Festive in Death (25 page)

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.”

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?”