense to break it off. And I want to talk to the Schuberts. And check in with Morris."

"No point in reminding me I can go home. I have an excellent memory. I'm with you, for the fun and fascination."

"Your choice. I'm going to call Peabody off then. No need for her to come in. We'll hit Copley together tomorrow. Maybe her soft-pedal will keep him from going purple and flopping on the floor like a fish."

She pulled out her 'link. It signaled in her hand. "Dallas."

"Nurse Vick, Lieutenant. Dr. Campo authorized me to tell you Ms. Quigley is out of surgery. Her condition has been upgraded to serious, but stable. The patient requires rest and quiet for the next several hours. If you check in the morning, after eight, Dr. Campo will be available, and can let you know if Ms. Quigley is up to speaking with you."

"Fair enough. Thanks for letting me know. I'll be there tomorrow."

Eve clicked off. "There's good news. If I can get her statement, I can wrap Copley up in it. Well." She drained her coffee. "Let's go ruin the Schuberts' holidays. Whatever that asshole Copley thinks, Dubois was more to them than the one who handled Martella's woman business."

"You'd do better, as would I, with something more than popcorn in the system."

"Maybe." She fell into step with him. "We could grab a slice after the morgue."

He took her hand. "See what I meant about fun and fascination? How many people could say just that?"

"All the many people who are cops."

He laughed a little. She had him there.