Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “My, my, Lieutenant. You’ve mingled.”

  “Damn straight. It took considerable champagne consumption, but I held up my end.”

  He gave her ass a light pat. “Beautifully.”

  She held up her end, if she said so herself, through the leave-taking where entirely too many people insisted on hugging her. Because they were slightly more than half lit, and it was simple, Summerset poured Peabody and McNab into one of the guest rooms he’d prepped, and that was fine with her.

  As she expected, Baxter and the blonde left together, and with twin gleams in their eyes.

  When the last straggler was out the door, Eve hobbled to the bedroom, pried her abused feet out of the shoes, winced her way into the bathroom to use the gunk Trina had left her to take off the gunk Trina put on her.

  She stripped off the jewelry, remembered the hair thing, fought it out, dragged and raked her fingers through her hair until it felt normal. She stripped off the dress, the thong, grabbed a long, baggy T-shirt and fell into bed.

  “What time is it? No, don’t tell me. Yes, tell me.”

  “It’s about half three.”

  “God.”

  The cat walked up the bed, jingling, sniffed at her, climbed over her, and made himself a nest in the small of her back.

  Roarke slid in, kissed her between the eyebrows.

  “Did my part,” she said, words slurring. “Not so bad.”

  And dropped away to sleep like the dead.

  • • •

  She woke alone, which was no surprise—and even less of one when she checked the time. After ten? Ten?

  She sat up, rubbed her hands over her face. Needed coffee, needed to move. After crawling out of bed, she hit the AutoChef, primed herself with caffeine.

  She’d take a swim, she decided. A few hard laps would clear her head, shake out the post-party dregs. Then she could order Peabody out of bed—her own fault she drank too much to get out of range the night before—and they could work on the case for a couple hours.

  She turned toward the elevator, then considered it was the middle of the damn morning. Somebody could just walk in on her down in the pool. She dug out a black, tank-style suit, pulled it on, pulled the sleep shirt over it.

  She debated tagging Roarke, telling him to come join her. But he’d very likely get ideas once they were both wet—and there were people in the house, probably lots of people clearing out the party debris in the ballroom.

  Best to keep the swim solo.

  She stepped out of the elevator, into the lushness of tropical plants. She heard the music, a low, quiet hum, and thought Roarke had beaten her to it.

  So maybe she wouldn’t mind if he got ideas as long as—

  “God!”

  She slapped her hands over her face, but the image of Peabody and McNab groping each other in the pool remained burned on her retinas. “Why? Why aren’t I blind? Why is there no mercy?”

  “Sorry!” Peabody sang it out. “We’re not naked or anything. Roarke said we could use the pool, and there were suits in the dressing room. We’re both wearing suits. Promise!”

  Eve spread her fingers, risked peeking through them.

  They were half naked, McNab standing in waist-high water, bony chest bare and gleaming wet, but standard black trunks below the waterline. Peabody wore bright blue that showed off plenty of cleavage. Hardly a wonder McNab’s hands had been full of Peabody’s girls.

  She wasn’t going to deny herself a swim, refused to give in to the cowardly urge to turn around and go back upstairs.

  “This half is mine.” She cut a hand through the air. “That half’s yours. Stay on your side.”

  “Thanks for letting us stay,” McNab said when she yanked off the shirt. “Nothing like a good night’s sleep after an aces party, and the bonus round of a swim.”

  “Right. Your side, my side,” she repeated, and dived in.

  She put them out of her mind, concentrated on the movement, on cutting through the water, pushing off, cutting through again. Her body loosened; her brain cleared.

  Twenty-five laps later, she felt human—wanted more coffee. She let herself sink down, rise up.

  And saw Peabody and McNab, still there, floating side by side. To her surprise, she saw Roarke, sitting at one of the little tables, drinking coffee.

  She sank again, pushed off again, swam underwater to the far end. She got out, dripping, reached for his coffee first, then a towel.

  “Good morning,” Roarke said.

  “It’s a better one now. I guess you’ve been dealing with the after-party breakdown.”

  “Actually I had some other business. Summerset’s on that. How about some breakfast? I could do with some. I waited for you.”

  “Sure, yeah.” When he merely arched his eyebrows at her, she turned around. “Breakfast, fifteen minutes, my office.”

  Peabody flopped over, treading water. “That’d be sweet. It’s okay?”

  “I just said so. Fifteen,” she repeated, and headed into the lush plants. “I used up my limited supply of gracious last night.”

  “I don’t think Peabody or McNab require it. You’ll want some time to work with her. There’s no point in anyone going hungry while you do, is there?”

  “I guess not. They were, you know—starting in on it when I came down. Her tits were half out of the suit.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “You would be. Pervert.”

  He grabbed her as they stepped out of the elevator, scrambled her brains with the kiss. “If only you’d said thirty rather than fifteen minutes, I’d show you a bit of perversion.”

  She laughed, but wiggled free. “I didn’t figure they’d be out of bed. I only bothered with a suit because I remembered there’d be people here, doing stuff, and better to be cautious. If I’d gotten up ten minutes later, they’d have been naked and humping like whales.”

  “Do whales hump?”

  “It sounds right.”

  “Oddly enough. I’ll see about breakfast while you get dressed.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “Be that. And later? After whatever work both of us have to deal with today, I’d like a date.”

  “A date for what?”

  “A date for lounging with you. A vid, some popcorn, a fire crackling and absolutely nothing to do but lie there.”

  The image made her smile. “That sounds like a perfect date.”

  Absolutely perfect, she decided as she dressed in black jeans, a dove-gray sweater, soft, flat boots. She dug out the teardrop diamond pendant, slipped it on under her sweater. She started to reach for her weapon and harness—habit—remembered she’d secured it in her desk drawer.

  She shoved her badge, her ’link, other daily paraphernalia in her pockets.

  What else did people need to carry? she wondered as she headed out toward her office. Work stuff, maybe—so a file bag or a briefcase. But nobody could ever convince her one of those planet-sized purses was necessary for survival.

  She caught the scent of food, of coffee, and followed her nose to her office where the table she and Roarke often shared had been extended to hold settings and chairs for four.

  She watched Roarke come out of the little kitchen carrying a large, covered tray.

  “You have droids to do that. I know you do.”

  “Indeed we do, but it’s fun to fuss a bit yourself for friends and family here and there. I went with full Irish, all around, as a Scot would recognize the similar tradition.”

  “They eat enough for five people at breakfast, too?” Eve asked as she went to her desk, got her weapon.

  “It’s a fine meal that hits all the notes.” He walked to her, slung an arm around her shoulders, studied the board as she did. “Have you a plan of action then?”

  “Sort of. Working on it. I�
��m thinking, poke at the wife, get her to give away a little more on the husband. Copley’s hands are dirty, and I think they’re bloody. She’s not stupid. I didn’t get stupid from her. If I play it right, she’ll wonder, and she may tell me something I can hook on to. Or the sister. Not stupid, either, but soft. I can probably find a spot or two on her to push. If she worries about the sister, I might get something out of her.”

  “I’ve a feeling that family won’t be having a happy Christmas.”

  “Not if things go right on my end.”

  Peabody and McNab came in, both wearing lounging pants, loose tops.

  “Where’d you get those clothes?” Eve asked.

  “Summerset had them for us. Soft.” Peabody rubbed her own sleeve. “It’d be weird to eat breakfast in party clothes. Weirder to talk about the case wearing them.”

  “Then we’ll eat, and we’ll talk.” Eve stepped back to the table, lifted the cover from the big platter.

  “Wow! Look at all that. Smell all that.” Peabody sniffed the air, sighed.

  “It’s tattie scones.” McNab’s face lit like a child’s. “You have tattie scones. Remember, Peabody? We had some when we went to Scotland, to spend the holidays with my family there. My granny made them.”

  “Potato scones? Oh yeah. Deadly and delicious. Good thing I danced like a maniac for hours.”

  Roarke gestured them to sit. “Summerset made them up, thinking you might enjoy a bit of home.”

  “Fuel up,” Eve advised. “After this, the party’s over.”

  “Tattie scones,” McNab said again, and dived in.

  Tattie scones weren’t half bad, Eve discovered. Nor was eating them the morning after a big party with Peabody and McNab. She let the postgame analysis—as she thought of it—run its course with discussion, comments, opinions on who wore what, who did what—and with whom—who said what.

  It was an oddity, really, just how much gossip could be distilled over a full Irish.

  “I’m still trying to process my reaction to seeing Dickhead doing the sexy dance,” Peabody commented.

  “I never want to hear the words Dickhead and sexy dance in any sort of conjunction again. Seriously,” Eve added. “That’s an order. Moving forward.”

  She gestured to the board. “Copley remains top of the list. He fits the profile, his financial records demonstrate greed and deception, and indicate potential payoffs. His initials are listed on the vic’s spreadsheet with amounts that correlate to said payoffs.”

  “Giving him motive,” Peabody agreed. “But then since Ziegler was the man a whole lot of people loved to hate, a whole lot of people had motive.”

  “Accurate. Now look at the method. Two hard, and we believe enraged, impulsive shots with a handy blunt instrument. That’s where I bump down several of the whole lot of people. Rock could have pummeled him into paste—and if the vic showed any injuries from a fight, a beating, we’d be looking hard at him. Lance Schubert doesn’t show up on the spreadsheet, but he might have learned about the vic having sex with his wife, confronted him. But my personal probability index says Schubert would’ve gotten in a punch or two, and straight off. Have it out straight off rather than heading back to the bedroom while the vic packed.”

  She pushed away from the table before she ate more bacon just because it was there. “McNab, what did you do when you thought—mistakenly—Charles had bounced on Peabody.”

  “I punched him.” McNab danced his fingers up Peabody’s arm. “That’s all five-by-five now.”

  “Because he hadn’t bounced on her, and because Charles is a reasonable sort of guy. But my point is, your first impulse was fist in the face. Schubert strikes me as the same, and I don’t see him letting it rest with his wife, who just doesn’t have the guile to lie to me about him knowing. Still, he’s not off the hook.”

  “Vic asks him to come by,” Peabody speculated. “Tells him to try to extort money for keeping it quiet.”

  “Exactly. Instant rage. Grab the handy blunt object. And end it with the flourish. The flourish fits him, and it fits Copley. What Copley doesn’t have is Schubert’s sense of self-worth. Schubert doesn’t have Copley’s greed, or his pattern of going after wealthy women, cheating on them, cashing in on them.

  “Copley’s reaction, to my mind, would run like: Jesus, he took Ziegler to his club, treated him to golf and drinks and all that. Even though Ziegler’s so obviously socially and financially inferior. He did him favors, and what does he get? Blackmailed. It’s gone on long enough, time to take charge, time to show this asshole who’s top dog. He loses his temper, which is also pattern, grabs the weapon, because he’s not the type who goes into a fight fair. Now look what Ziegler made him do. But it’s not enough. Ziegler humiliated him, so he’ll return the favor.”

  “Smarter, wouldn’t it have been, to toss the place a bit?” Sitting back, Roarke lingered over coffee, as comfortable with cop and murder talk as he was with business and finance. “Take some of the valuables, make it appear to have been a burglary or a confrontation with someone who’d take some profit from it.”

  “He’s not smart, that’s the thing. Cagey maybe, but that’s different. And he needed to get the knife in—literally, figuratively—to boost his own ego.”

  She circled the board. “Then again . . . Charles mentioned something last night when I talked through this with him. Knife in the heart. Maybe it’s a stretch, but it could mean a romantic connection.”

  “Back to the girlfriends?” McNab speculated.

  “I don’t see it, just don’t, but I’d like you to look a little closer there if Feeney can spare you. Sima’s covered. She was with several people in a public place when Ziegler was killed, but you could pry the lid off Alla Coburn, and take a pass at some of the women who paid him for sex.”

  “There’s always time to take a pass at women,” McNab said and got Peabody’s elbow in his side for his trouble.

  “If it was sex—just sex—the symbolism would’ve been knife in the balls, so if we play that tune, it’s romance, emotion, not just sex. Peabody, you and I are going to play both angles today. Enraged husband and/or blackmail vic, infatuated married female. And the third angle of undermining the married females enough to spill on the enraged husband. If it applies.”

  “Natasha Quigley, Martella Schubert.”

  “Yeah, we’re going to split it, save time—and alter the approach. You take Schubert. She’s softer, more vulnerable, more naive. She’ll respond to your gentle, sympathetic approach. You tell her how you once had romantic feelings for an LC.”

  “I didn’t! Not exactly. Just . . . I just . . .”

  “Play it,” Eve insisted, “if playing it gets you in. You’re going to talk to her on your day off, just to get a clear picture because your partner’s pushing the angle her husband found out there’d been sex, and moved on Ziegler even before it came out the sex hadn’t been consensual due to drugging. If that’s not the approach, you’ll find another.”

  “Maybe, if it seems playable, I can hint around that I think Copley’s more likely. The just-between-us bit, and it looks like Copley was paying Ziegler blackmail money. The sisters seemed pretty tight, so if she thinks her sister’s husband could be a killer, she might open up more, to protect the sister.”

  “That’s not bad.” Eve paused, studied Martella Schubert’s face on her board. “That’s not bad. If she has any dirt on Copley she’s more likely to give it to you. Give it a try. Let’s see if we can bring this to a head.”

  “And you’ll take Quigley.”

  “She’s not naive, not soft. I can go in harder, shove it at her. She used the illusion of romance as an excuse to pay Ziegler for sex, so I can hammer on that. And I can push how she’s so worried Copley will find out. Maybe he has, what then? And I might be able to play the same angle as you—your sister’s husband is on my short list. Like you, I’ll play i
t so I get in, go from there.”

  “Is it okay if I take McNab? We’re a couple, and I can use that. I get what it’s like to be in love, and all that. I have a sister, too, all the common-ground business.”

  “Maybe I can talk her into letting me wire up the house ’link, her personal ’link,” McNab speculated. “Put it out there like it’s for her protection, her sister’s protection.”

  “If she bites on that she’s more naive than I figured, but throw it in. If she bites, make damn sure you get her to officially sign off. I don’t want it coming around to kick us in the ass later.”

  “Solid,” McNab promised. “I’ll take some toys with me, in case she goes for it.”

  “Full report when you’re done. But first, for God’s sake go home and put cop clothes on.”

  “I get to wear my pink magic coat.” Peabody jumped up, did a quick dance. “Hot dog! Thanks again for all of it, for every bit of it.”

  “Send us a picture of your lady in her coat,” Roarke said to McNab.

  “You got it. We’ll totally rock it out with her coat, my boots. Ultimate thanks for all. Solid.”

  “Then get out,” Eve said. “Solid.”

  When they’d gone, Eve turned to Roarke. “What boots?”

  “The custom airboots we gave him for Christmas. I’m sure I told you.”

  “Maybe. Who can remember? Don’t say they’re pink.” Even the thought had her squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Just don’t.”

  “They’re the McNab tartan, a bold and rather attractive red-and- green plaid.”

  “Red-and-green plaid airboots. Well, they’re not pink, so that’s something. I’m going to get going so I can get back and we can do that vid-and-popcorn thing.”

  “I’m with you,” he said. “And like McNab, I’ll get a few toys in case she agrees to a tap.”