by J. D. Robb
“Couple years.”
“Take my word. You can climb out of a crater, but it’s harder than riding out a rough patch.”
“She claims they climbed out, mostly, and are working on the rest of the way. But if he finds out she got naked with their mutual trainer, it’s off the cliff for the marriage.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“Not yet. We ran the basics with him, and he was nervous. And he was lying. Something more there, something with the vic he’s hiding. So he’s top of my list right now.”
“Smashed his head in, hauled the body onto the bed, then put a knife in the chest. With a ho, ho, ho.”
Like Feeney, she studied the crime scene shot, drank coffee.
“The last’s a kind of rage, isn’t it?” she said. “A cold one. The smash, bash, that strikes me as hot. But the flourish? It takes cold blood. Copley could fit.”
“A liar’s one thing. A nervous one’s another. You could shake it out.”
“Yeah, but he’s already brought up the L word. I’m going to do some digging on him, let him settle. His business is a boys’ club.”
Feeney’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “He works with kids?”
“No—big public relations firm, but he runs it like a boys’ club—on the exec level, at least. One woman in the meeting I broke up today, and she didn’t look real happy with him. I think he’s an asshole, but I have to ask myself if I’d just like to find an asshole killer for my asshole vic.”
She shrugged, sipped coffee, studied her board. “He had a lot of clients, used a lot of women. The killing field’s a big one.”
“Somebody who needed to put a sticker in a dead guy’s going to break at some point.”
“That’s what I think, too. I need to be there when it happens.”
He nodded, and for a moment or two they drank their coffee, studied death in companionable silence.
“The wife’s all over me to wear a monkey suit tomorrow.”
Eve frowned, shifted her thought process. “Why?”
“How the hell do I know? You’re female. Why do women like men dressed up in monkey suits?”
“I don’t, especially.”
“Tell me this.” He pointed at her. “Is Roarke putting on a monkey suit for this shindig tomorrow?”
“No. I don’t know.” For unexplained reasons, she had a moment of panic. “How would I know?”
“You live with him.”
“I live with me, too, and I don’t even know what I’m wearing tomorrow.” But Roarke would, she thought. Jesus, was she supposed to know what he was wearing? Was that another damn marriage rule?
“Did he wear one last year?” How was she supposed to remember? But she tried. “I don’t think so. I can ask him not to if that helps you out.”
“Do that. You do that.” With a righteous nod, Feeney smoothed a hand down his wrinkled jacket. “Bad enough to have to get all fancied up without that.”
“Tell me,” she said, with feeling. “I’m the one who’ll have to have glop all over my face while I walk around on stilts.”
“What you get for being female.”
“It’s not right.”
“The wife likes the fancy, and the stilts. Looks good on her, too. Anyway.” He scratched at his ear. “Anyway, I’m going to tell you she made you guys a bowl in her pottery class. It’s not bad—doesn’t even wobble. Much.”
“Ah . . . that was nice of her,” Eve said cautiously.
“I figure how many bowls can somebody use, but that’s not something you say when you’re married to somebody who keeps making them. Unless you want to hit a rough patch.”
“I get it.”
“So I got this.” He reached into the inside pocket of his ugly jacket, took out a small, slim square wrapped in shiny red paper.
“Oh,” Eve said when he shoved it at her.
She was lousy at giving gifts; she was worse at getting them.
“I didn’t want to give it over tomorrow, with the party and the people and all that.”
“Okay. Thanks.” After an awkward pause, she deduced she was meant to open it on the spot.
She pulled off the paper, crumpled it, shot it into her recycler. She lifted the lid, just stared.
Small reproductions of the medals she and Roarke had been awarded the month before floated inside clear glass. Etched beneath each were their names, the award, and the date presented.
“This is . . .” Her throat closed up on her. “A lot,” she managed. “This is a lot.”
“I figured you could put it somewhere you could take a look at when the job gets heavy. Maybe not here. It’s a little like bragging if you put it in here.”
“Yeah. It should be at home. It’s Roarke’s, too.”
“The highest honor given a cop.” There was a light in his voice that had her throat clogging on her. “The highest given a civilian. I was real proud of both of you.”
She struggled for composure before she risked looking up at him. “That’s a lot, too.”
“Can’t get a little sentimental at Christmas, when can you? Well.” He gave her a light punch on the arm, settled them both. “I gotta get back. No monkey suit,” he reminded her.
“I’ll tell him. Thanks, Feeney.”
She stayed where she was when he walked out, ran her fingertip over her name, over Roarke’s.
She looked up at her board, at the image of Trey Ziegler propped in bed, that mocking note pinned to his chest with a kitchen knife.
“You were an asshole, Ziegler. A user, a whore, a rapist. I wish you were alive so I could toss you in a cage. But since you’re dead, you’re going to get the best I’ve got.”
Carefully she put the lid back on the box, set it aside.
She sat down with what was left of her coffee, and went to work.
Nearly two hours later, she programmed another cup of coffee, drank it standing at her skinny window looking out at the hustle-bustle of New York.
She heard the clomp of Peabody’s boots, didn’t bother to turn. “It gets dark so damn early.”
“We just passed the solstice, so the days are starting to get longer.”
“It takes too damn long. Copley looks ordinary. Parents divorced, half sib on the father’s side. Average student. Little ding on possession right out of college, that would probably have gone away if he hadn’t mouthed off to the cops. Traffic tickets, and I dug into those a little. He went to court on every one of them, and in two cases ended up paying an extra fine for mouthing off to the judge. So, some temper there, some righteousness, some assholey behavior. Nothing violent.”
“I didn’t find anything there, either,” Peabody said. “First marriage lasted four years—no record of domestic disputes, but he sure filed a lot of papers on the ex. The split probably cost him three times what it would have if he hadn’t kept pushing the buttons. Still, she had more money than he did, and no prenup, so he fought his way to a bigger chunk than he might’ve gotten.”
Intrigued, Eve turned. “I hadn’t looked at marriage one yet, but Quigley’s rolling in it. His income’s a fraction of hers. There’s a prenup, bet your ass. Second marriage for both, yeah, she covered herself. It might be interesting to get a peek at the terms of that one.”
“She’s the admitted cheater. It seems to me he’d make out bigger, considering.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s the only one who cheated.”
Peabody pursed her lips. “Hmm. Hadn’t gone there. I did take a first pass at his financials. I didn’t see anything out of line, nothing to indicate he’s stepping out. Unless he’s doing it on the cheap. No hotel bills in the city, no second rent going out, no personal travel that doesn’t jibe with the wife’s. And no withdrawals that say blackmail.”
“He’d have an expense account. That’s worth a look. And maybe, ha
ving married a second time to a woman with money, he learned something about socking money away.”
She’d see if Roarke wanted to play with that.
“From what I can see, he’s good at his job,” Eve continued. “Maybe a righteous asshole when it comes to being caught doing something wrong, or with an estranged wife, but he’s worked his way up at ImageWorks to partner.”
“I couldn’t find anything that said other than he can be a jerk, but he’s pretty much a law-abiding professional with some skill in his chosen field.” Peabody lifted her shoulder. “I couldn’t find any real dings.”
“It doesn’t mean they’re not there. Pack it in for the night.”
“Are you?”
“Pretty much. I think I’ll swing by the Schuberts on the way home, poke at the husband a little. I might get another angle.”
She tilted her head when she heard the oncoming prancing she recognized as McNab.
He bopped into her doorway. “Hey, Dallas. Peabody, you off or on?”
“Just going off.”
“Me, too. We can go home together. I got some data from your vic’s home mini, LT. I’d’ve had it earlier, but I got pulled off on a hot one. Just got back to this a couple hours ago.”
He offered Eve a disc.
“Report?”
“What’s interesting is the accounting program I dug out. It doesn’t list names—just initials—but I did a quick cross with his client list, and there’s plenty that match. Some repeats, some one-offs. And he lists amounts. It would look up-and-up if I didn’t know what Peabody told me about how he took some clients for a ride between the sheets—at a cost. He’s listed them as private massage or trainer or consults. Initials, dates, fees, and what I’m thinking is a rating system.”
“Rating?” Eve repeated.
“Hey, some guys are shits. He qualifies. He’s got some rated with stars. One to three. I figure he rated the clients on, you know, performance.”
“Scumfuck,” Peabody muttered.
“Wouldn’t say otherwise.” Then he leaned in, whispered something in Peabody’s ear that made her flush and giggle.
“You just said some crap about there not being enough stars, or something equally full of it.”
McNab only grinned. “What can I say? I’m a romantic, not a scumfuck.”
“Go home, get out, scram. Both of you.”
“See you tomorrow. Party!” Peabody did a quick jig in her pink boots, then dashed.
Alone, Eve turned the disc in her hand. It would wait, she thought, until home.
It wasn’t much of a detour, and Eve wanted to tie off, or at least shorten, as many loose ends as she could manage before the party, the weekend, the whole crazy Christmas extravaganza sucked up any time for work and reality.
Once she parked, she joined the sidewalk traffic—those headed home, those headed out, those hauling shopping bags and likely on a self-imposed forced march to another retail outlet where they could accumulate more shopping bags.
Thank tiny birthday Jesus she was done with that part.
The Schubert townhouse sat within spitting distance of Martella’s sister’s brownstone. Still, the relatively short distance put it in a more active section where Eve imagined street artists set up during the day, and the snug outdoor spaces a few restaurants boasted likely did yeoman’s duty in good weather.
An actual human voice responded to Eve when she buzzed at the door.
“May I help you?”
“Lieutenant Eve Dallas, NYPSD, to speak with Martella or Lance Schubert.”
“One moment please, Lieutenant.”
It took hardly more before a woman with toffee-colored skin and icy blue eyes opened the door. She wore her golden brown hair in dozens of thin braids all gathered into a tail, and made simple black pants and white shirt look glamorous.
“Please come in, Lieutenant. I’m Catiana Dubois, Mrs. Schubert’s social secretary. May I take your coat?”
“I’ve got it.”
“If you’ll come with me.” She led the way left through the foyer—everything bright and fresh with those tall-stemmed red flowers Eve couldn’t remember the name of grouped together in abundance on a long table—into a spacious sitting room with more bright and fresh in bold colors, silvery trim, and a tiny fireplace simmering in the wall.
The tree centered in the window. Angels flew on its branches and shimmered in its tiny white lights. Under it, elegantly wrapped gifts, artistically arranged, added more color.
“The Schuberts will be right down. Can I offer you something? Coffee or tea—or hot cider?”
The cider sounded tempting, but she hoped to make it quick. “No, thanks.”
“Please sit, be comfortable. It’s a lovely picture, isn’t it?” Catiana said as she noticed Eve studying the image of Martella in miles of frothy bridal white caught in the arms of a striking man in formal black.
“Great-looking couple.”
“They are. And still very much like the newlyweds you see there. Lieutenant, I don’t know if it’s appropriate or necessary, but I’d like to tell you I knew Trey Ziegler. Not well,” she added quickly when Eve turned to her. “Part of my benefits is a membership to Buff Bodies. I didn’t work with Mr. Ziegler. I don’t use a trainer, but I attend some classes when I can juggle them in, and I often use the facilities in the early morning or after work. So I knew him, a little.”
“Did you ever sleep with him?”
Catiana winced. “You’re direct. But I suppose that’s best. No. He didn’t appeal to me in that way, which from what I sensed was the exception rather than the rule. I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like that he hit on me—subtly, but unmistakably. Maybe someone else would have taken his offer of a free trial as a trainer as a courtesy, or a way to drum up business, but to me, it felt too . . . suggestive. I can’t say he crossed any lines, but he brushed awfully close to them—for me. And when he brushed too close for my personal comfort, I told him to piss off.”
“You’re direct.”
Catiana smiled. “I can be. I tried to be both firm and discreet, but I thought I should tell you in case I wasn’t as discreet as I assumed. He didn’t like my reaction, and when one of the women I often took a class with asked me out—and my reaction was surprise, she was embarrassed, and told me the word was I preferred women. It happens I don’t, and it was easy to trace the rumor’s source.”
“To Ziegler.”
“Yes. I let it go. It didn’t matter to me. I wasn’t looking to start any sort of romantic or sexual relationship at my gym, so it didn’t matter. And he left me alone. I assume he believed the only reason I turned him down was because I was inclined toward women. But then . . .”
She trailed off as Martella and her husband came in.
“I don’t want to hold you up. Can I get you anything before I go?” she asked Martella.
“Why don’t you finish it off?” Eve looked at Catiana, then her employers. “Any problem with that?”
“You’re telling her?” Martella asked. “You should tell her all of it. Tell her, Cate.”
“All right, thanks. I’d rather finish it off. I wouldn’t have thought anything—or not much of anything of it, Lieutenant, but after . . . In brief, a couple weeks ago the man I’ve been seeing for a while stopped by the gym. I was meeting him for breakfast between class and work, but he came in just as I was coming out of the locker room. I guess it was obvious we’re involved as several people asked me about him the next time I went in.”
“They’re still at the glow stage,” Martella said. “It’s sweet.”
“It’s still new,” Catiana said. “I had a massage booked that week, end of the day, with my usual therapist. But when they called me out of the relaxation room into the massage room, Ziegler was there. He said Lola—my usual—wasn’t available, so he was doing my massage. He
offered me some tea. I declined, and I said I’d reschedule.”
“Why?”
“Bottom line?” She moved her shoulders in an elegant sort of shrug. “I didn’t want his hands on me, it was as simple as that. So I walked out, got dressed, went home. That was a couple days before he was killed. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, just an annoyance, but . . .”
“I told her everything.” Martella groped for her husband’s hand. “I told Catiana and Lance everything about what happened, about what you found out. About . . . He was going to do it to her. You said when you contacted me this morning, he’d put something in the tea.”
Lance Schubert, just as striking as his wedding photo, drew his wife close to his side. His eyes, hard as stone, held Eve’s. “That’s rape. It’s no different from sexual assault.”
“No, it’s not,” Eve said.
“If he hadn’t made my skin crawl—and it was as simple and as visceral as that—I’d have gone ahead with the massage.”
Catiana rubbed her arms, then sighed, leaned in a little when Lance put an arm around her in turn.
“I’d have tried the tea. When Martella told me, I realized he wasn’t just annoying, wasn’t just someone who made me feel uncomfortable. He was a predator. I don’t want to get in the way of what you’re here to talk about, but I thought I should tell you.”
“I appreciate that you did. It was his pattern, and your instincts were good. Walking out kept you from being another victim.”
“I didn’t walk out. I let him in. I’m so sorry, Lance.”
“Stop.” He angled to press his lips to Martella’s hair. “Stop.”
“I’ll leave you to talk,” Catiana began.
“Stay, please. Can she stay?” Martella asked Eve. “I’ve told her all of it, then she told me. It helps a little.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Why don’t we sit? Let’s all sit down.” Lance led his wife to the sofa, kept her hand in his.
“Mr. Schubert, you’re aware that the deceased, Trey Ziegler, administered an illegal substance to your wife, without her knowledge, and while she was under the influence of same, raped her.”
Schubert’s smooth, handsome face hardened. “Yes.”