Chapter 8

Eve liked him, or more accurately liked his gym. A lot.

She saw Rock Hard as a bare-bones, sweat-and-grunt facility. Clean, well-lit, and without a single frill. Top-of-the-line equipment—including heavy bags, speed bags, and a sparring ring that took center stage appealed to those who came in to put in their time, shower off the sweat, and move on with their day.

No music played, so the sound of fists striking bags, of jump ropes whizzing through the air, and feet slapping the floor played all the tunes necessary. Lyrics? Grunts, curses, insults, and orders not to drop your guard, don't be such a pussy, sang out.

She liked the industrial beige walls, the no-nonsense gray floor, the filmy windows that blocked out the street and sidewalk. This wasn't a place to preen. It was a place to work.

She made Rock from his ID photo, watched him holding a heavy bag, spitting out hard-line encouragement to the woman—stripped down to sports bra, shorts, and sweat—who pummeled it.

"From the shoulder, Angie, fer chrissakes. Use your hip. Switch it up. Right cross! Left cross! Right cross! Jab, jab, jab!"

Though she hated to break it up—the woman was game—Eve crossed over. She palmed her badge behind the woman's back, waited for Rock's dark brown eyes to skim over it, lift to her face.

"Finish him off, Ang. Pepper him. Pepper him. Go, go, go! Okay, okay, take a breather."

"Thank Jesus and his loving mother," Angie said in a Brooklyn accent thick as a brick. She hugged the bag, swayed with it while she caught her breath.

"I want ten minutes with the rope," Rock told her.

"You're a freaking sadist, Rock."

"You're damn straight." He tossed her a towel, jerked his head to Eve and started back toward what she saw was an office even smaller than her own.

He grabbed a power drink off a skinny shelf, the contents of which too closely resembled infected urine for her taste. But he glugged it down.

"Ziegler?" he said in a voice that suited his name. Hard, with rough edges.

"That's right."

He shrugged, wiggled a thumb toward a ratty-looking folding chair.

"We're fine," she told him. "You and Ziegler were top contenders for the personal trainer award coming up this spring."

"Maybe." He shrugged excellent shoulders, naked but for the straps of a black tank. A tattoo of a dragon, breathing fire, coiled around his impressive biceps. "There's a long winter between now and spring. Things change. I guess things have seeing the fucker's dead. I got no problem with him being dead. Didn't make him that way, but I got no problem with it."

"You had an altercation with him."

"We weren't buds." His smile hinted toward a sneer before he guzzled down some more urine-colored liquid. "I hated his ever-fucking guts, but he wasn't somebody I thought about much."

"The altercation was due to his sexual relationship with your sister."

Now those dark eyes fired. "Tricking a drunk girl into bed, then booting her out when she's half sick and confused, then bragging on it, ain't no relationship. He knew she was my sister. He did it to rile me. He riled me."

"In your place, I'd've wanted to kick his ass."

"Considered it. Maybe I would've, but you can add coward to his other sins. In the end I got in his face, I told him if he ever touched her again, ever said her name again, and I heard about it, I'd break that pretty face he was so proud of."

"Maybe he did... mention her name again."

"Not that I ever heard." Rock rested a hip on the corner of his dented metal desk.

He was a big man with strong, defined arms, a broad chest, a face that sported a couple of scars and a nose that listed to the left. Attractive, she thought, in a rough, hard-edged way.

"You box?" Eve asked.

"Used to do some. I liked it okay, but I got tired of punching people, so I switched it up. Ziegler, he had that sweet gig at Buff Bodies, but he liked to give me the zing over my place here. Juice—he's the one told me you'd be coming—said how Ziegler was jealous because he wanted his own place. No reason for him to go after my baby sister. Did it for spite. Did it because he could."

"He beat you out of the top award the last couple years," Eve pointed out.

"Yeah. Don't give a shit about the trophy, but the prize money would've been handy. BB, places like that, they've got a strong rep, so their trainers get one, and that weighs on the competition. BB's got—what do you call it?"

"Cachet?" Peabody ventured, and he pointed a finger at her.

"Yeah, that. I've been building up my place. Cachet, maybe not, but I'm solid, and I've got a strong following now. My time was coming. I don't kill somebody over a contest and a grand."

"Add in your sister," Eve said.

"I don't kill somebody over what's done. It doesn't change what's done."

"Where were you the day he was killed?"

"Here till about four. Got in at four-thirty—A.M.—that day to work with a guy—welterweight trying to make a comeback. So I left about four. Went home, had a beer, a shower, turned on some sports, did some paperwork. It's hard to get any paperwork done here, work on programs for clients. Then I went to my mama's for dinner. Got there about seven, I'm guessing. Maybe a little after. I didn't clock it. Went home about nine, stayed in."

"Did you speak or see anyone between the hours of five and seven?"

"No. You going to arrest me?"

"Not yet."

"Where does your mother live?"

"Same apartment building, two floors down. I moved there to help her out. She thinks it's the other way around. We're probably both right on that."

He'd smiled, a real one, when he spoke, but now his face hardened again. "She doesn't know about Kyria. I don't want her to know. You got no reason to bring that up, if you talk to her."

"No, we don't. We appreciate your time."

"That's it?"

"Have you got anything else to tell us?"

"It's going to sound like spite."

"Why would I care?"

"Okay. I'm just going to say, he had more money than he should have, seems to me. More than he should've had from the work. I don't know how he came by it."

"But you have your suspicions," Eve finished.

"I do. Kyria was pretty upset when I found out, when I pushed her about what happened. She finally told me how he kicked her out right after she did it with him. She said how she wanted to stay, she didn't feel good, didn't feel like she could get home on her own. And he said women didn't stay in his place unless they paid for it. Said maybe he'd let her stay till morning for a thousand. Girl didn't have that kind of money on her, so he tossed her out."

He stared down into his power drink. "I figure he got women to pay. Everybody knew he banged clients—that's up to the client, to my way of thinking. Not my business. But when you charge money, that's not legal without a license. Maybe he had one."

Rock shrugged again, drank again. "But I don't think so."

"We appreciate the information, and the time."

"Are you going to have to talk to Kyria?"

"We may."

He let out a long breath, stared down at what was left of his drink. "Go easy, will you? She's embarrassed it happened. Put it behind her the way you should with mistakes. But she's embarrassed."

"Understood." Eve walked to the office door, opened it, turned back. "I like your place."

His grin spread, quick, bright, added unexpected charm to his face. "You box?"

"I fight." Eve smiled back. "There's a difference."

Peabody waited until they were outside, then poked a finger in Eve's biceps. "You liked him. You don't think he did it because you like him."

"I liked him. I know he didn't do it because he'd have used his fists. I know he didn't do it because the vic would never have opened the door to him much less taken him back into the bedroom. There would've been signs of struggle, of a fight. Alternately, if Britton had grabbed the trophy on impulse, rage would have jumped right in with it. He wouldn't have settled for two blows. He'd have beaten Ziegler's head in, and he'd have gone for the face, too. The ‘pretty face' Ziegler was so proud of."

"Oh, well, when you put it that way. But you still liked him."

"He said right out he hated Ziegler and wasn't sorry he was dead. That takes balls. He resisted caving in Ziegler's face and/or skull months ago when the sister thing happened. That takes control. I like balls. I respect control."

"Are we going to talk to the sister, the mom?"

"I don't see any reason to rush that." Time, to Eve's mind, to circle back around. "We're going back to do a follow-up with Natasha Quigley."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because she's lying. She slept with Ziegler. I figured it for a lie yesterday. I'm more sure of it now. She's good-looking, wealthy, a client. Married. She's a prime target. We'll go shake it out of her."

"Okay. Why would she lie, especially when she could've jumped right on the he-gave-me-tea-too gambit?"

"First, because we didn't know for certain the tea was laced, and that possibility came out after she'd already—pretty vehemently—denied having sex with the vic."

"That's right." Peabody pulled her earflaps down more securely. "We've got so many women either saying they paid him for sex, or saying they paid him to keep it quiet after tea-induced sex, we're going to need a spreadsheet. Or a chart." She brightened a little. "I like making charts. Anyway, if that's first, what's second?"

"Second, because it's just easier to say no, not me."

"It is. And it's knee-jerk, too, at least from the women I've interviewed."

"And third, I bet she was weirded knowing she and her sister had slept with the same guy."

"That would be weird." Peabody piled in the car. "My sister—the one closest to my age—and I had a serious thing for the same guy when we were teenagers. So we took an oath that neither of us would move on it. We fought about it first, but we took an oath."

Peabody settled back. "It turned out he'd have rather our brother moved on him, but we didn't catch that until we'd taken the oath. Zeke didn't move on him because he's not into guys that way, but he'd've sworn an oath otherwise.

"It's going to be great seeing them all on Christmas. I wonder what ever happened to... What the hell was his name? Stanley, I think. Yeah, Stanley Physter. But he wanted everyone to call him Stefano."

"And you didn't get the gay?"

"Huh. Good point."

They went back to the brownstone, were admitted by the same domestic droid. As they sat in the living area, Eve pulled out her PPC. "Look stern," she said to Peabody.

"Okay."

"Not constipated, stern."

Peabody relaxed the look fractionally as Quigley came clipping in.

"I'm sorry. I'm just back from a committee meeting, and was on the 'link. Can I order up anything for you?"

"We're fine."

"Do you have more questions about Trey?" she asked as she took a seat. "I don't know what more I can tell you."

Eve looked up from her PPC, deliberately turned the screen away, but kept it in her hand. "You can start by telling us why you denied having sex with Trey Ziegler."

"Because I didn't have sex with him."

"Peabody, what happens when an individual lies to the police during an investigation?"

"Charges are forthcoming. Obstruction of justice is generally first, but we can follow that with—"

"We'll just start there," Eve interrupted. "And here: You have the right to remain silent."

"Wait. For God's sake. This is ridiculous."

"You're going to want to listen to your rights and obligations, Ms. Quigley," Eve advised, then recited the rest of the Revised Miranda. "Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?"

"I'm not an idiot. Of course I do. And I resent being treated like a criminal."

"You're going to have cause for even more resentment then when we take this interview down to Central." Eve rose.

"I'm not going anywhere. You can't force me to go anywhere."

"Peabody?"

"The suspect can voluntarily be questioned. Or we can get a warrant compelling her to submit to questioning. She is, of course, entitled to a legal rep either way, but the second option could include restraints."

"This is ridiculous." Color rode high on her cheeks; her hands balled into fists. "It's outrageous. I'm contacting my lawyer."

"Please do. He can meet us here, if you speak voluntarily. Or my partner will get the warrant, and your representative can meet us at Central. Your choice."

"I tell you I didn't have sex with Trey Ziegler."

Eve looked down at her PPC, back at Quigley. "You're lying."

"What do you have on there? What are you looking at?"

"Peabody, get the warrant."

"Wait, wait. Just... wait." Quigley dropped down again. "All this, all this insanity over sex. All right, I slept with him. I didn't want Tella to know. I don't want JJ—my husband—to know. I don't see it's any of your business."

"Your bedmate was murdered."

"Well, I didn't kill him. Why would I? Over sex?" She waved that away with a flash of the emerald on her finger. "It was stupid—no one likes to broadcast stupidity. It's humiliating to talk about to strangers, to police. My marriage has been a bit fraught for the last few months."

"Fraught?"

"We've been in a rough patch, and we're working through it. Marriages have rough patches." She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "In fact, things are getting better. But, well, I have needs like anyone, and Trey made it obvious he was attracted, that he was interested. He was sympathetic when I told him things weren't good between me and JJ, and that, well, and that we were sleeping in separate rooms. He suggested he come here, when JJ was away, and give me a private massage."

Rising, she walked to a cabinet, took out a decanter, poured herself amber liquid in a short glass. "I knew what he meant. It wasn't a secret he offered separate and private services."

She stared down at the glass. "Intimate services. I wasn't going to have him come here, in my home. I wouldn't... not in the same bed I slept in with my husband. So—as I also know other clients had—I suggested a hotel. I booked a suite, ordered up champagne. He met me there. We went through the pretense—or the foreplay—of the massage. Then we had sex. He's good at it, and JJ hadn't been attentive in some time."

"How much did you pay him?"

Color stained her cheeks again before she drank. "Three thousand extra, then I booked another private session. We had two a week for three weeks before... he died. We were booked for one right after Christmas. I was going to cancel that as JJ and I... things are better. We're talking about taking a holiday after the first of the year, JJ's idea. We're trying to find the magic again."

"Did Ziegler threaten to tell your husband?"

"Why would he? We had a mutually beneficial arrangement. If he told JJ, it couldn't continue. I hadn't canceled the last session as yet."

"Why, if you're coming out of that rough patch?"

"God." She rubbed her temple. "I'd thought I'd see him once more—not for sex—but to tell him we had to end it. I'd planned to give him a little extra, a thank-you. And then... Not only did I learn he'd been killed, but that my own sister slept with him. He shouldn't have slept with Tella—it's just unseemly. And believe me, it was awkward when she told me."

"‘Unseemly,'" Eve repeated. "‘Awkward.'"

"Yes. A woman might share a hairdresser, for instance, with her sister. A designer, a decorator. But not a lover. It was a business transaction, basically. I knew that going in. But... a woman in my position can't hire a professional. An affair—and I could let myself think of it as an affair—it had more... romance."

"Were you in love with him?" Peabody asked. Quigley laughed.

"Please. I said before, I'm not an idiot. He provided a service, I paid. But he was someone I knew, someone who understood my body and my needs. It was good for me. It may have helped my marriage, though JJ would never see it that way. I'd like to salvage my marriage if I can. I'm realistic enough to know that may not be possible, but I'd like to give it some time, and try."

"You set the time and place, a clear understanding what was to transpire on both sides of this arrangement with Ziegler."

"Yes. My marriage may have been in that rough patch, but I have enough respect for JJ not to carry on an affair in the home we share."

"You're so sure your husband doesn't know?"

"If he did, even if he suspected? The way things have been the last few weeks, he'd never have suggested we take a trip, spend a week in Tahiti rekindling our marriage. No." She set her jaw. "He'd have thrown it in my face, and called a divorce attorney."

"Would he have thrown it in Ziegler's face? Wasn't he also a client?"

"Confront Trey? No, no, he'd blame me, and he'd never let me forget it. He wouldn't have confronted Trey." But she wet her lips, drank again. "JJ's excitable, and he's been angry with me—and I with him—but he's not really a violent man. He'd never have... he wouldn't."

"You don't sound convinced," Eve pointed out.

"Because you're throwing all this at me." Her voice rose, flirting with hysteria. "Because it's all so upsetting. I had an affair, and I paid for it. Literally and emotionally."

She took another drink, breathed in and out. "My husband doesn't know, and I want to keep it that way. I'd like to mend the frays in my marriage. If I can't, I'd prefer to end that marriage as cleanly as possible."

"Do you love your husband?" Peabody asked her.

"I want a chance to find out, that's all. I'd like the chance to find out the answer."

"Where were you when Ziegler was killed? Your sister gave us her whereabouts."

"I was here, preparing for the party that night. You can question the domestics, the decorating team—they, and I, were here all day. I had catering staff arrive at seven-fifteen, and was here to speak with them. I was here all day, supervising the preparations."

"And your husband?"

"I'm honestly not sure, and it's ridiculous. I was working with the staff, the caterers, so I'm not sure when he arrived. But I know he was here by seven-thirty, as he was dressing when I ran up to change for the first arrivals."

"Where's your husband now?" Eve asked her.

"I—at his office, I suppose. Please." She sat again, leaned toward Eve. "Lieutenant, Detective, please don't take away my chance to save my marriage. If you tell JJ I had an affair with Trey, it's over. He won't forgive me for it. I only want the chance to fix things, to try to hold on to my marriage. I made a mistake—a stupid, selfish mistake—but right now what I did hurts no one but myself. If you tell JJ, it hurts him, and destroys the future we want to make together. Please."

"I can't make you any promises, but we won't share that information unless we find it necessary to the investigation. While your marriage is your priority, Ms. Quigley, finding the person responsible for taking Trey Ziegler's life is ours."

Eve got to her feet. "Did Ziegler ever push you for more money, ever indicate he might use your relationship with him against you?"

"No. It was, as I said, mutually beneficial. We enjoyed each other for a brief time. No more, no less."

"Okay. Thanks for your time."

"What would you do?" Quigley rose, clasped her hands together. "In my place, what would you do?"

"I can't tell you. I'm not in your place."

Peabody bundled up her coat again as they stepped outside. "What would you do? Would you confess the cheating, or bury it like she's trying to do?"

"I wouldn't have cheated in the first place."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"There's no ‘but.'" Eve pulled open the car door, slid in. "You go into marriage, you plow a road. You're going to hit rough patches, and some may be rougher and last longer than others, but you've got choices to make. You work to smooth them out, you hold until they do, or they don't. You stick with the road, or you get off. But you don't do something to make it worse, don't do something that maybe makes you feel better for the short term while it sucker punches the person you're married to.

"Plug in Copley's office. We'll talk to him next."

Peabody keyed the address into the in-dash. "Some people cheat because they can't see a way out."

"Bullshit. There's always a way out. You just have to pay the price, whether it's money, status, the emotional hit, or all of that and more. Cheating's cheap and it's lazy." Pausing at a light, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "It's not just about sex," she said. "Marriage is a series of promises." When she'd realized that—marriage equaled promises—she hadn't feared it. As much.

"Maybe you can't keep them all. The whole till-death-do-us-part business. Maybe you can't keep that one. Life can be long, and people change, circumstances change, so okay. You realize you don't really want this life or this person, or the person you made the promises to isn't who you thought, or they've changed in a way you can't accept or support. Whatever. You make a choice. Stick and try to work it through, or don't. But don't give me the boo-hoo, I'm not happy so I'm getting naked with somebody else on the side. It insults everybody.

"Walk or work," she concluded. "But don't make excuses."

"I can feel that way personally—and philosophically. But... people are flawed."

"People aren't flawed, Peabody. People are deeply fucked up."

"So, considering that, didn't you feel a little sorry for her? For Quigley?"

"I might if she grew a pair and went to her husband, told him she'd fucked up, been stupid and selfish and so on. She cheated, now she's lying. How's that going to fix anything if she's serious about fixing things? Added to it, I don't feel sorry for either of them at this point because one of them may have killed Ziegler. Since she's a known cheater and liar, she may be lying about Ziegler not pushing for more. And if he did, bash, bash. Or the illusion of romance she claims was more real, and she finds out he's playing her like he played the rest."

"Bash, bash," Peabody said as Eve hunted for parking.

"Or, Copley did find out, confronted Ziegler. Bash, bash from his side. So let's stay objective here."

Peabody climbed out of the car, pulled on her gloves. "Pretty much everyone we've interviewed had motive to bash, bash. Our vic's the guy people loved to hate. They used him—as a trainer, as an employee, as a massage therapist, as a bedmate, but any one of them could've picked up that trophy and given him a couple solid whacks."

"And murder trumps cheating, lying, blackmail, and being a general asshole. So let's see where John Jake Copley falls on the map."

Inside the steel-gray lobby of the office building, Eve badged the security guard at the sign-in station. "John Jake Copley. ImageWorks Public Relations."

He scanned her badge, nodded. "That's your thirty-ninth floor, elevator bank B."

Peabody pulled her gloves off as they joined a small pack of sharp suits for the elevator. Half of them nattered away on earbuds, others frowned importantly at their 'links or PPCs as they scrolled through data.

One of them, a six-foot blonde in a dark purple coat with lips dyed to match, did both.

"The Simpson meeting ran over," she barked as they all piled on the car. "Shift my three-thirty to three-forty-five, and my four to four-thirty. I know I have a four-thirty, Simon, you're going to reschedule that for five—drinks at Maison Rouge. I'll follow up with the five-thirty, same place. Keep these meetings on schedule, Simon. There'll be hell to pay if I miss Chichi's holiday pageant tonight. I'm on my way up now. Get it together."

As the woman marched off on the twenty-second floor, Eve decided she'd hold her own stunner to her own throat—on full—if she had to live by meetings scheduled minute by minute.

She'd much rather screw those meetings up by flipping out her badge.

Which she did at the glossy gold reception counter of ImageWorks.

A trio worked the counter, all in dark suits, all with perfect grooming and toothy, professional smiles.

The sleek brunette's smile didn't waver a fraction. "What can I do for you, Officer?"

"Lieutenant." Eve tapped the badge. "Dallas. With Detective Peabody. We need to speak with John Jake Copley."

"Mr. Copley, of course." She tapped nails painted cold, hard blue on her screen. "I'm showing Mr. Copley in the executive lounge for a strategy meeting. But he does have a few minutes free later this afternoon where I can schedule you in."

"Do you see this?" Eve held up the badge again. "This is my strategy meeting. Where's the executive lounge?"

"It's through the double doors to your right, down to the end of the hall, to the left, through the double doors, and—"

"I'll find it," Eve said.

"But... It's for executives," the brunette said as Eve turned away.

Eve merely held up her badge again, kept walking.

"I really love that part," Peabody said. "I'm a little ashamed, but I can't help it."

They passed doors, both opened and closed, busy hives of cubes, turned the corner, passed a staff lounge with Vending and a couple sofas, a wall screen scrolling through ads.

Things quieted through the next set of doors.

Eve nodded at yet one more set. "Odds are," she said, and strode to them, pulled them open.

Laughter poured out.

On the wall screen a golfer teed off on the eleventh hole under sunny skies on a course green as Ireland. Around the room men—but for a lone woman who looked bored and annoyed—sat or stood with drinks in hand.

JJ Copley stood in front of the screen, teeing up just as his CGI counterpart. Handsome and fit in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, he swung. On screen, his avatar perfectly mirrored the move—and sent the little white ball soaring—over a sand trap, over a sparkling blue pond, and onto the edge of the eleventh green.

Raucous applause ensued.

"And that's how it's done." Grinning, he turned toward another fit and handsome man holding a club, then spotted Eve.

"Ladies? Can I redirect you?"

"Copley, John Jake?"

"Guilty."

"Well, that makes it easy." Eve took out her badge again. "You have the right to remain silent—"

"Whoa, whoa!" He laughed, but this time a little nervous around the edges. "What's all this about?"

"Murder," Eve said flatly. "Trey Ziegler."

"Oh, right, right. Damn shame. I'd be happy to sit down with you in, say, thirty? We're in a strategy session."

"Yeah, I can see that. Now works for me. Does now work for you, Detective Peabody?"

"Yes, sir, it does. This room works, too, but then so does Central."

"Yeah." Eve stared into Copley's eyes. "Either way."

"Fine, then, fine. Never let it be said I didn't cooperate with the boys—or girls—in blue. Fellas, give me the room for a few minutes. Guys—oh, and Marta—I need the room. We'll take this up as soon as I'm finished."

Eve watched the lone woman shoot Copley a look of cool dislike before she filed out with the rest.

"Have a seat. What can I get you?"

"Answers."

"No problem there." He dropped down onto a black sofa. "It looked like we were goofing off, but the fact is we represent the company—and the spokesman—for the games. A new set of interactive sports games and training vids they hoped to launch next spring. We're working in tandem with the ad company on a smooth launch. You gotta know the product to rep the product."

"Sure. Tell me about your relationship with Trey Ziegler."

"He's—he was—my personal trainer. Damn good one, too. I worked with him at my gym. Buff Bodies."

"And outside of the gym?"

"We played golf a couple of times. He loved the game. He and my brother-in-law and I played a few times. Treated him to a round, some drinks, that sort of thing."

"When was the last time you were in his apartment?"

"I... Why would I go to his apartment?"

"You tell me."

"I never went there. No reason to. He was a damned good trainer, worked you until you wanted to cry like a girl. Gave a good massage, too. Pretty good golfer. But we weren't buddies, if that's what you mean."

He rose, walked to the wet bar, poured himself a tall glass of water, squeezed a lemon slice into it. "Sure?" He tipped the glass right and left.

"Yes. When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?"

"I guess it would've been Monday morning, regular session with him at the gym. I actually had one scheduled yesterday, but they tagged me, told me he'd been killed. That was a shocker," Copley added, drank deep.

"Did he ever ask you for money? Hit you for a loan?"

"Money?" Copley drank again, slid one hand into his pocket, jiggled whatever he carried in there. "No. I always slipped him some extra after a massage, but he never had his hand out. Look, I liked the guy. He was a good trainer, so I liked working with him. I gave him a couple perks—golf at the club, like that. We had some laughs on the course. That's it."

"Did he ever contact you at home, at your office?"

"What for?"

"I'm asking you."

"I don't remember anything like that. I'd see him a couple times a week at the gym. A couple times at the club when either I or Lance—my sister-in-law's husband—set it up. Maybe once a week I'd get a massage from him. That's it."

"Are you nervous, Mr. Copley?"

"The cops are talking to me about a guy I knew that was killed. So, yeah, some. Plus I've got work waiting. I can't tell you anything about what happened to Ziegler, so... if there's more you should go through my lawyer. We'll keep it smooth that way. Is that it?"

"For now." Eve started for the door. "Oh, you mentioned your brother-in-law. But you didn't mention your wife also used the deceased as a trainer and a massage therapist."

"So what?"

"Interesting." Leaving it as that, Eve started out.

She walked down the wide hallway again, through the doors, glanced at Peabody.

"He's lying."

"Oh yeah, he is."