by J. D. Robb
“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. “W
hat’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.”
She wanted Copley in the box, Eve thought, but knowing in her gut he was lying didn’t equal proof. The minute she tapped him, he’d lawyer up. She didn’t begrudge him legal representation—rules were rules for reasons—but a lawyer was bound to block and dodge her questions, see she was on a fishing expedition.
But Copley was lying, and there was damn well a reason for that, too.
“We dig,” she told Peabody as they took the elevator up from the garage at Central. “We dig on Copley until we find enough to stand on, then we bring him in. He’s not going to talk to us again without a lawyer, so we find some holes.”
She checked her wrist unit for time as a couple of uniforms pulled in a heroically drunk Santa who looked—and smelled—like he’d spent some time rolling around in reindeer dung.
“Really? You couldn’t take that up the stairs a couple flights to the drunk tank?”
“Gotta take him up to Sex Crimes, Lieutenant. He—”
“Hey, little girl!” Drunk Santa sent Eve a bleary smile. “I got whatcha want for Christmas right here!”
He grabbed his crotch, pumped his hips, then spread open a slit in the dirty red pants to reveal an unfortunately grimy penis.
“That,” the uniform finished.
“I like ’em naughty!” Santa exclaimed, then broke fantastic wind.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Somebody crack a window!” Santa suggested, and added, “Ho, ho, ho!”
Eve did better. She leaped off the elevator on the next floor, one short step in front of Peabody. As the doors shut, she heard Santa bellow, “Merry Christmas to all!” right before the gagging noises.
“I think that was alive.” Cautiously Peabody sniffed at her own sleeve. “We may need detox. Uniforms don’t get paid enough.”
“Nobody gets paid enough around here. Send a departmental memo. Nobody rides in that car for a month. That should be about long enough. I’m not kidding,” she added when Peabody laughed.
“On it.”
“Meanwhile, back to murder. We dig on Copley. His business, his marriage, his finances, any priors no matter how minor. His politics, his religion, his favorite fucking color. Everything.”
“You think maybe Ziegler was blackmailing him.”
“It’s possible,” Eve said as she and Peabody stepped onto a glide. “It’s just as possible his wife’s fling with Ziegler wasn’t as discreet as she thinks. Let’s get a couple of uniforms over to Ziegler’s building with a shot of Copley. Maybe we’ll find somebody who saw him visit Ziegler’s apartment. We just need to find one lie to deepen the hole.”
“He struck me as too weenie. Shit! I wish I hadn’t said weenie because it makes me think of that sick pervert’s weenie. Do we smell like Drunk Santa fart?”
“If we did, people would be diving off this glide like lemmings.”
“You’re right.” Still, Peabody took another cautious sniff of her sleeve. “We escaped in time. I need a replacement for the W word. Copley struck me as too wussy. There, a W for a W.”
“Wussies kill, too.” Eve stepped off the glide, headed for Homicide. “He finds out his wife’s been doing the trainer. He thinks: That asshole’s fucking my wife, laughing at me behind my back. I’m paying him, and he’s doing my wife. I took him golfing at my club, for Christ’s sake. Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“He’d be pissed,” Peabody agreed. “Anybody’d be pissed.”
“He goes to Ziegler’s place to confront him—or maybe if he really is a wuss, he goes to plead with Ziegler to break it off. Either way, why wouldn’t Ziegler let him in? ‘Hey, man, I’m packing, but come on back. What’s up?’”
“Copley says, ‘You’ve been banging my wife. It has to stop.’”
“Maybe. And maybe Ziegler starts off denying, maybe not,” Eve speculated. “Maybe he pushes for money. ‘Just providi
ng a service. I can stop the service, but you have to make up the fee.’ Simple business transaction. Ziegler’s not worried about this guy. Hell, he’s the trainer. ‘Your wife was happy to pay, so if you don’t want me providing the service, cough it up.’”
“And Copley snaps. Bash, bash.”
“Maybe,” Eve said as they turned into the bullpen.
Someone had added a dented menorah to the decor. It stood on a bed of virulent greenery she suspected was supposed to be pine boughs. Beside it stood a sickly gray figure in a Santa suit, grinning viciously.
“What the hell is that?” she demanded.
Santiago glanced up from his work. “It’s Zombie Santa. We’re trying to be inclusive.”
“They make Zombie Santas? Who thinks of things like that?” Shaking her head at all mankind, she strode to her office.
It surprised her to find Feeney studying her board.
The EDD captain, her former trainer and partner, wore a rumpled suit the color of . . . reindeer dung, Eve decided. Wiry silver strands poked through his explosion of ginger hair like carelessly tossed tinsel.
Like the suit, his face had a rumpled, lived-in look. His eyes might have resembled a basset hound’s, but they were cop sharp as he scanned her photos, timelines, data.
“Your vic was an asshole.”
“Completely,” she agreed, walking straight to her AutoChef to program two coffees, strong and black. “Lead suspect, as of now, is this guy.”
She brought up Copley’s ID shot after passing Feeney coffee. “One of the vic’s regular clients. Turns out the vic was banging his wife twice a week for the last few weeks—for a side fee. She claims the husband didn’t know.”
Feeney gave the coffee a surface blow, drank. “It’s hard to hide regular banging.”
“Damn right.” Pleased to have him to bounce around the speculations, she eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “Rough patch, the wife claims. Separate bedrooms for a while.”
“No sex for a while’s a rough patch. Separate bedrooms is a crater.”
“Yeah?”
He eyed her. “How long you been married now?”