Festive in Death (11 page)

The building didn’t boast a doorman, but it did include door and lobby security. At the swipe of Eve’s master, a computerized voice requested her badge number for verification. Once she’d given it, the same tinny voice asked the nature of her business.

“It shouldn’t be any of yours,” Eve shot back. “Police business. We’re here to speak with Kira Robbins.”

Thank you for your cooperation. Ms. Robbins will be notified of your visit. Please wait.

“It just pisses me off on principle,” Eve said, moving across the polished concrete floor to the polished silver of the elevator. “Having a bunch of chips and circuits tell me what to do.”

She jammed the up button, scowled when the voice said:

One moment please. Ms. Robbins requests the nature of your business.

“You can tell Ms. Robbins that if she doesn’t engage this elevator, we’ll come back with a warrant and a lot more cops.”

Thank you. Your message will be relayed.

“Fucking A,” Eve replied, but seconds later, the elevator door opened. Inside, before she could order the fifth floor, the voice spoke again.

This car will now take you directly to Ms. Robbins’s residence, where she is expecting you. Please enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

“Good God, do they ever shut up?” Eve wondered as the elevator smoothly rose. “I don’t get why people tell you to enjoy your day, much less machines. If they don’t know you, what the hell do they care?”

“No man is an island?” Peabody suggested.

“Why would anybody say that? An island’s a scoop of land floating around on a bunch of water.”

“I think it means—never mind,” Peabody decided as the doors opened onto a wide foyer with a bunch of tall potted trees.

Kira Robbins stood between two flowering trees, a waterfall of blond hair spilling over the shoulders of a short, snug red dress. She wore matching heels and lips and a curious look in slanted blue eyes.

“I honestly thought it was a joke, but you
are
the cops. I know you,” she said, pointing a finger with a glossy red nail at Eve. “Eve
Dallas. Roarke’s inamorata, and top cop of Icove fame. And Delia Peabody. My God,” she continued, moving toward Eve, “that’s a
fabulous
coat. Just fabulous. Italian leather, slightly masculine cut, which only makes it more female on you. And powerful. And I love the boots. Would you mind if I got a picture? ‘Lieutenant Dallas, Fashionable Cop.’ A great article for tomorrow’s blog.”

“Yes. I’d mind. We’re here on official business. We have some questions.”

“I’m always on official business. And speaking of boots.” She smiled down at Peabody’s. “Those are adorable. Well, come in. We can have a drink and get down to business, whatever it might be.”

She turned into a large open area with windows overlooking downtown—and a tall holiday pine decorated in gold and silver in the center.

A low-profile sofa in a buff color was mounted with bold, floral pillows. It faced a small arched fireplace. Glossy black tables topped with bright white lamps with blue shades flanked floral-print chairs—with buff-colored pillows.

“So what will it be?”

“Answers,” Eve told her.

“I meant to drink.” Robbins headed toward a high-gloss black bar. “I feel like some fizzy lemon.”

“We’re fine. You’re acquainted with Trey Ziegler?”

“Trey, of course.” Robbins opened the small, built-in friggie, took out a tall bottle. “I heard about what happened to him last night, and more when I went to the gym this morning. It’s terrible, of course. He was a terrific trainer. but I didn’t expect to have the cops come to my door about it.”

She plopped ice in a long, slim glass, poured the lemon drink over it. “Sure?”

Eve only shook her head. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

“Why would I be? He was a terrific trainer, but there are others. And he was kind of a shit otherwise.” She carried her drink to the sofa, sat down, leaned back. “Have a seat.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“Personally? Not really. He was great to look at. I mean that body was a killer. And he knew how to work me so I kept mine in shape. But he was smug, arrogant, and not terribly smart.”

“But you slept with him anyway.”

Robbins lowered the glass she’d started to bring to her lips. Her voice went as cold as the ice in her glass. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sex can often lead to murder.”

“Is that so? I hadn’t thought of it. For me, it generally leads to release, or what’s the point. Am I actually a suspect? Seriously? Because I slept with him once, against my better judgment, I’ll add. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“Day before yesterday, between five
P.M.
and seven. Where were you?”

“Here, working. I’m nearly finished with a new book, and I have the blog. I’ve been putting in a lot of day hours on both as I spend most evenings out. Holiday parties, events—they’re my fodder.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.” She gestured. “I prefer to work alone, without distractions. I have an assistant, but I’ve got her out most days right now, scouting the stores and boutiques, sending me pictures.”

She drank now. “God. I’m supposed to have an alibi. I have a January one deadline on the book I want to meet, then I’m going to Milan and Paris, doing coverage of spring trends. I didn’t kill a man because I was stupid enough to have sex with him. It was good sex,
for that matter. Even though he’s not my type. He was an asshole—on a personal scale, I mean.”

“How much did you pay him?”

Robbins hissed through her teeth, “What the hell? I gave him five thousand. He didn’t come out and say—exactly—that some of the competition in my field might find it amusing that I’d slept with my trainer, but why take the chance? It wouldn’t make that much difference, I know how to spin it. I could probably do a series of blogs on it, but . . . the asshole factor.”

She sighed, drank. “I was embarrassed,” she admitted. “Embarrassed I had sex with a man I didn’t like, on a personal level. So I gave him five thousand, said this was nice, but let’s keep it between us, and that was that. I figured next spring when my membership’s up, I’d switch gyms.”

“He hinted at blackmail?”

“I guess that’s the term for it, yeah.”

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of months ago. No, more like six weeks, I guess. Not my finest moment.”

“He came here? An at-home massage? Training session?”

“A combo. We’d done that—not the sex—a couple times before. My assistant, too. I gave him extra to work with her a couple times. It was fun.”

“Was your assistant here for this one?”

“No.”

Her right leg, crossed over the left, began to swing. Eve read irritation and nerves in the movement.

“Look, do we have to go over every damn detail? I had sex with him, I paid him. It’s humiliating. But I didn’t kill him.”

“What did you have to drink?”

“Jesus Christ.” Robbins shoved up, threw her hands in the air. “I was doing a workout. I wasn’t drinking. Some tea. Just some herbal tea he made. I iced it, and it was nice enough.”

“Did he light incense?”

“So what?” But Robbins’s eyebrows drew together, and she sat again. “Yes. Right before the massage. The massage that wasn’t a massage because I decided I’d rather have sex. How do you know about the incense, what do you care about the tea?”

Color dropped out of her face. “Jesus, Jesus, did he drug me? Oh God, did he give me something?”

“We believe Ziegler routinely gave at-home clients, potentially others, a date-rape drug in the guise of tea, and accentuated it with incense that was also laced.”

“I see.” She pressed her lips together, looked away. “That explains it. I wasn’t attracted to him that way, simply wasn’t, but that evening . . . I initiated it.” Her voice trembled a little. She picked up her glass again, drank slowly. “I initiated it almost as soon as I was on the massage table.”

“No, you didn’t,” Eve said. “He initiated and took your choice away when he gave you the drug without your knowledge.”

“I don’t know how to feel about this.” She pressed the cold glass to her forehead. “I don’t know how to feel. I was raped when I was sixteen by a boy I thought liked me. He slipped me something, too. Not enough, because I didn’t really drink much, just enough I felt weird and off. Not enough, so I said no. And when I said no, he held me down. He hurt me, and he forced me. And I didn’t tell anyone, I was so ashamed. It was years before I told anyone, and came to terms with it. Now this.”

She closed her eyes again. “Trey didn’t force me. He didn’t hurt me.”

“Yes, he did.” Eve’s flat tone had Robbins opening her eyes again. “He didn’t hold you down or put bruises on you, but he forced you. He raped you.”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

Her eyes filled. Eve watched her wage a fight against them. Win it.

“Now I have to come to terms with it again. I will. Well, back to therapy.” She lifted her glass in toast. “What fun.”

“I can give you a contact for a rape center,” Peabody told her.

“That’s okay. I have a shrink on tap. I don’t have an alibi, and it looks like I had a motive. I didn’t kill him, but I’m sure as hell glad he’s dead. What happens now?”

Eve rose. “We talk to other people in your situation. And if we find out you’re lying and you did kill him, we’ll be back to arrest you.”

“Great. Terrific.” Robbins managed a weak smile. “That’s still a fabulous coat.”

•   •   •

O
n the way down to the lobby, Peabody brooded.

“Don’t sulk over it,” Eve ordered. “Spill it.”

“I’m not sulking. I’m considering. Her statement makes it unquestionable our vic used date-rape drugs on numerous women, at least over the last couple months. And it also confirms he extorted money from at least some of them. Either one of those acts equals motive. Combine them, and it becomes a really strong motive. I know she doesn’t have an alibi, but I don’t think she did it.”

“Because you liked her. And because you felt sympathy after her claim she’d been date-raped in the past.”

“Well, yeah. In part anyway. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t not like her. As for the claim of previous date rape,
she also indicated she never reported it. We can’t confirm it ever happened.”

“No, we can’t, and, yeah, it could’ve been a bid for sympathy. But I believed her.” Still brooding, Peabody stepped out of the elevator, crossed the lobby with Eve. “I guess you didn’t.”

“Actually, I did. Going through that humiliation and trauma a second time? Adds to the motive.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.” Peabody glanced up at Robbins’s windows as they walked to the car. “Damn it.”

“We’ve got an asshole, fuckhead, serial date rapist as a vic, Peabody. We’re going to feel sorry for pretty much all the suspects. The women he used, the spouses, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, friends who learned about it. And now we veer off to yet another angle.”

“Another angle?”

“Competitors.” She slid behind the wheel. “David ‘Rock’ Britton also has a personal motive. The vic banged his baby sister—and maybe, who knows, he slipped her something to get her between the sheets.”

“Well, hell.” Peabody pulled the address of the gym off her PPC, plugged it into the dash comp. “I hope I don’t like him.”

Eve liked him, or more accurately liked his gym. A lot.

She saw Rock Hard as a bare-bones, sweat-and-grunt facility. Clean, well-lit, and without a single frill. Top-of-the-line equipment—including heavy bags, speed bags, and a sparring ring that took center stage appealed to those who came in to put in their time, shower off the sweat, and move on with their day.

No music played, so the sound of fists striking bags, of jump ropes whizzing through the air, and feet slapping the floor played all the tunes necessary. Lyrics? Grunts, curses, insults, and orders not to drop your guard, don’t be such a pussy, sang out.

She liked the industrial beige walls, the no-nonsense gray floor, the filmy windows that blocked out the street and sidewalk. This wasn’t a place to preen. It was a place to work.

She made Rock from his ID photo, watched him holding a heavy
bag, spitting out hard-line encouragement to the woman—stripped down to sports bra, shorts, and sweat—who pummeled it.

“From the shoulder, Angie, fer chrissakes. Use your hip. Switch it up. Right cross! Left cross! Right cross! Jab, jab, jab!”

Though she hated to break it up—the woman was game—Eve crossed over. She palmed her badge behind the woman’s back, waited for Rock’s dark brown eyes to skim over it, lift to her face.

“Finish him off, Ang. Pepper him. Pepper him. Go, go, go! Okay, okay, take a breather.”

“Thank Jesus and his loving mother,” Angie said in a Brooklyn accent thick as a brick. She hugged the bag, swayed with it while she caught her breath.

“I want ten minutes with the rope,” Rock told her.

“You’re a freaking sadist, Rock.”

“You’re damn straight.” He tossed her a towel, jerked his head to Eve and started back toward what she saw was an office even smaller than her own.

He grabbed a power drink off a skinny shelf, the contents of which too closely resembled infected urine for her taste. But he glugged it down.

“Ziegler?” he said in a voice that suited his name. Hard, with rough edges.

“That’s right.”

He shrugged, wiggled a thumb toward a ratty-looking folding chair.

“We’re fine,” she told him. “You and Ziegler were top contenders for the personal trainer award coming up this spring.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged excellent shoulders, naked but for the straps of a black tank. A tattoo of a dragon, breathing fire, coiled
around his impressive biceps. “There’s a long winter between now and spring. Things change. I guess things have seeing the fucker’s dead. I got no problem with him being dead. Didn’t make him that way, but I got no problem with it.”

“You had an altercation with him.”

“We weren’t buds.” His smile hinted toward a sneer before he guzzled down some more urine-colored liquid. “I hated his ever-fucking guts, but he wasn’t somebody I thought about much.”

“The altercation was due to his sexual relationship with your sister.”

Now those dark eyes fired. “Tricking a drunk girl into bed, then booting her out when she’s half sick and confused,
then
bragging on it, ain’t no relationship. He knew she was my sister. He did it to rile me. He riled me.”

“In your place, I’d’ve wanted to kick his ass.”

“Considered it. Maybe I would’ve, but you can add coward to his other sins. In the end I got in his face, I told him if he ever touched her again, ever said her name again, and I heard about it, I’d break that pretty face he was so proud of.”

“Maybe he did . . . mention her name again.”

“Not that I ever heard.” Rock rested a hip on the corner of his dented metal desk.

He was a big man with strong, defined arms, a broad chest, a face that sported a couple of scars and a nose that listed to the left. Attractive, she thought, in a rough, hard-edged way.

“You box?” Eve asked.

“Used to do some. I liked it okay, but I got tired of punching people, so I switched it up. Ziegler, he had that sweet gig at Buff Bodies, but he liked to give me the zing over my place here. Juice—he’s the
one told me you’d be coming—said how Ziegler was jealous because he wanted his own place. No reason for him to go after my baby sister. Did it for spite. Did it because he could.”

“He beat you out of the top award the last couple years,” Eve pointed out.

“Yeah. Don’t give a shit about the trophy, but the prize money would’ve been handy. BB, places like that, they’ve got a strong rep, so their trainers get one, and that weighs on the competition. BB’s got—what do you call it?”

“Cachet?” Peabody ventured, and he pointed a finger at her.

“Yeah, that. I’ve been building up my place. Cachet, maybe not, but I’m solid, and I’ve got a strong following now. My time was coming. I don’t kill somebody over a contest and a grand.”

“Add in your sister,” Eve said.

“I don’t kill somebody over what’s done. It doesn’t change what’s done.”

“Where were you the day he was killed?”

“Here till about four. Got in at four-thirty—
A.M.
—that day to work with a guy—welterweight trying to make a comeback. So I left about four. Went home, had a beer, a shower, turned on some sports, did some paperwork. It’s hard to get any paperwork done here, work on programs for clients. Then I went to my mama’s for dinner. Got there about seven, I’m guessing. Maybe a little after. I didn’t clock it. Went home about nine, stayed in.”

“Did you speak or see anyone between the hours of five and seven?”

“No. You going to arrest me?”

“Not yet.”

“Where does your mother live?”

“Same apartment building, two floors down. I moved there to help
her out. She thinks it’s the other way around. We’re probably both right on that.”

He’d smiled, a real one, when he spoke, but now his face hardened again. “She doesn’t know about Kyria. I don’t want her to know. You got no reason to bring that up, if you talk to her.”

“No, we don’t. We appreciate your time.”

“That’s it?”

“Have you got anything else to tell us?”

“It’s going to sound like spite.”

“Why would I care?”

“Okay. I’m just going to say, he had more money than he should have, seems to me. More than he should’ve had from the work. I don’t know how he came by it.”

“But you have your suspicions,” Eve finished.

“I do. Kyria was pretty upset when I found out, when I pushed her about what happened. She finally told me how he kicked her out right after she did it with him. She said how she wanted to stay, she didn’t feel good, didn’t feel like she could get home on her own. And he said women didn’t stay in his place unless they paid for it. Said maybe he’d let her stay till morning for a thousand. Girl didn’t have that kind of money on her, so he tossed her out.”

He stared down into his power drink. “I figure he got women to pay. Everybody knew he banged clients—that’s up to the client, to my way of thinking. Not my business. But when you charge money, that’s not legal without a license. Maybe he had one.”

Rock shrugged again, drank again. “But I don’t think so.”

“We appreciate the information, and the time.”

“Are you going to have to talk to Kyria?”

“We may.”

He let out a long breath, stared down at what was left of his drink.
“Go easy, will you? She’s embarrassed it happened. Put it behind her the way you should with mistakes. But she’s embarrassed.”

“Understood.” Eve walked to the office door, opened it, turned back. “I like your place.”

His grin spread, quick, bright, added unexpected charm to his face. “You box?”

“I fight.” Eve smiled back. “There’s a difference.”

Peabody waited until they were outside, then poked a finger in Eve’s biceps. “You liked him. You don’t think he did it because you like him.”

“I liked him. I know he didn’t do it because he’d have used his fists. I know he didn’t do it because the vic would never have opened the door to him much less taken him back into the bedroom. There would’ve been signs of struggle, of a fight. Alternately,
if
Britton had grabbed the trophy on impulse, rage would have jumped right in with it. He wouldn’t have settled for two blows. He’d have beaten Ziegler’s head in, and he’d have gone for the face, too. The ‘pretty face’ Ziegler was so proud of.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way. But you still liked him.”

“He said right out he hated Ziegler and wasn’t sorry he was dead. That takes balls. He resisted caving in Ziegler’s face and/or skull months ago when the sister thing happened. That takes control. I like balls. I respect control.”

“Are we going to talk to the sister, the mom?”

“I don’t see any reason to rush that.” Time, to Eve’s mind, to circle back around. “We’re going back to do a follow-up with Natasha Quigley.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because she’s lying. She slept with Ziegler. I figured it for a lie
yesterday. I’m more sure of it now. She’s good-looking, wealthy, a client. Married. She’s a prime target. We’ll go shake it out of her.”

“Okay. Why would she lie, especially when she could’ve jumped right on the he-gave-me-tea-too gambit?”

“First, because we didn’t know for certain the tea was laced, and that possibility came out after she’d already—pretty vehemently—denied having sex with the vic.”

“That’s right.” Peabody pulled her earflaps down more securely. “We’ve got so many women either saying they paid him for sex, or saying they paid him to keep it quiet after tea-induced sex, we’re going to need a spreadsheet. Or a chart.” She brightened a little. “I like making charts. Anyway, if that’s first, what’s second?”

“Second, because it’s just easier to say no, not me.”

“It is. And it’s knee-jerk, too, at least from the women I’ve interviewed.”

“And third, I bet she was weirded knowing she and her sister had slept with the same guy.”

“That would be weird.” Peabody piled in the car. “My sister—the one closest to my age—and I had a serious thing for the same guy when we were teenagers. So we took an oath that neither of us would move on it. We fought about it first, but we took an oath.”

Peabody settled back. “It turned out he’d have rather our brother moved on him, but we didn’t catch that until we’d taken the oath. Zeke didn’t move on him because he’s not into guys that way, but he’d’ve sworn an oath otherwise.

“It’s going to be great seeing them all on Christmas. I wonder what ever happened to . . . What the hell was his name? Stanley, I think. Yeah, Stanley Physter. But he wanted everyone to call him Stefano.”

“And you didn’t get the gay?”

“Huh. Good point.”

They went back to the brownstone, were admitted by the same domestic droid. As they sat in the living area, Eve pulled out her PPC. “Look stern,” she said to Peabody.

“Okay.”

“Not constipated, stern.”

Peabody relaxed the look fractionally as Quigley came clipping in.

“I’m sorry. I’m just back from a committee meeting, and was on the ’link. Can I order up anything for you?”

“We’re fine.”

“Do you have more questions about Trey?” she asked as she took a seat. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

Eve looked up from her PPC, deliberately turned the screen away, but kept it in her hand. “You can start by telling us why you denied having sex with Trey Ziegler.”

“Because I didn’t have sex with him.”

“Peabody, what happens when an individual lies to the police during an investigation?”

“Charges are forthcoming. Obstruction of justice is generally first, but we can follow that with—”

“We’ll just start there,” Eve interrupted. “And here: You have the right to remain silent.”

“Wait. For God’s sake. This is ridiculous.”

“You’re going to want to listen to your rights and obligations, Ms. Quigley,” Eve advised, then recited the rest of the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“I’m not an idiot. Of course I do. And I resent being treated like a criminal.”

“You’re going to have cause for even more resentment then when we take this interview down to Central.” Eve rose.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can’t force me to go anywhere.”

“Peabody?”

“The suspect can voluntarily be questioned. Or we can get a warrant compelling her to submit to questioning. She is, of course, entitled to a legal rep either way, but the second option could include restraints.”

“This is ridiculous.” Color rode high on her cheeks; her hands balled into fists. “It’s outrageous. I’m contacting my lawyer.”

“Please do. He can meet us here, if you speak voluntarily. Or my partner will get the warrant, and your representative can meet us at Central. Your choice.”

“I tell you I didn’t have sex with Trey Ziegler.”

Eve looked down at her PPC, back at Quigley. “You’re lying.”

“What do you have on there? What are you looking at?”

“Peabody, get the warrant.”

“Wait, wait. Just . . . wait.” Quigley dropped down again. “All this, all this insanity over sex. All right, I slept with him. I didn’t want Tella to know. I don’t want JJ—my husband—to know. I don’t see it’s any of your business.”

“Your bedmate was murdered.”

“Well, I didn’t kill him. Why would I? Over sex?” She waved that away with a flash of the emerald on her finger. “It was stupid—no one likes to broadcast stupidity. It’s humiliating to talk about to strangers, to police. My marriage has been a bit fraught for the last few months.”