Chapter 3

"I've never held this much money at one time in my life. I thought it would be heavier," Peabody said as they walked into Cop Central.

"What kind of asshole keeps that much cash in a staff locker at a gym? Cheap bastard's right. Wanted the cash," Eve speculated. "No record of it that way, you can wash cash easy enough."

"I'll start on the financials, but no way that was saved up or legit. It was all new money. New money smells really good."

"No sniffing the evidence." Eve hopped off the glide.

She wanted to swing into Homicide, check a few things, start her murder book and board while Peabody dug into the vic's financials. Then they'd circle back around for interviews.

Plus her office at Central offered the one thing she hadn't had access to since she'd been rudely called out of a warm bed in the middle of the night.

Real coffee.

She turned into the bullpen and the noise of comps, voices, 'links. Someone had dug out a tatty and tawdry length of silver garland, strung it over the side windows. An even tattier sign announcing "HAPPY HOLIDAYS" hung crookedly from it.

Perhaps the same determined elf had dragged in the pitiful, spindly fake tree, propped it in a corner. ID shots of detectives and uniforms decorated the branches with Eve's stuck on the stubby top.

"Seriously?"

The slick-suited Detective Baxter stepped over to study it with her. "Santiago pulled it out of the recycler."

"Waste not, want not," Santiago said from his desk. "Carmichael did the decorations."

"We're the spirit of Homicide Christmas," Carmichael claimed. "If murder cops can't be festive this time of year, who can?"

"What? ‘Happy holidays, fucker, you're under arrest'?"

Carmichael grinned. "Works for me."

"It's not bad. Peabody, financials." She turned, started toward her office, and got the next surprise when Roarke walked out.

He looked perfect—as if the gods had gotten together over drinks one night and decided to join together to create something extraordinary. So they'd carved the face of a wicked angel, added eyes of wild blue, then sculpted a mouth designed to make a woman yearn to have it pressed to hers.

Those eyes warmed now, the mouth curved.

Love, she thought again, came in all colors, shapes, and sizes.

She'd hit the jackpot with hers.

"There you are, Lieutenant." The Ireland of his birth wound smoothly through his words. "I just left you a memo cube."

"Did I forget my toe warmers?"

His eyebrows, the same inky-black as the hair that spilled nearly to his shoulders, raised. "Your what now?"

"Nothing. Come on back if you've got a minute."

"I do now."

He brushed a hand down her arm as they started back. His version, she supposed, of the Peabody/McNab fingertip tap.

"Your men weren't sure when to expect you back. I had a quick meeting down this way, so I stopped in."

They stepped into her tiny office.

Roarke cupped her face in his hands, kissed her before she could object. "Good morning." Then he flicked a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. "You've put in a long day already."

"Dead guy," she said simply.

"And what does the dead guy have to do with Trina?"

"Ex of a friend. I need coffee." She turned to the AutoChef, programmed two, hot and black. "I was ready to strangle her with her own hair for getting me up and out at that hour, but— Oh, thank fat Santa and all the pointed-nosed elves," she said at the first sip of coffee.

She took another hit, then shrugged out of her coat, tossed it aside. "She and her pal got juiced up, went to the ex's place to do some mischief—itching powder level. Jesus, are they twelve? Instead they find the ex dead. Bashed in the head, then stabbed. Killer left a festive note."

He followed it, and her, easily enough as he sipped his coffee. "You've eliminated Trina and the friend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Guy was an asshole. Worked over at Buff Bodies. We've just come from there. I had to send for McNab to access his employee locker. The vic doubled the lock, programmed it to block masters."

"A pity you didn't tag me as I was close."

"Didn't know or I might have."

"And what was he hiding?"

"A hundred sixty-five thousand in cash. All twenties, all new bills."

"Interesting. Now, that's very interesting indeed."

"Not a huge haul in the grand scheme—a Roarke grand scheme anyway—but a nice pile for a guy who lived in a cramped little apartment in a dicey neighborhood and liked really nice clothes."

"It's considerable," Roarke corrected, "in any scheme, when tucked away in a gym locker."

"Yeah, it is. The way it looks, he got the windfall in the last few weeks and dumped Trina's friend shortly thereafter. He was already banging somebody else. And he was up to something at work. Don't know what, but something. McNab's on his electronics. Peabody's on the financials. I'm going to write up the report, open the book, then go talk to the ex before his last ex."

"Busy, busy. What did he do at Buff Bodies?"

"Personal training and massage work."

"Hmm. The sort of intimacy that leads people to talk about personal business. Blackmail?"

"My first pick." She could appreciate he'd lean there first, too. "I've got to figure whatever he was into, it was a new enterprise. He made noises about starting his own place in the tropics."

"It would take more than under two hundred K to start up a tropical fitness business."

"Yeah, but he was an asshole."

"Perhaps one who planned to add to that windfall. I'll let you get back to it. I can fit a quick bit of shopping in before my next meeting."

"Don't say shopping."

He grinned at her. "Haven't finished yet, have you?"

"There's time. Plenty of time."

"Mmm. Barely started then." He kissed her between the eyebrows. "Best of luck there. I'll see you at home."

"I started," she called out, heard him chuckle as he walked away. "Sort of."

Frowning, she picked up the memo cube he'd left on her desk. Activated.

I was in the neighborhood, so I stopped in. Charming holiday decor in your bullpen, Lieutenant. As I didn't give you your daily reminder this morning, consider this that. You've two days until our holiday party. Meanwhile, take care of my cop.

"Two days? How did it get to be two days?"

She dropped down at her desk. Okay, she admitted, shopping had now bumped up to the urgent area on her to-do list.

But first things first.

She began setting up her murder board.

Blackmail, she thought. Extortion. A scam.

No way she'd buy Ziegler came into more than a hundred fifty large by legal means.

So who had he blackmailed, extorted, scammed?

Whoever it was would top her list of suspects. She just had to get there.

RED SHOES, she wrote on her notes, then grabbed her coat, headed out.

"Peabody, with me."

"Nothing hinky in his financials I can find," Peabody said, scurrying to keep up. "He lived close, but not because he spent a lot on food and lodging. It's all clothes, skin care, body and hair services, that sort of thing. He spent on himself, his appearance. No major deposits or withdrawals. A lot of charges, but in the areas I said. He ends up with a lot of late fees, but he eventually pays."

"So, it's all show and self-indulgence. And sex."

"Sort of like a licensed companion without the license."

"Not bad, Peabody."

Eve risked the elevator, wondered who had had the bright idea to pump in holiday music in a cop shop. And how she could punish them.

"He could've started charging for sex on the side, but I don't care how good he was, nobody's worth that kind of scratch inside a few weeks. A client could get a good, experienced, safe LC for a reasonable rate. But blackmail's another thing. Threaten to tell a spouse, maybe."

"Shortsighted," Peabody commented as they reached garage level. "You'd for sure lose the client if you blackmailed her, then you lose the commission and any chance for more."

"Some people only see the right now, and end up killing the golden duck."

"Goose. The golden goose."

"Duck, goose, what's the difference? They're both weird-looking birds."

"Did you ever play Duck, Duck, Goose?"

Eve pulled out of the garage, into traffic. "Did I ever play with ducks and goose—geese? Why the hell would I?"

"No, the kids' game, where you sit around in a circle, then one kid walks around, tapping the other kids on the head. She says, ‘Duck, duck,' until she taps one and says, ‘Goose.' Then that one, the goose, chases her around the circle, tries to catch her before she gets to where the goose one was sitting. If she doesn't catch her, she goes around the circle."

Eve stared out the windshield. "That has to be the dumbest-ass game of all dumb-ass games."

"It's kind of fun when you're six. We had roast goose when we went to Scotland to visit McNab's family over Christmas," Peabody continued, obviously caught in a theme. "It was really good. We're doing the quick in and out shuttle this year to see my family. It'll be soy and tofu and lots of veg, which doesn't compare. But my granny will bake, a lot—and that makes up for everything. She makes the most incredible mincemeat pie."

"I thought your guys didn't eat meat."

"Mostly they don't. Mincemeat isn't meat."

"Then why do they call it meat?"

Peabody sat a moment, baffled. "I don't know. Maybe it used to have meat, but my granny doesn't make it like that. It's all kind of fruit and spices and I think some whiskey or something. I have to ask for the recipe now. I like making pies."

Holiday shopping had infected downtown. With all the shops open, hyping gifts everyone had to have, parking became more challenging. Eve beat out a mini for a second-level space by punching vertical and zipping up and in with a couple of coats of paint to spare.

"Jesus, Dallas, warn me next time. Look there's a bakery. Bakeries sometimes have hot chocolate, and always have pastries. I had a simulated egg pocket from Vending. It was worse than it sounds. A lot worse."

"Later," Eve said and arrowed straight to Natural Way.

It was a quiet little place, homey, with what Eve thought of as Free-Agey, foresty fairy music playing softly.

It smelled of cranberries, and a little pine, a hint of cinnamon. And, indeed, she saw the daily special drink was some sort of cranberry-cinnamon tea.

A few people sat at tiny tables drinking out of mugs the color of stone or eating what looked to Eve like grass and berries, or in one case a muffin that resembled tree bark.

The countergirl offered a dreamy smile. "Welcome to the Natural Way. What can we do for your body, mind, and spirit?"

"You can get the owner." Eve held up her badge.

"Oh, you'd like to see Alla? She's busy in the kitchen. We've already run out of our yamberry muffins, and we're low on our nipnanna pie."

"That's a problem. You need to get her."

"I do?"

"Yes, for the good of your body, mind, and spirit."

"Oh, okay."

"What the hell is nipnanna?" Eve wondered.

"Turnip and banana pie."

Eve turned her head, looked hard into Peabody's face. "You've got to be lying."

"Not. My aunt makes it. It's not quite as bad as it sounds, but almost. Yamberry muffins, now—that's yams and cranberries—that's pretty good stuff."

"Please."

"It's no apple Danish, but it's pretty good."

Alla stepped out. Her chestnut hair was bundled under a squat chef's cap, leaving her fresh, pretty face unframed. She wore a long, flowered dress over a willowy form, and a gray bib apron over the dress.

"Is there a problem?" she began.

"Could be." Eve showed her the badge. "We need to talk."

"I don't understand. I'm up to date on everything. Business license, health department."

"It's not about that. Is there a place we can talk?"

"We're really busy in the back." She glanced behind her. "We're running holiday specials, and they're paying off. We can grab that table over there. Dora, let's have three-drink specials. I could use a little break."

"Right away, Alla."

She pulled off her cap as she walked around the counter. A long, sleek tail of hair tumbled out.

"What's this about?"

"Trey Ziegler."

Irritation flickered in Alla's large brown eyes. "What about him?" she demanded as she sat. "If he's in trouble and looking for me to bail him out, he can forget it."

"He's dead."

"What?" She jerked back as if punched. "What do you mean?"

"His body was found early this morning. When did you last see him?"

"That's not right. That's a mistake."

No tears, Eve noted, but if she was faking the shock and denial, she was damn good at it.

"You've made a mistake," Alla said, the words slow, careful."Trey's not dead."

"Trey Ziegler," Eve said, keeping her tone flat and brisk as she brought his ID shot up on her PPC. "This Trey Ziegler."

"This can't be right. This can't be true."

Still no tears, but trembles in the voice, in the hands.

"You and the victim were involved."

"Vic—victim? Victim?"

"Here you are, Alla. Would you like to split a yamberry muffin? A fresh batch just came out."

"We're fine," Eve said when Alla only stared straight ahead. "Go away."

"How... what happened? How?"

"When did you last see or speak with Trey Ziegler?"

"I..."

"Are you missing a pair of red shoes, Alla?"

"Oh God. Oh God." She covered her face with her hands. "I was going to lie. I don't even know why. I can't take it in. I saw him yesterday, just yesterday. He was fine."

"Tell me about yesterday."

"I'd seen him that morning, early, at the gym. Buff Bodies. I was there for my early yoga class and... we'd started thinking about seeing each other again. He'd broken things off with the woman he'd been living with, and he said he missed me. It was stupid. I was stupid, but he asked me to come to his place. I took off for a couple hours, even dressed up for it. Stupid, stupid. And I jumped right back in bed with him.

"I missed the sex," she admitted. "He's good in bed, and he's got a way of making you feel you matter, for as long as he wants to make you feel that way. Afterward, he started talking about going to Aruba or St. Bart's, starting up a fitness spa. At first I thought he was asking me to go with him, how we could start up this whole thing together. It was fantasy, but it was nice. But that wasn't it."

She pressed her hand to her mouth, rocked herself a moment. "That wasn't it at all. We had a second round of sex, and I really needed to get back, but I would've stayed if he'd asked. That's how stupid he could make me. Instead he said I was one of the best bangs, that I could make a living at it. Like I should be flattered. Then he asked if I'd be interested in doing a threesome, that he had this client, and she was looking for a little adventure. He... He said he'd pay me."

Tears shimmered now. "He'd pay me."

"That must've pissed you off."

"I couldn't believe how stupid I'd been. How stupid, and all for an orgasm. I told him to go to hell. I started grabbing my clothes, and he's lying there laughing, saying, Oh, come on, baby, it'll be fun. How he'd make it worth my while, how I was the first woman he'd thought of when it came up."

The tears flowed out now, but not from grief. Eve read the shame clearly.

"That's what he thought of me. I allowed him to think that of me. I got out, I got out, and I said... Oh my God, I said I wished he was dead. Now he is."

"You left in December, with no shoes."

"I had my work shoes in my bag." She showed Eve the navy blue recycled-material clogs. "I didn't even think about the damn red shoes. I never want to see them again. I wore them for him. I let myself think he cared about me, but he didn't."

"What time did you leave the apartment?"

"Um, about three in the afternoon. I went home, took a shower, and I came right back here. I needed to work. I think I was back here before four. You can check with any of the staff."

"And what time did you leave here yesterday—for the day?"

"Six-fifteen, six-thirty. I went home. I live right upstairs. I went home, and I had a good cry. Then I ate my entire secret stash of cookie dough ice cream—the real stuff. I drank a half bottle of wine and watched cheesy vids."

"Did you talk to anyone, see anyone?"

"No. I turned off my 'link. I wanted to wallow, so I wallowed. I didn't kill him. I said I wished he was dead, but I didn't kill him."

Back outside, Eve gauged the distance from the health-food store to the crime scene.

"She could have walked out of here at six-fifteen, gone back to his place, bashed him on the head. Plenty of time to get from here to there by TOD."

"Yeah, but her statement really rings," Peabody argued. "Eating ice cream, drinking wine, watching sad vids. It's what a lot of women do after a bad breakup or an emotional jolt."

"Which is why she'd run that route for us, wouldn't she? It may ring, but she had motive and she's got no alibi."

"It feels more like she'd have bashed him, if she's inclined to bashing, when he brought up the threesome and paying her for it."

Though she agreed, Eve shrugged. "Maybe she's a slow burn. Let's go check in with Morris, then we can start working on the clients. Maybe we can find out who he had in mind for the third member of his threesome."

···

The white tunnel of the morgue smelled of a recent cleaning. Something that brushed lemons over death and left an undertone of industrial antiseptic.

Eve wondered if those who spent their days and nights working in its warrens even noticed.

She passed Vending's bright and colorful lights, felt a low-level craving for more caffeine, nodded to one of the crew pushing a body bag on a gurney.

Not all the dead were hers, she thought, but in an odd way, they all belonged to Morris.

She found the chief medical examiner standing over her dead, a clear protective cape over Morris's sharply elegant suit of forest green.

Two more bodies waited on steel slabs.

"You've got a backup," she commented.

"Holidays. Some deck the halls, others opt to haunt them. An apparent suicide pact, but we'll see." He lowered his microgoggles, smiled. "A long day for you already. Can we offer you some refreshment? I have orange fizzies in the friggie."

Peabody brightened. "Yeah?"

"I know my cops. Pepsi's cold, Dallas."

"Thanks. You look... cheerful."

"I had a couple of days off, visited some old friends. It was good for me."

"Nice." And it was good to see him wearing color again, looking relaxed. In the months since he'd lost the woman he loved, the grief and strain had weighed visibly on him.

She cracked the tube Peabody brought her, took a swig of cold caffeine. "So. Ziegler, Trey. He won't be decking any halls, either."

"Blunt force trauma, tried and true."

"Personal trainer of the year trophy."

"Ah, the irony. Your vic was rather fiercely fit. Exceptional muscle tone, low body fat, no signs whatsoever he paid for body work. And I must say his skin's wonderfully taut and smooth."

"He loved himself, a lot."

"He had a bunch of high-end products," Peabody added. "Hair, body, skin. Some of it wasn't even opened yet." Her wistful sigh earned a hard stare from Eve. "It just seems like a waste, that's all."

"And it doesn't seem ghoulish to covet a dead guy's face gunk? Face-to-face, the first blow?" Eve asked Morris.

"Yes. Striking here, on the left forehead, and the second on the back of the skull."

He turned to his screen, brought up the view of the second wound, now cleaned. "While the first blow would have incapacitated—severe concussion, considerable bleeding, leaving the jagged gash you see here, the second, a down-blow of considerable force, fractured the skull, driving bone fragments into the brain. Death within minutes. The trophy had some weight, I'd say."

"Yeah, it's hefty. A good six, seven pounds. About eighteen inches high."

"We'll just add that in." He turned to his comp, keyed in some data.

"It had a figure on top," Peabody added. "Ripped body." She held out her arms, flexed.

"Of course," Morris murmured, his exotic eyes amused as he added more data. "From the angles, the depth of the head wounds, the attack would have gone—probability ninety-six-point-eight percent—like this."

On screen two figures faced. One gripped the trophy in both hands swung right to left, striking the other figure on the temple. Ziegler's figure staggered back, then pitched forward. As it fell, the attacker swung again—now left to right—striking the back of the skull.

"Double-handed blows."

"Considering the weight of the weapon, and the angles, the force, that's my conclusion. Like swinging for the fences on the first, then rounding back, striking down—almost a chop—for the second."

"Ziegler was six-one. You have the killer about the same height."

"Yes, from the angles, near to the same. An inch or two either way, but I wouldn't say more. And I'd also conclude the killer had excellent upper-body strength. These were not glancing blows."

"Yeah, I get that. Then you've got a hundred-eighty pounds of dead weight—all muscle—to haul off the floor and onto the bed."

"Our killer isn't a ninety-pound weakling. An old cliché," Morris said at Eve's blank look. "As for the knife wound, the vic was dead before that was inflicted—and still there was considerable force used, enough to break the tip of the knife." He gestured to a small sample bowl, and the tiny piece of metal it held.

"Somebody was really pissed off," Eve acknowledged. "Did the vic have sex before death?"

"I can't think of anyone who wouldn't like to, but I can't tell you. He'd showered or bathed—and thoroughly. He sports what's called a Continental."

Eve looked down at the razor thin, sharply edged zigzag of hair at the crotch. "Yeah, I noticed that. Weird."

"But tidy. His genitals and what pubic hair he has were thoroughly washed and groomed. He died clean. He'd consumed about eight ounces of red wine less than an hour prior to death, a field green salad and an energy drink about two hours prior."

"He had a little bag of dried leaves in his suitcase. Looked and smelled like tea to me, but..."

"The tox isn't back yet—they're backed up as usual—but from the condition of his body, his organs, I'd doubt he had any habitual illegals use. I see no signs he took any sort of drugs on a regular basis. This was a very healthy man in peak physical condition."

"Personal trainer of the year."

"In life and in death."

"Thanks." She rolled up her empty Pepsi tube, two-pointed it into his recycler. "That helped."

"Anytime. I'm looking forward to your party. It's the bash of the season."

"Yeah? I'd guess Ziegler probably feels his big trophy was the bash of the season."

"Ha," Morris said.

···

With Peabody, Eve worked down Ziegler's client list, giving priority to women of means.

She hit the managing partner of a SoHo art gallery, the CFO of a real-estate company, the owner of a small chain of boutique day spas, and a couple of women who'd married well and spent most of their time spending money.

"The last one was skinny as a snake and barely five-foot-four."

"And her current husband is six-foot, also has a BB membership, and plays lacrosse. Jealous husbands qualify, Peabody. We run him."

"Got it."

Eve walked toward the elegant three-story brownstone drenched in holiday glamour. "We'll take this one—Natasha Quigley, spouse John Jake Copley—both clients. Then we'll call it for the day."

"Yay. My butt's dragging."

"Well, hike it up." She rang the buzzer.

Good afternoon.

The computerized voice intoned polite reserve.

Please state your name and your business.

"Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. NYPSD." Eve held up her badge to be scanned. "Our business is with Ms. Quigley and Mr. Copley."

Your identification has been verified. One moment please.

"People ought to answer their own doors once in a while," Eve said, "just to see what it feels like."

"You have Summerset," Peabody pointed out. "And a really big gate."

Before Eve could respond, the door opened. A woman—no a droid, Eve realized quickly—in a smart gray uniform smiled with the same reserved politeness as the security comp. "Please come in. Ms. Quigley will see you."

The house opened up to a soaring three-story foyer. Free-form silver chandeliers dripped down, showering light over what Eve thought might be the original wood floors.

That space flowed into a living area where a fire snapped inside a black marble hearth, a tree draped in crystals and red ribbon glittered, and two women sat on a massive circular sofa drinking clear liquid out of martini glasses.

They were both blond, both lookers, with enough similarities in sharp features and coloring for Eve to surmise family connection.

One—the oldest by maybe five years in Eve's estimation—tapped the cushion beside her. A sleek, narrow arm glided up. She set her drink on it, rose.

"I'm Natasha Quigley. This must be about Trey. Martella just told me he was murdered. My sister. We're both clients. Actually, we're all clients. My husband and hers. How can we help?"

"When did you last see or speak with Mr. Ziegler?"

"I—oh, I'm sorry, this has been a shock. Please, sit down. Can I offer you anything?"

"We're fine, thanks." Eve took a chair with a low, semicircular back. Everything in the room seemed to follow the round theme.

"Sorry." Natasha sat again. "I think this is the first time we've had police in the house—officially. I had my usual Tuesday morning session with Trey. I work with him twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays, ten A.M. Thursdays I follow the workout with a massage. We didn't have a session scheduled today as he was going out of town to a conference."

"And you, Mrs. Schubert? Since you're here."

"Oh." Martella took a quick sip of her drink, bit her lip. "It would've been Wednesday morning. I was Wednesday mornings and Friday afternoons. So, um, yesterday morning. Tilly said he died yesterday, but I saw him, and he was fine."

"Tilly?" Eve prompted.

"Tilly Burke. She heard from Lola. You went to see Lola, and she talked to Tilly. Tilly didn't work with Trey, she worked with Flora because she wanted a female trainer, but she knew Trey. Everyone knew Trey."

She paused, drank again. "I'm talking too much."

"Yes, you are." Natasha patted her on the leg. "It's upsetting."

"It feels awful."

"How long were you clients, specifically of Mr. Ziegler's?"

"It must be six months now. A little longer for you, Tella."

"I switched to BB. Tilly and I used to go to Sensible Fitness but they just got really boring, and BB had just remodeled, done a whole vamp of their locker rooms. It has such a good feel, so we joined, then Tash joined when I told her how much more I liked it. Then I started working with Trey. He really upped my game. I bought Trey for Lance for his last birthday."

"She means she bought her husband weekly personal training sessions," Natasha explained. "Tella raved so, I took a two-week trial with him myself and I was hooked."

"Did you socialize with him?"

"Socialize?" Natasha lifted an eyebrow as if the question baffled her. "You mean personally? I had lunch with him a few times in the juice bar to discuss fitness options and strategies."

"And outside the gym."

"Not really. Though JJ and I invited him to our club once or twice. We felt he'd vastly improved our tennis game. Speed and endurance," she added with a smile. "And his focus on upper-body work seriously strengthened my backhand. He and JJ played golf now and then," she added. "They're both fanatics about golf."

"Did you ever go to his apartment?"

"Why no. Why would I?"

Eve shifted her attention to the sister. Martella gave all hers to her drink. "Mrs. Schubert?"

"Yes? What?"

"Did you ever see Mr. Ziegler outside of the fitness center?"

"Oh, well... He came to the club. Tash, I'm going to ask Hester for another drink."

"Mrs. Schubert?" Eve said, voice firm and flat.

"Yes?"

"How long were you sexually involved with Mr. Ziegler?"

"That's a ridiculous question," Natasha snapped out. "That's incredibly rude. Tella, you don't have to dignify that with a..." She trailed off after a look at her sister's face. "Oh God. Martella!"

"It wasn't like that! It wasn't like that at all! I was going to tell you, Tash, I was just about to tell you, but then they came in. It was just one time. Well, two times, but on the same day. And it was weeks ago. Weeks and weeks."

"I don't think you should say any more." Natasha put a restraining hand on her sister's arm. "I don't think my sister should say any more without legal representation."

"That's her choice. We'll need you to come with us, Mrs. Schubert, into Central for further questioning. You're free to call in your lawyer or legal representative."

"But I don't want to go with you." Her voice cracked and her big blue eyes pleaded. "I don't want that. Lance would find out. Tash, it was just that one time. Lance and I had that big fight. You remember. And he just left on that business trip even when I was so upset. Listen. Just listen."

She took her sister's drink, tossed back the contents.

"I told Trey all about it, about the fight, about how Lance just left while we were mad at each other. And he could see I was really upset. He said he'd come over to the house, give me a massage, help me relax and detox. So he did."

"And sex was part of the service?" Eve asked.

"No! I never— It wasn't supposed to be. I was upset and he was sympathetic, and caring. He even made me tea, started with some Reiki just to help me find my center, then he started the body massage and... it just sort of happened."

"Twice?" Natasha said crisply.

"Yes. It was just... I was so relaxed, just drifting. I never felt so loose, and it was all so warm, and smelled so good with the incense."

"Incense," Eve murmured.

"And the tea was so nice."

"What kind of tea?" Eve asked.

"Herbal tea. A special blend."

"I bet. Mrs. Schubert. Martella. Look at me. Did you intend to sleep with Trey? Was it your intention or did you consider having sex with him before that incident?"

"No. No. I mean, he's really great-looking, and that body is amazing. But no, I swear. I never even thought about it. I love my husband, I really, really do. It's just I was so tense and upset, and he—Trey—didn't have any openings for a massage or detox during working hours. He was doing me a favor by coming over, making a personal visit."

"For how much?"

"Two thousand, but it was an in-home, personal treatment. Afterward, I got upset again. I'd cheated on my husband, but Trey said it wasn't like that. It was just finding my balance, opening up and letting out the negative feelings, embracing the positive. Being all clear again, I could understand how much I loved Lance. And he was right. But Lance, he wouldn't understand."

"How much did you give him to be... discreet."

"I added a thousand dollars as a personal thank-you, and we agreed we'd never think about it or speak about it. And I really didn't, speak about it."

"Did he ever offer you the tea again? Before or after that incident?"

"No. I don't get massages from him anymore. It didn't seem right. I didn't want to—I just didn't want him to touch me again, remind me. I get massages from Trudy at the club now. And I..." She flicked away a tear. "I was going to switch to Gwen for training. I just hadn't figured out how to do it without making everyone upset."

"Who initiated the sex?" Eve asked.

"God. I did. I'm so ashamed. It was my fault. All my fault."

"You initiated—after you drank the tea? After you were on the table, and he'd lit the incense?"

"Yes. I just felt so drifty, and so... needy. It's terrible."

"What are you implying. Do you think he gave her something?" Natasha gripped her sister's hand. "Do you think he gave Tella some sort of drug?"

"He'd never do that. He was only trying to help me. He did help me. Please." She held out both hands to Eve. "Please, I don't want Lance to know. He wouldn't understand."

"What you tell your husband's up to you," Eve said. "Where were you between five and seven last night?"

"I was with Tilly. We were at the salon. We were at Ultra You. We had the works done. Hair, nails, facials, body treatments. All for Tash's and JJ's big party last night. I was at the salon with Tilly from one until seven. We had the full-bliss package."

Six hours in a salon sounded like the full-torture package to Eve. "I need your friend's full name and contact, and the name of your technicians."