Festive in Death (12 page)

“Fraught?”

“We’ve been in a rough patch, and we’re working through it. Marriages have rough patches.” She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “In fact, things are getting better. But, well, I have needs like anyone, and Trey made it obvious he was attracted, that he was interested. He was sympathetic when I told him things weren’t good
between me and JJ, and that, well, and that we were sleeping in separate rooms. He suggested he come here, when JJ was away, and give me a private massage.”

Rising, she walked to a cabinet, took out a decanter, poured herself amber liquid in a short glass. “I knew what he meant. It wasn’t a secret he offered separate and private services.”

She stared down at the glass. “Intimate services. I wasn’t going to have him come here, in my home. I wouldn’t . . . not in the same bed I slept in with my husband. So—as I also know other clients had—I suggested a hotel. I booked a suite, ordered up champagne. He met me there. We went through the pretense—or the foreplay—of the massage. Then we had sex. He’s good at it, and JJ hadn’t been attentive in some time.”

“How much did you pay him?”

Color stained her cheeks again before she drank. “Three thousand extra, then I booked another private session. We had two a week for three weeks before . . . he died. We were booked for one right after Christmas. I was going to cancel that as JJ and I . . . things are better. We’re talking about taking a holiday after the first of the year, JJ’s idea. We’re trying to find the magic again.”

“Did Ziegler threaten to tell your husband?”

“Why would he? We had a mutually beneficial arrangement. If he told JJ, it couldn’t continue. I hadn’t canceled the last session as yet.”

“Why, if you’re coming out of that rough patch?”

“God.” She rubbed her temple. “I’d thought I’d see him once more—not for sex—but to tell him we had to end it. I’d planned to give him a little extra, a thank-you. And then . . . Not only did I learn he’d been killed, but that my own sister slept with him. He shouldn’t have slept with Tella—it’s just unseemly. And believe me, it was awkward when she told me.”

“‘Unseemly,’” Eve repeated. “‘Awkward.’”

“Yes. A woman might share a hairdresser, for instance, with her sister. A designer, a decorator. But not a lover. It was a business transaction, basically. I knew that going in. But . . . a woman in my position can’t hire a professional. An affair—and I could let myself think of it as an affair—it had more . . . romance.”

“Were you in love with him?” Peabody asked. Quigley laughed.

“Please. I said before, I’m not an idiot. He provided a service, I paid. But he was someone I knew, someone who understood my body and my needs. It was good for me. It may have helped my marriage, though JJ would never see it that way. I’d like to salvage my marriage if I can. I’m realistic enough to know that may not be possible, but I’d like to give it some time, and try.”

“You set the time and place, a clear understanding what was to transpire on both sides of this arrangement with Ziegler.”

“Yes. My marriage may have been in that rough patch, but I have enough respect for JJ not to carry on an affair in the home we share.”

“You’re so sure your husband doesn’t know?”

“If he did, even if he suspected? The way things have been the last few weeks, he’d never have suggested we take a trip, spend a week in Tahiti rekindling our marriage. No.” She set her jaw. “He’d have thrown it in my face, and called a divorce attorney.”

“Would he have thrown it in Ziegler’s face? Wasn’t he also a client?”

“Confront Trey? No, no, he’d blame me, and he’d never let me forget it. He wouldn’t have confronted Trey.” But she wet her lips, drank again. “JJ’s excitable, and he’s been angry with me—and I with him—but he’s not really a violent man. He’d never have . . . he wouldn’t.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Eve pointed out.

“Because you’re throwing all this at me.” Her voice rose, flirting with hysteria. “Because it’s all so upsetting. I had an affair, and I paid for it. Literally and emotionally.”

She took another drink, breathed in and out. “My husband doesn’t know, and I want to keep it that way. I’d like to mend the frays in my marriage. If I can’t, I’d prefer to end that marriage as cleanly as possible.”

“Do you love your husband?” Peabody asked her.

“I want a chance to find out, that’s all. I’d like the chance to find out the answer.”

“Where were you when Ziegler was killed? Your sister gave us her whereabouts.”

“I was here, preparing for the party that night. You can question the domestics, the decorating team—they, and I, were here all day. I had catering staff arrive at seven-fifteen, and was here to speak with them. I was here all day, supervising the preparations.”

“And your husband?”

“I’m honestly not sure, and it’s ridiculous. I was working with the staff, the caterers, so I’m not sure when he arrived. But I know he was here by seven-thirty, as he was dressing when I ran up to change for the first arrivals.”

“Where’s your husband now?” Eve asked her.

“I—at his office, I suppose. Please.” She sat again, leaned toward Eve. “Lieutenant, Detective, please don’t take away my chance to save my marriage. If you tell JJ I had an affair with Trey, it’s over. He won’t forgive me for it. I only want the chance to fix things, to try to hold on to my marriage. I made a mistake—a stupid, selfish mistake—but right now what I did hurts no one but myself. If you tell JJ, it hurts him, and destroys the future we want to make together. Please.”

“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. “What’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.”