Festive in Death (8 page)

Coffee in hand, she took the elevator down, got in a good run along a simulated shoreline with blue waves breaking.

After a blistering hot shower with the multi-jets on full, she stepped into the drying tube.

“It’s too bad the rest of the world can’t be heated up like a shower,” she commented as she headed for her closet.

“Since it can’t you’ll want to dress for it. Not as windy today, though, according to the questionably reliable forecast.”

She grabbed a sweater she knew to be warm despite being thin and soft as a tissue, straight-legged pants and a vest that would add warmth and cover her weapon harness.

After pulling on clothes, she grabbed a pair of boots.

“Not those boots,” Roarke said with barely a glance when she came out to sit and pull them on.

“What’s wrong with these boots?”

“Not a thing, but the gray with the mock laces will pick up the color of that sweater, polish things off.”

“I don’t need to polish . . . Fine, fine, fine.” Easier, she figured, to change the damn boots than get into a fashion debate she’d certainly lose.

Plus she wanted to see what was under the silver domes on the table. If she changed the boots, maybe it wouldn’t be oatmeal.

He poured her coffee as she sat down again. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll see about that.” She lifted the dome. “Oh hell yeah, it’s a good morning.”

“I thought, considering yesterday, you’d earned pancakes.”

She immediately drowned them in syrup.

“They’re all apple and cinnamonny.”

“And deserve better than being a vehicle for syrup, but ah well.”

In any case, he loved watching her appreciation of food, especially since she so often forgot to eat it.

“I might need a bribe for Dickhead,” she said between bites. “Considering he’s had twenty-four hours, my wrath should be enough, but just in case.”

“Take him a bottle of unblended scotch,” Roarke suggested. “We’ve several already in gift bags. It’ll throw him off-balance straightaway if you offer him a holiday token.”

“It would, wouldn’t it? I really hate to go bearing gifts and all, but any lack of cooperation after that would make him an even bigger Dickhead than he is. It’s kind of win-win for me.”

“It’s the old catching more flies with sugar than vinegar.”

“Why would anyone want to catch flies? What you want is to make them go the hell away.”

“That’s a point, and now another classic adage bites the dust.” He patted her leg. “Breakfast with you is a continuing education.”

“I do what I can. If it turns out the vic’s blend of tea included a date-rape drug, I can use that to pry open more of his clients. Outrage tends to turn off filters.”

“You’ve never mentioned next of kin.”

“Only child, parents divorced when he was ten. Both remarried. He bounced between the mother in Tucson and the father in Atlanta until he was of age. Neither of them have seen him for more than six years. They were both shaken, but I didn’t get any sense of close family ties.”

“So no friends or family.”

“Not really. And from what I can tell, by his own choice. Friends and family take work.”

She thought of her forty-minute battle for sanity with Tiko and the bag people. Fucking A, it took work.

“All his work was focused on himself,” she added. “Speaking of family, I guess you got all the gifts off to Ireland.”

“I did, yes. You did some work there.”

“I didn’t shop.”

“You helped me decide on several things, and the
Cops and Robbers
comp game for young Sean was your idea.”

“He was an easy one. Peabody and McNab are doing an in-and-out shuttle for Christmas to her family. You don’t want to do something like that, do you?”

“We had Thanksgiving, and that worked well for me, having them all here. I like having our Christmas, you and I.”

“I do, too. And since I’d really like to get this case closed before
that, I’d better get going. Good pancakes,” she said, leaned over and kissed him.

“I’ll see you tonight. We might talk about strategy for the deal you’ve made with Summerset.”

“I’m trying not to think about that.” She shoved up. “Where’s the hooch—for Dickhead?”

“Fourth-floor gift room.”

She stared at him for ten silent seconds. “We have a gift room?”

On a half laugh, he shook his head. “One day, darling Eve, you really should go through the entire house. East wing, fourth-floor tower.”

“Okay.” Since she wasn’t completely sure where that was, she walked to the elevator. Ordered it.

“Don’t bother shaking boxes,” he called out. “None of yours are in that location.”

“I don’t snoop,” she said as the doors shut.

But, of course, now she wanted to.

Gift rooms, she thought. Who gave so many gifts they had to have an actual dedicated room to hold them?

The doors opened; she stepped out. Her jaw dropped.

Apparently they did.

Shelves and counters held a colorful array of wrapped gifts with shiny, elaborate bows. Gift bags in silver or gold or red or green stood like uniformed soldiers.

She opened one of the doors along the wall, discovered more shelves with rigorously organized gifts not wrapped. Fancy candle sets or fancy bath sets—male, female, or unisex varieties.

Boxed wineglasses, elegant picture frames, electronics, even some toys.

Why the hell did she have to go shopping when she could just come up here?

She found more ruthless—to the point of scary—organization with gift boxes, wrapping paper, tissue paper, ribbons and bows.

Everything as pristine as some high-end gift boutique and all in the tall tower room complete with a wall screen and a comp. She just bet the comp held a complete catalog of the contents of the room, down to the last inch of shiny ribbon.

She grabbed one of the silver gift bags, checked the contents.

Bourbon.

Checked a gold one, found the scotch, then, out of curiosity, checked one of the red bags. Cognac. She found Irish whiskey in the green bags—figured.

Both impressed and intimidated, she got back in the elevator, ordered the main floor.

She grabbed her coat off the newel post, and decided a man who owned half the world anyway might as well have a room loaded with stuff he prepared to give away.

At least she knew just where to go the next time she needed a bribe.

She’d left early enough that traffic stayed light and gave her the opportunity to bypass Mira’s admin who’d give her grief for asking for a quick session. Instead she shot a v-mail straight to Mira’s ’link.

“I’d like a quick consult today if you can fit me in. I’m sending you the Ziegler file. Mostly I want to be sure I’ve got the right handle on him. If you can’t squeeze in a consult, maybe an overview profile, vic and killer. Appreciate it.”

The first ad blimp lumbered across the sky as she hit the edges of the West Village. It announced a last-minute
SALE SALE SALE
at the SkyMall running until ten
P.M
. Christmas Eve.

Jesus, even she wasn’t so lame she waited till Christmas Eve to grab a gift.

Then, amazing to her, it announced a door-buster
SALE SALE SALE
at the SkyMall beginning at one
A.M.
on December twenty-sixth.

Why would people do that? What could they possibly need to buy the day after Christmas, in the middle of the night the day after? Her second thought was she believed she would self-terminate if she had to make a living in retail.

She parked, noted she was about ten minutes early. Rather than wait for Peabody, she opted to go in, get started.

Ear-splitting music greeted her again, but this time with some amusement as she recognized Mavis’s voice wailing about having fun now that love was done.

She spotted Lill crouched beside a puny guy who struggled sweatily through some push-ups.

Eve crossed over, heard the man wheezing even over Mavis and the
thump
,
thump
of feet racing nowhere on treads.

“Need a minute.”

Lill nodded. “Come on, Scott, just two more. Don’t you quit on me. All right!” she shouted when he collapsed in a heap. “Thirty-second breather, then I want you to do ten minutes on the tread. Level five, Scott. Don’t wimp out.”

“Okay.” He got shakily to his feet. “Okay, Lill.” And staggered toward the tread.

“I’ve got to keep an eye on him,” Lill says. “He’s really coming along.”

“Did he start out at a crawl?”

“Just about. It’s clients like Scott make this job worthwhile. He really tries, he really works. Do you have news about Trey?”

“I’ve got some follow-up questions. This trainer of the year thing, how competitive?”

“Very, or else what’s the point? I submit progress reports for all my trainers, showing the improvements of their clients. And each trainer submits three separate original programs they’ve put together. The trainer’s fitness and established routines are also factored in. It’s a process. Why?”

“Who was his main competition?”

“Hard to say for certain, but in the BB franchise, I’d go with Juice—Jacob Maddow. But then he’s one of mine, so I’m biased. And there’s Selene, she’s right up there. She’s out of our Morningside Heights location. Outside BB, I’d lean toward Rock. He has his own gym—bare-bones place in Midtown—West Side. Rock Hard it’s called—and he is. But I have to say I figured Trey would grab the prize again this year. He’d worked up some fierce programs.”

“Did they all know each other?”

“Sure, you tend to. Rock and Juice hang together, have for years. I’d’ve lost Juice to Rock Hard, but most of Juice’s clients wouldn’t have gone with him. They like the perks here.”

“Any trouble between any of them and Ziegler?”

“Crap.” Sighing, she rubbed her orange hair. “Juice is a go-along guy, a family man. He sure wasn’t a fan of Trey’s, and maybe they had a few words now and again. But Juice isn’t one to start trouble. I don’t know Selene all that well, but I heard Trey hit on her. Didn’t matter to him she’s gay—she has tits, and that was enough for Trey to give it a shot. Rock hated his ever-fucking guts, but they didn’t run in the same circles.”

“Then why the hate?”

“Some time back—maybe close to a year—Trey banged Rock’s sister. They were both at some club, and she was pretty wasted. He took her home and banged her, then bragged about it. He
knew
she was
Rock’s sister. Juice warned him to shut up, and finally I had to tell him to shut up, at least around here. I heard he and Rock squared off about it, and Trey backed down. But I don’t have the details. I didn’t want them. The truth is Trey was a personal pain in my ass. But professionally, he was an asset, and it’s my job to hold on to the assets around here.”

“Okay.”

“About Rock. I didn’t think of him yesterday because it was close to a year ago, and as far as I know those two never see each other except maybe at the AC conference or the competition we have in New York every spring. That’s it.”

“I still need to talk to him. To the three of them. Where would I find Juice?”

“See the guy over there bench-pressing about one-fifty? That’s Juice.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“He’s a nice guy. He’s got a wife, a kid, and another kid coming.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eve moved over to the weight area, and the man currently bench-pressing more than she weighed.

“Jacob Maddow?”

“Juice, yeah.” He continued to press, sweat slicked on his pleasant face, on his very impressive biceps. But he gave her a quick smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” She showed him her badge. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“About Ziegler? I heard yesterday, when I came in.” He set the bar in the safety, slid out from under.

He hit about six feet, Eve gauged, and most of it muscle. He wore his streaked brown hair in a stub of a tail.

“We can take it in the private classroom. Nobody’s in there right now, and we won’t have to yell at each other.”

“Works for me.” She spotted Peabody. “One minute, that’s my partner.”

“Mind if I get a drink?” He gestured toward the juice machine in the corner.

“Go ahead.”

“Get you something?”

“No, thanks.” She signaled to Peabody, then motioned her over to the machine. “Detective Peabody, Jacob Maddow. Goes by Juice. We’re going to talk in private.”

“It’s just through here.”

He led them into a room with frosted glass walls where the noise level dropped to a backbeat murmur.

“I want to say I’m sorry about what happened to Ziegler, but I’m not going to lie. We weren’t friends.”

“Why don’t you tell us where you were the evening before last, from say five
P.M.
to seven.”

“Home. My day off, so we don’t get a sitter. I had my kid while my wife was at work. She got home about five. We ate about six, I guess, and then she took Mimi up for a bath. I spent the next two hours putting this tricycle thing together for Mimi for Christmas. It comes cheaper unassembled, but let me tell you, it ain’t worth it.”

“You didn’t get sent to AC?”

“Lill would’ve sprung for it, but this close to Christmas, I want to be home with my family. Plus, my wife’s pregnant. Seven months along.”

“I heard you’re one of the top competitors for the next trainer of the year award.”

“I got a shot.” He chugged down juice. “It’d be nice—the cash
prize—with another kid coming along. Another girl,” he said with a quick smile. “I’m surrounded by girls.”

“I also heard you had some words with Ziegler over your friend Rock’s sister.”

“Okay, sure—that was a while back, but sure. Look, I’ve known Kyria since she was a kid. When this happened, she was barely legal, and, okay, sowing some wild—but he didn’t have any business touching that. But that was Ziegler. I know damn well he messed with her because she was Rock’s. I didn’t like hearing him brag about it, so I told him to knock it off, and I warned him he didn’t want the shit he was spreading to get back to Rock.”

“And when it did?”

“Rock did what any brother would do. He got in his face about it. And as soon as he did, as
soon
as he did, Ziegler backed off.”