by J. D. Robb
He grinned at her, took her hand.
“You keep Summerset—that’s firm.”
“I’m completely agreeable to all your terms.”
She glanced over as he drove through the gates. “Can I get a lifetime supply of coffee tossed in? That should cover it all.”
Again he stopped the car. This time, he released his safety belt, hers, and pulled her into his arms. “I adore you. But none of this matters as I’d only boot you if you cheated on me. Then there’s the whole business of cutting out your heart and setting it on fire to follow.”
“Right. I forgot about that.” She held on a moment, content. “I’d love to read the Quigley-Copley prenup.”
“Would you like me to arrange that?”
“Tempting, but no. There’s no urgency on it, and I think I stirred up some dust. Maybe Peabody did the same.”
She leaned back. “I’m going to check in with her, write all this up. Then let’s pick a vid where lots of shit blows up, and eat ourselves sick with popcorn.”
“A fine plan, with one addition.”
“What?”
“Let’s drink considerable wine with the popcorn, and have crazed sex after the vid—as a double feature.”
“A better plan. Let’s get it done.”
It took some time, getting everything in place to the point she felt justified in taking another few hours off.
She talked to Peabody at length, briefly to McNab. Wrote her update, read Peabody’s. Updated her board, her book.
The Quigley-Copley household was a mess, she mused. Then again in her experience a great many households ran on rocky, pitted, often ugly ground.
“Sometimes we do,” she told the cat, who seemed more interested in taking the next of his long series of naps in her office sleep chair. “The rocky part. We’ve got the smooth running right now, but there are always going to be bumps ahead.”
Stepping back, she hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studying the ID shots, the way they looked together. “Both attractive—got a polished-up look about them that says money even just in the IDs. They even look like a couple, like two people who should fit. But they just don’t.
“They just don’t,” she repeated, leaned back on her desk.
“People could say that about us,” she said when Roarke moved from his office to hers. “Probably a lot of them do.”
“What would that be?”
“That we don’t fit.”
“I beg to differ.” He walked to her, leaned on the desk beside her. “We fit as cleanly as a bespoke suit.”
“I’m saying what people outside it all might say. It’s perception, pal. Look at them—Quigley, Copley. They look like a set—that’s visual perception, and probable social perception. But when you crack the lid, it’s a bad fit. She’s never going to trust him, not down to the deep, and he’s always going to look for the easy way to get more. Sex, money, prestige. When threatened, or maybe just bored, they lash out. Both of them used sex for that.”
“And possibly a blunt object.”
“Yeah, very possibly. Peabody said Martella was very cooperative, got a little overwrought here and there. The secretary, Catiana, kept her calm, as did Peabody’s innate there-there approach. She agreed to the tap, with a little nudge on how it might help clear things up, might protect her sister. It meant she had to use the angle I’m looking at her spouse, but she’s looking at Copley, and feels she’s got the stronger case.”
“Essentially playing the couples against each other to see what breaks.”
“More or less. It’s in there. My gut tells me it’s in there. I had another round with Robbins, the blogger, and there’s nothing there. It’s not just because I get the rape angle, it’s because I think I get her. And there’s nothing there on this.”
“Then you’re definitely shortening your list.”
“It looks that way. Peabody’s going to take another pass at the girlfriend, but I don’t see that, either. If we don’t tie it up tomorrow . . .”
“Christmas Eve.”
“Yeah, that. If we don’t, it could take days more, if we’re lucky, with Peabody heading off to her family, and everything shutting down. Hell, half the city closes up between Christmas and New Year’s, and if my prime suspect flies off to the tropics, I can’t stop him. Not with what we have.”
“You’d like him to have his Christmas goose and pudding in a cage.”
“I think the best he’d get in a cage would be fake turkey, maybe a slice of pie, but yeah.”
“Does the idea that with you nipping at his heels he’s unlikely to have happy holidays help?”
“I think anybody who could shove that knife into dead Ziegler, and according to the statement of witnesses, party directly thereafter, isn’t going to sweat it. It’s all about the right now. It’s how he could set Felicity up in a swank condo, forget about his marriage while he was there, forget about her when he was with his wife.
“I’ll tell you who fits,” she added. “Ziegler and Copley. Two greedy, selfish, cheating assholes. And that’s all of our time they get for today. Let’s pop some corn.”
“I want my own,” he told her as they walked out of her office. “I’d actually like to taste it rather than butter and salt.”
“I keep telling you, the corn’s just the delivery system for the butter and salt. What’s the vid?”
“We’ve an advance copy of Unbidden. It’s being released Christmas Day—very hot property. Alien invasion, top-flight cast, strong FX.”
“But do things blow up?”
“Indeed they do if the trailer I previewed is any indication.”
“Sounds perfect.”
• • •
It was. Stretched out hip to hip on the sofa, plenty of popcorn and a nice, smooth red wine to wash it down. And the action on screen hit all the notes.
Alien invaders bent on conquering the planet, decimating or enslaving its human inhabitants. It offered a feisty yet emotionally scarred female lead, the reckless but charming male counterpart, and the motley and courageous band of resistance fighters who joined them. The story worked, the romance clicked, and lots of stuff blew up.
The effects worked so well she got mildly queasy during an air battle. And the characters resonated, causing a pang when the hero’s feckless screwup of a brother sacrificed himself for the cause.
All in all, it provided an excellent excuse to laze around on a Sunday eating popcorn and getting a little buzzed on wine while Galahad sprawled over their legs.
“Good one. It was fun watching the guy who played Feeney in the Icove vid play the tough ex–Army vet. Figured he was going down, but he copped to the whiny redhead being an alien infiltrator in the nick. I don’t get aliens.”
“Don’t you?”
“They’re always zipping down, wanting to take over the planet, and blowing up major cities on the way. It never works out for them.”
She tossed more butter-and-salt-saturated popcorn in her mouth. “Smarter to start in the middle.”
He managed to reach around, snag the wine bottle, pour the very last of it into their glasses. “The middle of what?”
“The country—since they’re apparently all about the U.S. on top of it. Start in the middle, the less populated areas—like, say, Shipshewana, Indiana.”
“Of course it must be Shipshewana.”
“Then, work your way out to the cities as you gain ground, eliminate the populations.” She took a long, happy drink of wine. “You’d think if they could get here from wherever the hell, they’d be smarter.”
“Lucky for us, for Shipshewana, and the planet, they aren’t.”
“I’ll say. Who wants an implant shoved into the base of your skull to control your thoughts and deeds?”
“Not I.”
“And what do the aliens acco
mplish?” Wound up, she drilled a finger in his chest. “Sure they level some cities, kill a bunch of people—and there’s always at least one of those people who tries to negotiate with them.”
“Fools.”
“You bet. After they destroy New York or New L.A. or East Washington, because those are usually prime targets, the survivors end up uniting the fractured world, creating heros out of the ordinary, and helping a couple of really pretty, bloodied, and sweaty people to find true love and hot sex.”
“Looking at it that way, we should hope for an alien invasion.”
She set her popcorn bowl aside, shifted over a little onto her hip. “We don’t need one. We found all that already without them.”
“And I didn’t have to risk being vaporized to get you here.”
“True, but that’s not a bad way to go, right? Getting vaporized is quick. You wouldn’t even know it, just ppsssht! Gone. Better than getting run over by a maxibus or barely surviving an air crash, or getting bitten in half by a shark. Then there’s—”
“Quiet.” He stopped her mouth with his, added a dance of his fingers along her ribs to make her laugh.
He rolled her over, then under him, pleased himself by ravishing her neck, her throat.
Galahad squawked, then hit the floor with a sharp ring of collar bells.
Sinking, she slid her bare foot up and down Roarke’s leg, angling her head to give him freer access before turning back again to offer her lips.
She twined and twisted her fingers in his hair, felt lazy and loose. Wine fogged her brain; pleasure misted it. She embraced both, embraced him.
The screen switched to its holding hum as the vid credits ended. Now she heard the quiet pop and crackle of the fire, the whisper of their movements in the nest of the sofa.
The tree’s lights shimmered as the short day slipped into the long night.
He peeled off her sweater, slid down to possess her breasts with his mouth, his hands. As those mists thickened and swirled, she pressed up, stirring more heat. Moaning with it, she tugged at his shirt.
“Off, off. Too many clothes.”
She found his mouth with hers again as she fought off the shirt.
She had her teeth on his shoulder; he had her trousers halfway down her legs. Her communicator beeped.
“Ah, bloody hell” was his breathless and bitter response.
“I didn’t hear anything. Don’t stop—” It beeped again. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”
She dragged herself from under him, stumbled toward the table as she struggled to yank up her trousers.
“Block video,” she ordered. “Fuck. Fuck. Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”
She muttered, “Why?” Then with her trousers still unsecured, sat on the table.
“Report to 18 Vandam. One person dead, another injured. Possible homicide.”
“Who’s dead?” she demanded, shoving up to hook her trousers.
“Data incomplete. See officers on scene.”
“Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. On my way.”
She shoved the comm in her pocket. “That’s the Quigley brownstone.”
“I know.” He was already up, putting on his shirt. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’ve got Peabody—”
“Christ, Eve, we just sat in that living room a few hours ago. I’m going with you.”
“God, I’m half drunk.” She reached for her weapon harness.
“Take some Sober-Up before you put that on. And I could use some myself.”
“What the hell time is it?” she muttered on her way to the bathroom.
“Twenty after seven.”
She paused, glanced back. “She said Copley would be home by six.”
Grim, she dashed to the bathroom for the Sober-Up.
With that, and the coffee Roarke programmed in go-cups, the mists lifted, the fog parted. For the second time that day, she climbed into the muscular SUV.
“I planted it in her head. I did it deliberately, figuring she’d let something slip to me, or dig out something and come to me with it. I never figured he’d go at her, never figured he’d be that stupid. If he killed her—”
“You’re jumping your fences, Eve. That’s not like you.”
She closed her eyes, pulled herself back in. “You’re right. I know better. No preconceived notions. But you said it yourself. She seemed a little afraid of him. I didn’t offer her protection, didn’t drive that lane, because she could’ve been part of it and the fear was useful.”
No point, no point in speculating, she warned herself. For all she knew, Copley could be dead.
Her comm sounded again. “Dallas.”
“Dallas, we’re heading in,” Peabody talked fast, “but it’s probably going to take about twenty minutes. We were at the SkyMall and traffic’s insane. We called in a black-and-white to speed it up, but we’re probably twenty out.”
“Just get there.”
“Soon as we can. Do you know the DB?”
“Not yet. I’ll get back to you.”
She shoved the comm in her pocket again.
The minute Roarke pulled behind a black-and-white, she jumped out, drew her badge out of her pocket.
Long strides took her to the door where a uniform scanned her badge, her face, skimmed a glance over Roarke. Nodded.
“What have you got, Officer . . . Kenseko?” she demanded, reading his nameplate.
“DB, female, head trauma. Another female, en route to the hospital, unconscious. Head and facial injuries. Male held on premises, ID’d as John Jake Copley, of this address. He ID’d the injured female as his wife, Natasha Copley. Wanted to go with her, but we held him here. He’s a handful, LT.”
“I got it. Keep him out of my way for now. Are you first on scene?”
“No, sir, that would be Officer Shelby. She answered the nine-one-one. She and my partner have Copley secured.”
“Stay on the door, Kenseko. My partner will be here in about fifteen.”
As she moved in, she heard Copley shouting from another room, threatening to sue the officers, the entire department, the state of New York.
Ignoring him, Eve took the Seal-It out of the field kit Roarke offered, used it while she studied the scene.
She’d expected to find Martella, which proved the rule about no expectations.
A brunette lay with her head on the marble ledge of the hearth. Faceup, a deep, long gash scoring her forehead and right temple. Blood pooled, on the marble, on the floor, painted the hand flung out, stained the bright blue coat, the boldly patterned scarf.
“Catiana Dubois.”
“The social secretary?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Somebody turned her over, somebody moved the body. Damn it. Kenseko!”
“Sir.” He hotfooted from the door.
“Did you or your partner turn the body over?”
“No, sir. Officer Shelby told us the scene had been compromised on her arrival.”
“All right. Had a struggle here, chair’s shoved, table overturned, broken crockery and glass. And that.”
She lifted her chin to a large vase of thick, faceted crystal, stained now with blood. More blood on the floor, on the carpet by the cracked vase.
“What the hell were you doing here, Catiana?”
For procedure, she crossed to the body, used her kit to formally ID the vic. “Victim is female, mixed race, age thirty-three. Catiana Dubois, employed by Martella Schubert, who is the sister of Natasha Quigley. The deep gash, the bruising on the forehead appear to be COD. Fell or was pushed, face-first, hit the ledge, the edge of it, and hit hard. Skinny-heeled boots,” she murmured. “Not much traction. She loses her balance, falls, smashes face-first into the edge here.”
She took the gauges Roarke handed her. “She
hasn’t been dead an hour.”
Gently, Eve lifted her hands, one at a time, by the wrist, examined them. “No defensive wounds I can see, no sign of skin under the nails, but Morris will look closer.
“She’s got her coat unbuttoned, her scarf unwrapped. Pretty cold out there, so it’s likely she did that after she came in. Comes to the door, the house droid lets her in. We’ll go over the droid. She comes in here . . .”
Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around the room. “I don’t see any cups, any glasses, broken or unbroken. No drinks, no refreshments. Coat’s still on, so maybe she planned to make it quick. An argument, a fight, a confrontation. With who? Copley or Quigley? Head and face trauma for Quigley, but Catiana here has delicate hands. No sign she hit anyone. If she fought with Quigley, it got physical and she knocked her unconscious with that vase, why is she dead over here and the vase lying over there? Doesn’t work. If she fought with Quigley, and Quigley shoved her, killed her, who bashed Quigley with the vase and why? It’s shaky.
“So.” She shoved up. “We’ll see what Copley and the droid have to say.”
Though Copley had stopped yelling, she followed the direction it had come from.
She found him sulking in a sitting room reflecting masculine decor. Deep colors, leather seating, hefty entertainment center, golfing art and memorabilia.
One of the uniforms—older, had vet written all over him—sat at his ease working on his PPC while a young female cop stood at parade rest.
She snapped to attention when Eve stepped in.
Copley lurched to his feet.
“For God’s sake. My wife’s been attacked. She may be dying, for all I know, and these—these—storm troopers are forcing me to stay here. I need to get to the hospital. I need to be with Tash.”
“Officer.” Eve looked toward the vet. “Would you contact the hospital, get Ms. Quigley’s status and condition?”
“Yes, sir.” He stepped out.
“Sit down, Mr. Copley. I’ll be right with you. Officer Shelby, please step out with me.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”
“I demand to be taken to my wife! Immediately!”
“I said sit down.” Eve snapped it, cold and fast, had the shock of it jerking Copley back. “And do us all a favor, simmer down while I do my job.”