by J. D. Robb
She moved out of the room, took a few steps more, nodded to Shelby. “Run it through for me.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I was walking my beat, about to go take my ten sit-down, when the nine-one-one came in. I was only three blocks north, so I responded. The Dispatch call came in at eighteen-fifty- nine. I was at this location by nineteen-oh-one.”
“You move fast, Officer.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. There was no response to my knock or buzz for two minutes, twenty-three seconds. I was about to relay same to Dispatch when the man, identifying himself subsequently as John Jake Copley, answered. He appeared visibly disturbed, shouted incoherently, and rushed back into the residence. I followed him in, observed the female victim by the fireplace, the female victim beside an overturned table approximately ten feet away. Both victims were bleeding profusely from the head. I was forced to order Mr. Copley to calm down, to no avail, while I checked the pulse on each victim. The woman he identified as his wife, Natasha Quigley, was alive. I called for medical assistance and for backup as Copley only became more agitated, and somewhat abusive in his language.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. He called me a useless cunt, a moronic bitch, and at one point laid hands on my person. I was forced to restrain him.”
“He give you the bruise on your jaw?”
“During the restraining process, yes, sir.”
“I might have been forced to kick his ass. Restraining him was the better choice.”
Shelby’s lips trembled into a quick smile. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Officers Kenseko and O’Ryan arrived on scene, as did the medicals at nineteen-oh-eight and nineteen-oh-nine respectively.”
She cleared her throat, blinked a bit when Roarke offered her a glass of water.
“Go ahead,” Eve told her. “Hydrate, then finish your report.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, thank you.” She gulped some down. “After my fellow officers removed Mr. Copley to another room, and the medicals began to work on Ms. Copley, I again spoke with Dispatch, which informed me Copley was to be detained here until your arrival. The nine-one-one caller, who identified herself as Natasha Quigley, was attacked while calling nine-one-one, and at the end of the call shouted out.”
At this point Shelby swiped a fresh page on her notebook. “‘JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don’t!’ before the call ended. There’s a broken pocket ’link on the floor in the kill room.”
“Yeah, I saw it. Good work, Shelby. Stand by.” Eve glanced over at Roarke. “Why don’t you come in with me for this? You add an extra layer of fear and intimidation.”
“Always glad to lend a hand. Officer Shelby. You should get a cold pack for that jaw.”
“It’s okay, sir, thank you. He just caught me with his shoulder when I restrained him.”
“No cold pack till we document,” Eve ordered. “Resisting and assaulting an officer dribbles on some icing.”
Eve went back to the sitting room. Copley paced, drinking what looked like whiskey from a short glass. He’d obviously talked Shelby into removing the restraints, and just as well.
She nodded again when O’Ryan stepped up, murmured in her ear. “Stand by,” she told him. “Mr. Copley.”
He whirled around, nearly slopping whiskey over the top of the glass. “What the hell is going on here? Some maniac comes into my house and assaults—was that one of Tella’s people? Was that Katherine?”
“Catiana.”
“Yes! Good God. She was dead. You could see she was dead. Her eyes staring. And the blood. But Tash. I ran in after I heard her scream. Ran downstairs, calling for her, and there she was lying there, bleeding. I ran to her, tried to lift her up. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive. I couldn’t tell. I thought she was dead. Why would that woman attack Tash?”
“I don’t believe she did. The scene doesn’t read that way.”
“But it had to be.”
“You’ve got blood on your shirt. Blood on your pants.”
“Tash—Tash’s blood. I tried to pick her up. I heard Tash scream, and I ran down. It was only seconds. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. No one was here. That bitch tried to kill my wife. Tash must have fought back, knocked her down.”
“After getting knocked unconscious?”
“Before, of course, then when they struggled or fought—about God knows what—she struck Tash. Tash must have fallen, maybe the women slipped and fell. How do I know?”
“What time did you get home from your golf outing?”
“I’m not sure, not exactly. About six, more or less.”
“And then?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do upon arriving home?”
“I went upstairs, spoke briefly to my wife. We talked about going out later for drinks, for dinner. I had a quick shower, changed, if you want specifics, stretched out, turned on the screen. I was just relaxing, as many do on a Sunday evening, when I heard Tash scream from downstairs.”
“Did you and your wife argue?”
“What? Of course not.”
“Did you argue with Catiana Dubois?”
“No! I barely know the woman. She’s one of my sister-in-law’s staff. I want to see my wife. I want to know what’s happening with Tash.”
“She’s in serious condition. She has some swelling of the brain, and is in surgery.”
He went sheet white as Eve spoke. “The doctors are confident she’ll recover.”
“Lieutenant, your partner’s on her way back.”
“Thank you, Officer. Ask the detective with her to secure the house droid and question same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Question the droid?” Copley shouted. “Question me, question a fucking machine! My wife’s having emergency brain surgery. You can’t keep me here.”
“She can.” Roarke moved to block his exit. “Yes, she can.”
“Just stay out of my way,” Copley warned, but backed up as he did so. “I have rights! You can’t keep me in this room. I’m not under arrest. I’m free to come and go as I damn well please.”
“We can fix that,” Eve decided, glanced over at an out-of-breath Peabody. “Peabody, read Mr. Copley his rights.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve all lost your minds. I’m leaving.”
He tried a charge across the room. Eve pivoted, but Roarke was faster, and merely shot out his foot. It sent Copley on a face-first dive.
“Oops,” Roarke said.
“Peabody, restrain the suspect, and read him his rights. John Jake Copley, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder, for attempted murder, for assault, for assault on an officer.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Peabody began, then her voice was drowned out by Copley’s raging.
“Give him to the female officer—Shelby. Have her and the other two officers transport him to Central. To a box. I’ll be down to deal with him when we’re done here.”
“Let me give you a hand with that, Peabody.” Roarke hauled Copley to his feet, and with Peabody taking the other side perp-walked him out, raging still.
“Whew.” McNab stepped in. “And I thought the SkyMall was crazytown. The house droid’s been shut down since sixteen-thirty, LT.”
“Shut down?”
“Yeah. Turned off. There’s a secondary droid, but that one’s been turned off since about noon. The main house droid reports Ms. Quigley ordered her to shut down, as she routinely does on Sundays when they aren’t expecting company or entertaining. She reports no one coming or going after you and Roarke earlier today. No help from that quarter.”
“Check the security cam, and let’s make a copy of that.”
“On it.”
She pulled out her comm, contacted Dispatch.
“Dispatch,
play back nine-one-one call from this location made by Quigley, Natasha, at eighteen-fifty-six.”
“Acknowledged, one moment. No video recorded. Audio only. Playback commenced.”
Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?
She’s dead! I think she’s dead! Oh my God, Cate. It’s . . . Wait, please. Oh God. This is Natasha Quigley at 18 Vandam. I need to report a— JJ! Oh, JJ, something terrible happened. JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don’t!
Eve heard a scream, a thud, pictured the ’link dropping to the ground. Then the recording stopped.
“Playback complete.”
“Okay, copy recording to my files. Dallas and Peabody, along with Detective McNab, currently on scene. Dallas and Peabody will transfer to Central to interview Copley, John Jake, now charged with suspicion of murder and related charges.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Dallas, out. Got ya,” she muttered.
“Your suspect’s on his way to Central,” Roarke told her.
“And he’ll stew in it for a while. When we finish up here, we need to go by the hospital, check on Quigley. If she’s awake, we’ll get her statement. You can go home.”
“Why do you want to punish me?”
She shook her head. “Suit yourself.” She walked out with him, joined Peabody.
“I liked her,” Peabody said. “There was something likeable about her.”
“Yeah, there was. Contact the sweepers, the morgue. Let’s get started on getting her justice.”
“I was complaining, sort of, about working on a vic who was an asshole.” Peabody looked back toward Catiana. “And now . . .”
“I know it.” Eve crouched to study the broken ’link. “Looks like it’s been stomped on. She drops it, he comes at her, stomps on it. The vase is right there. It sat on that table. He grabs it, comes at her, stomps the phone, smacks her with it.”
Before she could ask, Roarke handed her an evidence bag. She bagged and sealed the phone.
“He drops the vase, doesn’t give her the second smack like Ziegler. Vase is big and heavy. It cracks, but it didn’t break. Does he think smashing the phone erases the damn nine-one-one? Was he too wrought up, too far gone, to think about it? Just attack, just cover it all up. Then blame it all on a dead woman? He was upstairs, minding his own, heard his wife scream, ran down.”
“But there’s no report, is there, that he called for help, for medicals, for the police.”
She looked at Roarke as she marked the vase. “Nope. None. It took Shelby two minutes to get here, and took him another two to answer. Working on his story, getting himself under control. Not enough time to set up a fake break-in or burglary. He thinks he’s got two dead women, until Shelby checks, gets a pulse. Now he’s got to get to his wife, fix it somehow. Or run. But Shelby handled that, and then backup arrived. He can’t push his way through three cops. He has to be outraged, the worried husband, the victim.”
She stood again. “How it looks is, for some reason—and we’ll need to talk to the sister—Catiana comes here. Copley lets her in. They come in here, argue. Maybe she knew something, maybe he thought she knew something. He loses his temper, pushes her. She falls way wrong, and that’s it. He barely has time to think. Look what she made him do! And in comes his wife. Sees the body. Calls nine-one-one. He couldn’t have been in the room.”
Frowning, she turned a circle. “If he’d been in, he’d never have let her call through. So he ran out, to get something, to hide something, to get a damn drink, but he had to have come back in at that point in the call when she said his name. She’s ruining everything. He has to make her stop. Snaps, or is still snapped, grabs the vase, charges in.”
She turned again, studied the body again, with guilt and regret clawing at her. “What did you know? How do you fit in?”
“Dallas.” McNab came in, passed her a disc. “Got it copied. You can see the vic come to the door. You can’t see who let her in. You’ll see for yourself, but to my eye she looked upset, worried. Rushed in, talking fast.”
“No audio?”
“No, no audio.”
Her eyes on Catiana, Eve slipped the disc into her pocket.
If you knew something, anything why did you come here? Why didn’t you come to me?
But it was too late for that question, she thought.
The burly SUV proved a good choice since McNab and Peabody needed to pile in. Eve ignored McNab as he played with controls and options in the back while she worked on her PPC.
Catiana had parents—divorced, mother remarried, living in Brooklyn. Father also remarried, living in Phoenix, Arizona. One sibling, a sister, married, two children, in New Rochelle.
She’d need to go to Brooklyn, do the notification. But that misery would come after she’d checked on Quigley. She needed to . . . Was that chocolate she smelled?
She shifted around in her seat, narrowed her eyes at Peabody. “What’s that on your upper lip, Detective?”
Hastily Peabody swiped at it. “Ah, um. A little whipped cream. It’s hot chocolate. It’s real hot chocolate. I couldn’t help it. McNab did it.”
Unabashed, McNab grinned at her. “Mini AutoChef back here has a full beverage menu. Peabody’s been jonesing for hot chocolate. Want some?”
Yes, Eve thought, but said: “No.”
“Iced squared accessories back here,” he said to Roarke. “The total.”
“We do what we can,” Roarke responded.
“You got your entertainment with vid, straight screen, tunes, books, full D and C capabilities, mapping—solo, duet, or full vehicle modes. Then there’s—”
“He probably knows what’s loaded in this thing,” Eve interrupted.
“Add in the eats and drinks, we could motor to Utah.”
“Next time we plan to go to Utah, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, we’re a little preoccupied here with murder.”
“Yeah, about that. Got the security disc from the crime scene on here.” His green eyes shifted from hers down to the screen while he took a contented glug of his own hot chocolate. “We might be able to enhance and analyze the shadow of whoever opened the door for the vic. It’s a long shot, but you gotta try it. Lipreading program’s running on the vic. We’ve got a better chance at that, but her face angles away from the cam, and she puts her hand over her mouth once so it’s going to be jumpy.”
Sometimes, Eve thought, she forgot he wasn’t an idiot. “Good. Stay on it. Here’s the play,” she said to Peabody. “We talk to Quigley, if possible, get the details. Odds are slim she’d try to protect Copley at this point, but if she tries, we could run the nine-one-one call for her, push it. DB, spouse in the hospital, no break-in, a fleet of lawyers isn’t going to loosen the noose.”
She glanced at McNab. “If we get lucky with the shadow ID, all the better. Confirm Copley opened the door to the vic, it throws out his claim of being upstairs when this went down. In addition, we tie him into Ziegler—that’ll take more, but we’re going to do it. With Quigley’s statement, we can let him sweat. The victim’s mother lives in Brooklyn. We have to go, notify her.”
“Man, two days—less—before Christmas. It’s always hard, but this is just harder.”
“She has a husband and a stepson living at home, another daughter in New York. That’ll help some. The vic may have talked to her about Ziegler, about Copley. We have to get whatever we can. We’ll need to talk to the Schuberts again, asap, and I want to check in at the morgue, give an official COD, get Morris’s—I’ve already requested him—take on her.”
“That’s a long time sweating,” Peabody said as Roarke worked through the parking garage at the hospital. “A long time for him to come up with a story, for the lawyers to shine it up.”
“It’s not going to shine, not when his wife tells us he attacked her. Not when she gives us a statement from her hospital bed. I get
in the box with him, he’s going to break. I’m going to break him.”
She would damn well break him, Eve thought as they piled out, walked to the hospital’s main entrance.
“Lipreading doesn’t give us much, Dallas.” McNab held up his PPC. “It has her saying: Need to talk. Break. Come in. Break. I remembered. And that’s it. Vic moved into the house, out of range.”
“The shadow?”
“Working it, but hell, Dallas, there isn’t much there.”
“Play it out,” she told him.
She crossed the colorful lobby with its busy food court, passed a group of kids in school uniforms singing carols in front of a big tree, and arrowed in on a security guard.
“NYPSD.” She held up her badge. “Here’s what I need you to do, and fast. I need the floor, the room, and the doctor in charge of Quigley, Natasha, brought in earlier this evening via ambulance, with severe head trauma.”
“I’m not supposed to access patient information without my supervisor’s authorization.”
“Right now, I’m your supervisor. Quigley, Natasha. Now. If she dies before I get to her, I’m coming back for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He scrambled off.
“I hate that ‘ma’am’ thing, but okay.”
“Between McNab and me,” Roarke commented, “we could have hacked that data for you in about the same amount of time.”
“Would’ve been fun, too,” McNab said wistfully.
“Next time.” Eve met the security guard halfway.
“She’s on six. I meant to say they’ll bring her to six. She’s still in surgery. Dr. Campo’s in charge.”
“Good. Thanks.”
She zipped straight for the elevators. “Still in surgery, damn it. It’s not likely we’re going to be able to interview her anytime soon,” she said as the got on. “We’ll push on the nursing staff to give us a more detailed update, go from there.”
The sixth-floor elevator opened into yet another lobby—smaller, but all spruced up for the holidays. It held a waiting area, Vending, and a scattering of people sitting anxiously in miserable-looking chairs.