Chapter 21

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 and 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."

"Good enough."

"Word is, her husband whacked her."

"He's in custody."

"I had one of those once—a husband. Instead of whacking him, and it was tempting, I divorced him."

"The simple reason you're not in custody."

"Still wish he was. Okay, this way. We see too much domestic bullshit in here," Campo said as she led them down a wide corridor. "Not as much as you, I expect, but plenty. Makes me wonder why people don't need to take a psych test before they get a marriage license."

Campo's demeanor changed from leaning toward irascible to gentle as she walked into 600.

The scent of roses from the huge bouquet across from the bed nearly overpowered the sticky scent of hospital.

Natasha lay in the bed, the head lifted to support her in an incline. Pristine white bandages covered the right side of her head and wrapped around her forehead, but didn't quite cover all the purpling bruising. Her hair lay over her left shoulder in a loose braid. Without enhancement, with the strain of the last hours, she looked older and more delicate.

Beside her, Martella sat in a roomy sleep chair, her sister's hand in hers, eyes exhausted.

"Doctor—oh, the police already. She's sleeping. She needs to sleep." Moving slowly, Martella released her sister's hand, rose to walk quietly across the room that more closely resembled a good hotel suite than a hospital. "Can you come back? She's just had all these tests. She's worn out. Lance ran out to get her some Greek yogurt, some berries. You said that was all right?"

"Yes, that's fine," Campo told her, patted Martella's shoulder as she moved over to study the numbers on the machines. "She's stable. Martella, you should get some rest yourself, and some food."

"I will. I will. But I don't want to leave her until—"

"Tella."

Natasha's voice, barely more than a whisper, had Martella rushing back to the bedside. "I'm right here. Don't worry, I'm right here."

"Ms. Quigley."

"Who is that?" Natasha turned her head. Her right eye showed more bruising and severe swelling from the blow. "Oh. Yes. I know you."

"Are you up to answering some questions?" Eve asked her.

"I can try."

"You don't need to tire yourself, Tash," Martella began.

"It's all right. I want to know what happened. It's all so confusing. Catiana? Is Cate really dead? It seems like a terrible dream."

"What do you remember?"

"I was upstairs. I was upset, still a little upset from when you'd been there before. JJ was home. Yes, that's right, he'd come home. He'd been... Where had he been?"

"Golfing," Martella reminded her. "With Lance."

"That's right. Yes. What did we talk about? I'm not sure. I just can't quite remember. Then... I was downstairs. Was I looking for him? I went into the living area, and—and I saw... I saw Cate."

Tears blurred her eyes, clogged her voice. "I saw her by the fireplace. There was blood, so much blood. I ran over. Did I scream? I don't know. I ran over, I turned her over, but it was too late. So much blood, and her eyes... Oh, Tella."

"Ssh, ssh." Martella pressed kisses to her sister's hand. "Don't think about it anymore."

"You turned her over?" Eve persisted.

"Yes. I think... It's all so cloudy and in pieces. I think I did—trying to help her, but... I think I screamed. In my head, my head was full of screams. I needed to get help. I think I tried to get help. Did I scream for JJ? I think..."

"Do you remember calling nine-one-one?"

"I... Yes!" She struggled up a little higher in the bed. "Yes, yes. I called for help. Oh thank God, I called for help. I called for help, but..."

Her eyes filled with more tears, more confusion. And fear. "Something happened. Something... someone." Her free hand lifted to the bandages.

"Who struck you, Ms. Quigley?"

"I..." The drenched eyes evaded. "I can't remember. It's not clear. I can't say because it's not clear. I can't remember."

"Ms. Quigley, we have the nine-one-one recording."

Her gaze darted to Eve, away again. "I can't remember. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm tired. Tella, I'm tired."

"You have to leave now," Tella said. "You have to leave her alone now."

"Don't upset yourself, Ms. Quigley." Dr. Campo moved in. "You did very well. You get some more rest, and I'll be back to check on you later. Lieutenant, Detective, that's all for now."

"You don't need to be afraid anymore," Peabody said before they left the room. "You're safe now."

In response, Natasha choked out a sob, turned her head away.

Unsatisfied, Eve glanced back toward 600. "Why not tell us? She's lying. She remembers. Why not just tell us?"

"Confused, conflicted, scared. Here you're trying to save your marriage—you know you've both screwed up, but you're trying to patch it back together. And in one big reveal, you find out your husband's a killer, and he tries to kill you. Add in scandal, embarrassment, media frenzy."

Eve added annoyance to dissatisfaction. "What kind of world does she live in where a woman's embarrassed her husband tried to kill her? Where scandal—which is inevitable considering Catiana's in the morgue—weighs over telling the cops: Holy shit, my husband tried to kill me. Lock him up and protect me."

"An old money world, I guess." They rode back down to the garage. "She's been through a big trauma, and maybe—yeah, she's lying—but maybe she's also convinced herself she's really not clear, not sure. She's going to come around when she's steadier."

"Either way." Eve shook her head. "We keep tabs on her, regular updates on her status. If they even think about the possibility of releasing her, we know about it."

"Pretty good bet she's going to spend Christmas in the hospital. At least it's a swank room."

"Hospital's a hospital. We hit Copley, because if she doesn't come around, it's going to stick up the works. Let's pull Reo in, get the legal take on worst case, but we hit him and we work him, and we tie this up."

But when she walked into the Homicide bullpen, Jenkinson hailed her. "Yo, LT. There's a guy waiting in the lounge—Steven Dorchester. He wants to talk to you. Says he's Catiana Dubois's boyfriend."

"Okay. I'll take him," she said to Peabody. "Set up the interview, contact Reo. Might as well give Mira the heads-up, too."

She stood for a moment, studying a couple fake ears of corn now hanging on the pathetic tree.

"Isn't the corn thing Thanksgiving? Why is fake corn hanging on that tree?"

"For Kwanza," Jenkinson told her. "Trueheart said it's one of the seven symbols. He looked it up. We're all-inclusive in Homicide, 'cause whatever your race, color, or creed, you can get dead."

"We should write that up under a Merry Christmas sign."

Eve made her way to the lounge with its scatter of tables, and vending machines. Somebody cursed at one, gave it a punch with the side of his fist. Knowing she wasn't the only one to war with those machines cheered her right up.

She scanned a few cops, a couple talking quietly with civilians. Then the man sitting alone, staring down at his own folded hands.

She crossed to him. "Mr. Dorchester."

He looked up at her out of red-rimmed eyes. "Yes. I'm Steven Dorchester. You're Lieutenant Dallas."

"That's right. I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Dorchester."

"Steven. It's Steven. I... keep thinking I'm going to wake up and it's all going to be a terrible dream. Or it's just some horrible mistake. But..."

He went back to staring at his hands when Eve sat across from him.

Strong face, she thought, though the strain showed. Longish hair, a few reddish streaks through the dark brown, a single silver stud through his right earlobe, a trio of stars inked on the back of his right wrist.

Something artistic about him, she thought. Someone good with his hands. She speculated on it, considered he and Catiana would have made an attractive couple, while she waited for him to compose himself and speak.

"There's nothing I can do. I'm going over to see her family this morning, be with them, but there's nothing any of us can do. She's gone." He looked up again. "I know there's probably not much you can tell me, but if there's anything... I'm going to be with her family."

"I can tell you I'll do everything I can to see that the person responsible for taking her from you, from her family, who took her life, is punished to the full extent of the law. There may be something you can do to help."

"Anything. I'll do anything."

"When did you last see or speak with Catiana?"

"Yesterday morning, when she left for work. We went to a party Saturday night, and she stayed at my place. We were... we were going out last night, then going back to my place again. Sort of an early Christmas, just the two of us, because we were going to the parents' tonight. Mine, then hers. We were spending Christmas Eve at her mother's, the night, I mean. They have a big deal, so we were staying, and we were going to have our own little Christmas last night. But..."

"Can you tell me if she was upset about anything? Worried about anything?"

"No. She was great. We were great. I..." He reached in his pocket, took out a pretty little box. "I made this for her. I do some silverwork, and I made this for her. I was going to give it to her last night."

He opened the box. Inside a small, intricate key hung on a delicate chain.

"It's beautiful work."

"It's the symbol—the key. I was going to ask her to move in with me. We said we were taking it slow, but I wanted her to move in with me. So, the key. For her.

"How did this happen?"

"When I have all the details, I promise I'll tell you. Did she talk to you about Trey Ziegler?"

"Yeah. Jerk. That was her word for him. He put some moves on her. She gave him the brush-off, so he spread it around she went for girls. Like if she brushed him off she didn't go for men. Didn't bother her. Why would it? I went by the gym a couple times, just to give him the needle. Probably shouldn't have."

"You talked about his murder."

"Yeah. It shook her up some. She didn't like him, but still." He stroked the key, still in its box, with his finger. "She has a soft heart."

"Did she talk to you about who she thought may have killed him?"

"We played that game, you can't help it, right? And after—when it came out what he did to Tella, and Cate said he did the same with other women, we figured one of them found out and did it. Or one of their husbands or friends, you know. It's why she went to work on Sunday, even though she could've taken the day off. She wanted to be around for Tella."

"You didn't talk to her on Sunday after she left for work?"

"No. We were supposed to meet at eight for dinner, at this place we like, and she didn't show up. I tried to reach her, but she didn't answer her 'link. I went by her place, but she wasn't there. I even went to the Schuberts' place, but they weren't there, either. Then her sister... Her sister tagged me, and she told me. And everything just stopped. Everything stopped. I don't know if it'll ever start again."

"Do you want some coffee?"

"No, thanks, no. I don't think I could swallow anything."

"Steven, can you tell me how she felt about Natasha Quigley, JJ Copley?"

"She got along fine with them. She was really tight with Tella, and she and Tella's sister got along fine. She didn't much like the husband. She said he was a little bit of a prick." He smiled a little. "She had opinions. She'd help Ms. Quigley out now and then."

"Like for her holiday party."

"Yeah, like that. I got to go, and it was okay. A little stiff for me, if you know what I mean. But she'd help out like that now and then. With parties, sending out invites, or thank-yous if Ms. Quigley was slammed. She didn't mind. She liked the job."

"Okay."

"I didn't help any."

"You did. You've given me a good picture of her. Who she was, how she was. I hope it helps you to know she matters to me. Getting justice for her matters."

"Did you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Just one day." His red-rimmed eyes, swimming with tears, bored into hers. "Even just a few hours. If I'd said, Please don't go to work today—or Hey, I'll go with you. Something. It wouldn't have happened. Did you ever wish you could do that, just turn the clock back?"

"All the time."

When he left, Eve went into her office to shake off his grief. It wouldn't help in interview.

"Knock, knock." Cher Reo walked in. The pretty blonde with Southern roots might have looked delicate, but Eve knew she could be an Amazon in court. "I was in the building, keeping close in case. Give me coffee and we'll talk John Jake Copley."

"Help yourself. You got the report. No sign of break-in, just him in the house with dead body and unconscious wife. Wife's nine-one-one call that clearly speaks his name."

"I listened to it myself." With her coffee, Reo walked over, sat in Eve's desk chair. "I'm not sitting in that awful visitor's chair. You talked to the wife this morning?"

"She's awake, maybe a little confused yet." Eve relayed the gist of the interview. "She won't pull the trigger," Eve finished. "Won't confirm Copley struck her."

"Could be a little problem."

"The nine-one-one recording—"

"Oh, we'll use the hell out of it, but if I were his lawyer I'd use it, too. I'd claim the victim was in shock, in fear, was calling for her husband, was then attacked, and this unknown assailant fled."

"How—the cam clearly shows—"

"Out a window, into a hidey-hole until he or she could slip out undetected. It's weak, Dallas, and I can promise we'll tear it to shreds, but it could be a little problem. A confession eliminates that little problem. We'd deal the murder to Man One—"

"Bullshit!"

"Listen. Man One on Dubois, assault with intent on the wife. He does twenty-five—no parole. Another ten concurrent on the wife. Again, if I were his lawyer, I'd take it. Saves a trial, eliminates the possibility of life in a cage. Twenty-five years is a good long time."

"Catiana Dubois won't get another twenty-five."

"Nothing we do changes that. But consider how a man like Copley will deal with a quarter of a century in prison."

He'd cry and wail and blubber like a little girl—but it wasn't enough. "I'll get him on Ziegler, too."

"If you get him on Ziegler, deal's out." To illustrate, Reo flicked her fingers in the air. "That's two murders and one attempted. Murder Two on both, but the addition of the knife in the heart? The jury will be appalled, I promise you. But you have to get him, and right now, you don't have him."

"The day's young."

"You can tag me until eight. After eight, I'm off the clock and I mean it, until December twenty-sixth. Tie him up before that, we'll put a bow on it. Otherwise, have yourself a merry little Christmas. I mean that, too." She rose, patted the bag Eve had given her. "I love this."

When she sauntered out, Eve kicked her desk. "Man One, my ass!" She thought of Steven Dorchester and the key he'd made, put in a pretty little box. Fuck Man One.

She strode out. "Peabody! With me. Let's do this," she said as Peabody scrambled up from her desk.

"His lawyer's not here."

"Then she better hustle."

Eve pushed open the door of Interview B. "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, entering interview with Copley, John Jake."

"I'm not talking to you without my lawyer."

"Then don't talk." Eve tossed down her files, played the nine-one-one call, hit replay, hit it again.

On the third play he broke, just a little. "She was calling for me, calling for my help. Anybody who hears it will know that."

"Really? I heard it, that's not what I know. Peabody?"

"Didn't sound like that to me. Just the opposite."

"Of course, that's just the two of us. We could take a poll," Eve suggested to Peabody. "I'm betting people who hear it—like say a jury—hear what we hear. Just like they'll hear what we heard when we talked to Natasha this morning."

"You talked to her? What did she say?"

Eve shook her head. "He wants us to answer his questions, Peabody, but he won't answer ours. Doesn't strike me as what you'd call equitable."

"I want to know what she said! Does she know I'm in here, in this place? Does she know what you're trying to pull?"

He banged both fists on the table. Working himself up to another tantrum, Eve thought, and turned casually to Peabody.

"So, when does your shuttle leave?"

Peabody smiled. "We're catching one at six, if we can clear things. But we'll catch a later one if we have to. How about you and Roarke? Big dinner out? Quiet evening at home?"

"You tell me what she said!"

"Now, JJ, you want to watch that anxiety and blood pressure. My partner and I are just passing the time until your lawyer gets here."

"Forget the lawyer. I want to know what Natasha said."

"Are you waiving your right to have your legal representative present during interview?"

"Fine, yes. What did she say to you?"

"Let the record show Mr. Copley has voluntarily waived said right. What did she say?" Eve turned straight around to face him, smiled. "She said the son of a bitch tried to kill me. Lock him up and toss the key."

"You're lying. You're a lying bitch."

"Now, JJ, you've got to expect her to be a little upset when you bash her in the head, when she's spending her Christmas in the hospital."

"I never touched her. I never hit her. I was upstairs. I've already told you. I was upstairs. I had the game on. I fell asleep."

"Fell asleep? That's a new one. Are you going to keep doing these add-ons? Because I can tell you, the story's not getting better."

"Oh, I don't know, Dallas." Peabody bopped her shoulders. "You've got to give him a little credit for trying to add some texture to the overall bullshit."

"I drifted off." He set his jaw. "I played eighteen holes, shot a sixty-eight. That's four under par."

"Wow. Aren't you special?" Peabody commented.

"Just shut your mouth, you ignorant twat."

"Aw, Dallas, he called me a twat. How come you get to be a bitch, but I only get to be a twat."

"It's the rank," Eve told her. "You'll make bitch one day."

"Thanks. That means a lot to me."

"I'll make you both sorry. I'll make you both pay."

"Blah, blah, blah." Eve levered back, smirked at him. "Do you want to brag about your golf game, exchange insults, or add more texture to your bullshit story? It's all the same to us."

"Goddamn it, I was upstairs. I heard her scream. It took me a minute, maybe a couple minutes, because I thought maybe it was a dream. I was asleep, a little groggy. I got up, and I called for her, and I ran out. I ran downstairs."

"Why downstairs?"

"Because that's where the scream came from."

"If you were asleep, how do you know where it came from?"

"I just knew." He slapped both fists on the table. "I ran in, and I saw her on the floor, and I saw the other one—Tella's girl."

"Tella's girl?"

"That's right. And I heard something." His eyes flickered away. "Like somebody running maybe. Maybe a door closing."

"Seriously? Now there's running footsteps and closing doors?"

"That's some rich bullshit texture," Peabody put in. "You've got to admire it."

Eve snorted out a laugh for form. "Right. So, JJ, why didn't you mention these mysterious running footsteps and closing doors to the responding officer? To me in previous interview? Or, to any fucking body before this moment?"

He swiped beads of sweat from his forehead, more from his upper lip. "I didn't think about it at the time because I could only think about my wife. I had to help Tash."

"How? Not by calling for help."

"I didn't have time! I was in shock, and then the police were at the door, and everything happened so fast. I was upstairs when somebody killed that woman and hurt Tash. I want to talk to my wife, goddamn it. She's confused and scared, and she has to be worried about me."

"Her worry? That you'll try to kill her again. She's done with you, JJ. She's done, Felicity's done. You've got nothing and no one."

"You leave Felicity out of it." To Eve's shock, tears swam into his eyes. "You told her lies about me, didn't you? She left me! You told her lies, and she left me. I love her!"

"Who? Your wife or Felicity."

"I..." He pulled himself in. "Both. In different ways."

"The different ways where you tell your wife you've broken it off, and you tell Felicity your wife doesn't understand you?"

"You don't know anything about it."

"Christ, JJ, do you think we haven't had your type in here before? How many times, Peabody?"

"Couldn't count them." Peabody cast her dark eyes to the ceiling, shook her head. "But they all think they're originals."

"They're so damn simple. Here's how it went. You bragged to Ziegler about the hot dancer you had on the side. He blackmailed you. You finally had enough, even though you'd been paying him off with money you extorted from your wife."

"That's ridiculous."

"We found the other accounts, JJ. Offshore, shell corporations. You're an amateur. Ziegler kept a book. Your name's in it. The money you paid him is on record."

Eve pushed up. "You went to his apartment to tell him you were done, to show him who was boss. He worked in a gym, for God's sake. Who did he think he was? But he wouldn't let you off the hook. You lost your temper—you're good at it. You picked up the trophy and you struck him, struck him again."

"No panic attack that time," Peabody added. "Not when you'd finally solved the problem. It felt good. It felt like something you should have done a lot sooner. Without him in the way, you were free and clear."

"So you got creative. You're a creative guy. You dragged him onto the bed, got a knife out of his kitchen. You wrote a funny little message—you're good at that, too—and you pinned it on his chest with the knife."

"I didn't do any of that." His breathing shortened; sweat slicked his face. "That's crazy. I was never there. I never went there. I want to talk to my lawyer. I demand to talk to my lawyer."

"Peabody, get him some water. Take it down, JJ. Take it down before you end up in the Infirmary again. Believe me, I've got all the time in the world for this."

"I don't have anything more to say until I've talked to my lawyer."

"No problem."

She waited while Peabody brought in a cup of water.

His hand shook as he drank.

Eve stepped over to Peabody, spoke quietly. "Get a uniform to sit on him in case he has one of those fits again. Let's find out what's holding up the lawyer. We've got him on the ropes. We need to finish him off. I want to check something. Dallas, exiting Interview," she said for the record.

Back in her office, she tried Felicity's 'link. Her stomach clutched when an older woman answered.

"Yes?"

"This is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Felicity Prinze."

"This is her mother. She's not talking to you. You're that friend of that Copley person."

The muscles in Eve's stomach loosened again at the use of present tense. "No, ma'am, I am not his friend. I have Copley in custody."

"For what?"

"For murder."

"Oh my God. Oh my God! My little girl."

"Has she been harmed, ma'am?"

"No, no—not that way. But he hurt my little girl's heart and soul. He killed his poor wife, didn't he?"

Not for lack of trying, Eve thought. "Ma'am, I need to speak with your daughter. You're welcome to stay with her while I do."

"You can be sure I will. Chantal! Get your sister. Right now! She came home," the woman said to Eve. "So I'm grateful for that. She came home because she found out he'd been lying to her, and using her. And I've been holding her 'link because he kept trying to reach her. Felicity, it's that policewoman you told us about. She arrested that awful man."

"Arrested! Mom, let me have the 'link. Hello, hello. I forgot your name."

"It's Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Felicity, did you see or speak to JJ Copley after we spoke?"

"I wouldn't. I got thinking when you left. I'm not as stupid as people think."

"Nobody thinks you're stupid," her mother said.

"He did. He thought I was stupid, and I was. But I started thinking, and I tagged up Sadie, and we talked."

"That's good."

"And after I talked with Sadie, I did what he told me not to. I called his house. I got the housekeeper thing, and she said how she'd take a message because he wasn't able to come to the 'link. So I said, Oh, he's out of town, and the housekeeper thing said, No, he was in residence—that's how she said it—but unable to come to the 'link, and she'd take the message. I just said never mind because I got upset. He lied to me. Did you know he lied to me?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, Felicity, I knew he lied to you."

"It's why you said I should talk to Sadie, and she said how I needed to find out for sure. So I did. I even went over there, to his house, and I watched, and I saw him. I saw him and his wife come out together and get in a car, and he wasn't on a trip. They were laughing. She wasn't being mean to him. He—he kissed her before they got in the car, and I knew it was all a lie. I came home. Am I in trouble?"

"Why would you be in trouble?"

"I took some of the clothes he bought me, and I used the credit card he got me to pay for the trip home. I didn't have enough since I stopped working. I'll pay it back."

"Did he give you the clothes?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Did he give you the card to use?"

"He did."

"Then you're not in trouble."

"I left him a memo cube. I said how I was leaving, and I wouldn't have anything to do with somebody who lied and cheated like that, and made me a liar and a cheater, too. I'm not coming back, I don't think. I think I don't belong in New York. Did he do something really bad? Worse than lying and cheating?"

"It looks that way."

"He was so nice to me, so I loved him. But it wasn't real."

"I may need to talk to you again, but I'm glad you went home. I'm glad you're with your family."

"Me, too. Um, Merry Christmas, Dallas."

"Same to you."

Eve clicked off, sat back, sorted through.

"Lawyer's here," Peabody said from the doorway.

"We'll give them some time, then start again."