“That would be you.”
Summerset lifted an eyebrow at Eve. “Perhaps it was. Making do can add to the sense of community.”
“My team hauled in a broken tree, a dented menorah, fake ears of corn.” She sipped her wine. “It cheered the place right up.”
She relaxed, let the evening wash the day away. Maybe the cop in her couldn’t approve of some of the tales they told—or the thievery often involved, but . . . hell, the statute of limitations made them all just memories.
“I’ve friends waiting,” Summerset said at length, and rose.
Eve bit back the automatic retort involving ghouls and corpses and wait time. Moratorium, she reminded herself.
“Happy Christmas to you both. It’s a happier one for me knowing this is a home fulfilling its promise and purpose.”
Glad she’d bitten back the barb, Eve cleared her throat. “It helps having someone who knows what he’s doing to handle the details.”
“Thank you. An unexpected gift. Good night.”
Roarke kissed Eve’s cheek after Summerset left. “Unexpected, and sweet.”
“I’m not sweet. It’s truth. I’m big on truth tonight.”
“Difficult pieces to your day?”
“Yeah, and then some. We’re not going to think about that because, hey, look. There are all these presents under the— Shit! Shit.” Now she did push up. “I need twenty minutes.”
“All right.”
“Go . . . do something,” she suggested and fled to wrap the gifts she’d neglected to wrap because there was plenty of time.
She hauled them down to the parlor, shoved them under the tree. Huffed out a breath, stepped back. And nearly yelped as she spotted Roarke lying on one of the sofas reading a book, the cat stretched out beside him.
“I didn’t see you.”
“So I deduced when you reached for your weapon.”
“I didn’t draw it. You’re reading a book.”
“It’s the Yeats you gave me our first Christmas together. I reread it every year at this time.”
“You’re such a sap.” But she smiled when she said it because the idea filled her with pleasure. “Do you want to see what you got this year?”
“I do.” He rose, set the book aside. The cat just turned over, stayed on the sofa. “We could leave the gifts from friends for tomorrow,” he suggested, poured them both more wine. “For Christmas Day.”
“Works for me. Then we could finish what we started last night. You know, drink a whole bunch of wine, have crazy sex.”
“That would absolutely work for me. Or.” He cupped a hand behind her neck, kissed her slow. “We could start at the end of that, work back. Crazy sex, lots of wine, gifts.”
“It’s a plan, but—” She pulled back, grabbed a large, clumsily wrapped box. “Open this. I figured it would be the . . .” She threw her hands in the air, made a whooshing sound. “What is it?”
“The explosion.”
“No, no, when the guy who—” With loosely fisted hands she waved her arms in the air. “And the musicians all—”
“The crescendo?” He laughed, sat on the floor with the box. “I do adore you. So, in this case, crescendo first.”
“Yeah. I want to see if I hit the mark. It’s a crappy wrapping job.”
“It’s charming.” He untied the ribbon, tore the paper. When he opened the box, she gauged surprise. But surprise didn’t necessarily mean bull’s-eye.
“You didn’t get yourself a magic coat,” she pointed out.
“I hadn’t gotten to it.”
He drew out the soft black leather, in classic style, and he noted—touched—the buttons held the symbol of Celtic trinity knots.
“You amaze me.”
“You can buy your own clothes—you can buy everybody’s clothes, but this is . . . I want you safe, too.”
“Darling Eve.” When he leaned over, kissed her, she knew she’d hit the mark.
“It’ll fit,” she told him. “I went to your guys—the R&D guys on the
lining, and that wasn’t easy. I think I could get into the White House War Room easier. And your tailor.”
He stood to put it on. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
And on him, the knee-length, supple black leather was ridiculously sexy. “There’s an add-on. Hidden interior pockets. I figure a guy like you can find them easy enough. For carrying things even an expert civilian consultant isn’t suppose to carry.”
“Is that so?” He did, indeed find them, grinned like a boy.
Double bull’s-eye, Eve thought. On a roll, she started to reach for another gift.
“No, your turn now.” He slipped out of the coat, laid it with hers. “We’ll just stick with the crescendo theme.” He chose a small box. “This one.”
She expected jewelry. He couldn’t help himself. So puzzlement came first when she opened it, found a simple business card. “Master Wu? I don’t get it.”
“You get him. He’ll work with you, at his dojo, or here, in the one we’re having put in beside the gym on the lower level.”
“The what? Dojo. Here?”
“The work starts next week. Master Wu will train you. If and when you’re unable to connect in person, we’ve devised a holographic program.”
“Master Wu will work with me.
The
Master Wu?” She’d met the martial arts legend briefly on a case, had admired him for years. “You bought me Master fucking Wu?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Holy shit, holy shit!” She jumped up, literally danced around the room, stopping to jab at an imaginary opponent, destroying them with a vicious side-kick. “Master Wu!”
She leaped onto Roarke, bowling him back, kissing him hard
when he laughed, and while the cat ran over to see what the hell was going on.
“This is the best. This is the most amazing gift ever in the history of gifts. You know I’m going to be able to seriously kick your ass now.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Master Wu.” She shoved up, pulled him up with her. “You’re putting in a dojo.”
“We are. It’ll be fun, won’t it, for both of us? I’ll show you the design, the plans. Ah now,” he murmured when the insane joy in her eyes clouded with tears.
“You,” she said, and wrapped around him. “You know me, and you love me anyway. I’ll never get over it.”
“And you. My cop put stash pockets in my magic coat. I couldn’t have dreamed you better.”
She sniffled, eased back, pulled another gift from under the tree. “This one. This one needs to come next.”
“I could sit here, with you, under these happy lights, and need nothing else in the world. But since it’s here,” he added, making her laugh as he opened the gift.
She’d framed a photo of them at the preview of
The Icove Agenda
. Not one of the glitzy red-carpet shots, but one taken after she’d squared off with a killer—after he’d bloodied the bastard’s face.
They stood smiling at each other, his torn knuckles on her bruised cheek.
“It’s us, that’s what you said when you saw this.” He looked up at her. “So it is, and it’s going straight onto my desk. Open this.”
Relieved the emotional jag had passed, she ripped in. And found the exact same photo. Different frame, but the same photo. Nothing could have struck her more.
“Look at us. We know each other.”
“And love each other anyway.”
“All glammed up, and your knuckles bleeding, my eye already going purple. To think of all that bullshit prepping for the cameras. The Trina treatment. Clothes, hair, face—and I end up with a black eye anyway.”
“You got your man. And it was a hell of an after party.”
“Bagging Frye was the best part, but, yeah, it was. If parties didn’t take so much time and work, they’d . . . Wait. Wait.”
“For what?”
“She helped with the party prep. That’s what Tella told me today. Catiana was over there, helped out, got ready for the party there. Catiana.”
Roarke dangled a ribbon for Galahad to bat at. “I suspect it’s Christmas that’ll have to wait.”
“I need to . . . No, it can wait.” She started to reach for another gift, but he took her hand.
“We know each other.”
She turned her hand under his, gripped tight. “Thank God. You can wear your new coat.”
So she ran those twists and turns as he drove, wondered if she indeed smoothed some of them out. It made a convoluted, nasty kind of sense. And considering those involved, it played right through to crescendo.
She didn’t bother to have Copley brought up, but went down to the bowels of Central, logged in, badged through and walked up to where Copley paced his cell.
“What do you want? I don’t have to talk to you. Fuck you, and you with her,” he said to Roarke.
“You can send for the lawyer you don’t respect, or you can answer
a couple of simple questions. On the night of your holiday party, what time did you see or speak to your wife for the first time?”
“How the hell do I know? I wasn’t watching the damn clock.”
“Fine.” Eve turned away.
“Wait. Why does it matter? I told you when I got home, I told you I went up to dress. Tash came in later. She was running behind.”
“What about hair, makeup?”
“So what? Wait, wait. She had to deal with it herself. She was rushed, something about a screwup with catering. She was upset, said how she’d had to put out a dozen fires. I know she’d been running around dealing with things because Tella’s girl called up, caught me just after I got out of the shower, looking for her.”
“Why not tag Natasha directly?”
“I don’t
know
. I didn’t ask. I had a party to get ready for. I don’t get into the domestic stuff. Tash deals with that. She deals with the staff.”
“How long did it take you to get ready?”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t know. I take my time. Maybe ninety minutes.”
“So Catiana was looking for your wife about six-thirty? Sometime around six-thirty?”
“About that. So what? The girl should’ve been able to handle whatever the problem was instead of bothering us. But I didn’t kill her for it.”
“You’re a complete dick, JJ,” Eve commented, and walked away with him shouting after her.
“He is, indeed, a complete dick,” Roarke agreed.
“Yeah, but he’s not a murderer.”
A skeleton crew manned the hospital. That meant Eve had to go through more hoops for admittance to the surgical wing, but she found herself tolerant.
When she stepped into Natasha’s room with Roarke, she noted they’d brought in a tree, gifts, strung some lights.
Natasha sat up in bed, flanked by her sister and brother-in-law. She looked more alert, and had added lip dye, other enhancements. She wore a lacy robe over a silky gown.
“Lieutenant.” Martella came over to greet her. “Roarke. Oh, you work too hard to still be at it on Christmas Eve! Please, have some champagne. The doctor said Tash could have a half glass. She’s doing so much better already.”
“So I see. You look better, Ms. Quigley.”
“I feel more myself. A little weak and shaky, but much better. Tella and Lance brought me Christmas.”
“Nice. We’ll have to skip the champagne, but this won’t take long. I wanted to check in on you, and give you some updates.”
“So kind.”
“I’m going to have just a couple questions, to tie it all up. I’ll keep it simple.”
“Of course—if you’re sure it can’t wait.”
“When we’re this close to wrapping things up, we don’t want any loose threads.”
“You know what happened?”
“I do. Mind?” Eve asked as she eased down at the foot of the bed.
“Of course not. I’m so grateful for your dedication.”
“Just doing my job. And doing it, I should remind you that you can have a legal rep present. I read you your rights the other day, but I can refresh you if you need it.”
“So formal. No need for that. Of course I remember. I don’t want a lawyer.” She actually patted Eve’s hand. “Ask your questions so you can go home and enjoy your own Christmas.”
“Thanks. I did speak with your doctor before I came. She’s very pleased with your progress, and expects you to make a full recovery, and hopes you can be released in just a few days.”
“It feels like a miracle.”
“I’m sure it does. I regret to inform you we have your husband in custody. He’s been charged with Trey Ziegler’s murder, with Catiana Dubois’s murder, and with the attack on you.”
“Oh God.”
“You have to be strong, Tash.” Martella gripped her sister’s hand as she turned to Eve. “Lance and I talked about this. We went over and over it because it just doesn’t seem possible. But it is. It’s the only possibility. He must have lost his mind.”
“He’s a difficult man. I understand your loyalty, Ms. Quigley—Natasha,” Eve said, and gently. “But it’s time for the truth.”
“He’s my husband. How do I accept all this? How do I accept my husband is a murderer?”
“It’s hard. It has to be really hard. But we’ve been able to put it all together. The events, the timelines, all of it.”
“JJ.” Natasha choked it out. “I tried to tell myself I was confused. It couldn’t have been . . . But why, why? Why would he hurt Catiana, why would he hurt me? Why would he kill Trey?
“Tella’s right. He lost his mind. I should have seen it, I should have gotten him help before it was too late.”
Martella slid onto the bed, drew her sister close. “Don’t blame yourself, Tash. Don’t.”
“I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it.”
“He knew about you and Ziegler,” Eve told her.
“Oh God. God, I knew he’d be angry if he found out, but . . .”
“He didn’t find out,” Eve corrected. “He arranged it.”
“What—”
“He paid Ziegler to sleep with you.”
“He . . .” The tears in Natasha’s eyes dried to hard embers. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he paid Trey Ziegler to initiate an affair with you, which, with Ziegler’s help, he documented in order to retain a generous financial settlement when he filed for divorce.”
“Oh, Tash.” Tella leaned in to offer more comfort. Natasha pushed her aside.
“He’s lying. JJ must be lying.”
“We have Ziegler’s records, corroborating the transactions. It was just another job for him—really lucrative since both you and your
husband were, essentially, paying him for the same service. Just another way to cash in. You didn’t mean anything to him other than another body, another mark.”
“That’s not true. That’s absolutely not true.”
The flash in her eyes told Eve what she needed to know.
“He used you. Ziegler used you, and he and your husband laughed about it behind your back.”
“No. Trey cared about me.”
“He cared about the money you gave him, the money he got from your husband. He double-dipped, and it ended up killing him.”
“We had a relationship. Do you understand me?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Tash, don’t upset yourself. The man was a bastard. He took advantage of you.”
“Of
you
,” Quigley tossed back at Martella. “Not of me. No one takes advantage of me.”
“It’s hard to take.” Eve patted Natasha’s leg. “Really hard for a smart, strong-willed woman to take when she’s been duped. Everything he said to you was a lie, and one your husband paid for—worse, paid for with your money. I know it’s rough. It was bad enough when you found out Ziegler was seeing that idiot Alla Coburn again, bad enough when he lied to you about her, about others.
“He made you feel special, excited,” Eve continued. “When you snuck out to see him that day—the day of your party—you just wanted to see him before he left for the seminar. But you saw he’d been with someone else. The cheap bra, the slutty shoes, right there, in your face.”
“What are you talking about?” Martella demanded. Eve ignored her.
“He brushed it off. He had a way, didn’t he? She didn’t mean anything to him. Just sex. Did he laugh at you when you told him you wouldn’t tolerate it? Did he sneer when you said you loved him, wanted him to only be with you? Was he laughing when you picked up the trophy and swung it at his head?”
“You can’t talk to her that way.” Martella tugged on Eve’s arm. “She’s hurt. She’s been victimized. Lance, make her stop.”
“Wait.” He stared at Eve, shifted his gaze slowly to Natasha’s face. “Just wait.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Natasha plucked at the sheets, blinked tears into her eyes. “You’re saying horrible things.”
“You stuck the knife into his heart because he’d stuck one into yours. It was all lies, Natasha. Yours, your husband’s, Ziegler’s. Everything you did: lies. You thought you’d gotten off clear, you told yourself you did what you had to do, and that was that. But the time it took? That tripped you up. You had to cancel your hair and face techs. I’ve checked with them, too.”
“I was busy preparing for the party.”
“You weren’t home at the time Ziegler died. Catiana looked for you, couldn’t find you.”
“I was home. Of
course
I was home. Dozens of people saw me.”
“And when I interview them, each and every one, none of them will be able to verify you were there between six and seven that evening because you were rushing over to Ziegler’s apartment, killing him, and rushing back again.”
“I was home,” Natasha said coldly. “You’ll never prove otherwise.”
“Sure we will. And yesterday Catiana realized it. Talking with your sister, she started putting it together. Started wondering why she couldn’t find you in the house, why you’d canceled your hair and face
time. Six to seven-thirty, according to your hair and skin techs. But she was loyal, Natasha. She didn’t run to me, to the police, she went to you. She went hoping you’d explain. But you couldn’t explain.”
“Tella, please. Call the nurse. My head hurts.”
“Tash.” Slowly, Martella eased back from the bed. “Oh my God, Tash. It can’t be true. Not Cate. You couldn’t.”
“But she did. She had to protect herself. Maybe you offered her money. She’d be shocked, insulted. You couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut, so you argued, you threatened. You shoved her. Did you mean to kill her or was it just a happy accident?”
Natasha shook her head, looked pleadingly at her sister. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. Believe me.”
“I think it was violent impulse,” Eve continued. “Like Ziegler. And like Ziegler, you couldn’t leave it at that. After you turned her over, made sure she was dead, you knew just how to use it all to your advantage. You could get rid of JJ—have him locked away like he deserved for cheating on you with that little stripper with the big tits. It would take some guts, but you’ve got them. So you made the nine-one-one call. You could claim you blocked video in your rush, your shock. You faked an attack, using your husband’s name. Then you dropped the phone, crushed it. You got your guts up, picked up that vase. You screamed—alerting JJ, boosting your adrenaline, then you struck yourself as hard as you could manage. Harder than you should have. It nearly killed you. You nearly died for pride and ego and payback to a cheating spouse.
“Was it worth it?”
“Every bit.”
When Martella began to weep, Roarke put an arm around her, looked at Lance. “You should take her out. She shouldn’t be here now.”
“Come on, darling. Come on now.”
“Go on! You always were the weak one,” Natasha called after her. “Go crying to Daddy, like you used to.”
Martella stopped, looked back. “You’re my sister.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “But she was my best friend. Cate. I’ll never forgive you for Cate.” And she walked away.
“Staff.” Natasha leaned back. “Anyone who makes friends or family out of paid staff is a fool.” She looked at Eve. “I was under duress. My husband’s petty cruelties and neglect, a lover flaunting his flings. I had a breakdown.”
“You can play that tune.”
“A breakdown. What happened with Trey that day? It’s as if someone else was inside my body. I couldn’t control myself. Catiana? She slipped. We were talking. I was upset, of course, but she slipped, fell. I was in shock. Again, out of my mind. No one in their right mind would strike themselves that way.”
“You’re going to learn the difference between legally sane and just being a cold, vicious, selfish bitch.”
“I’m in the hospital. I nearly died. I have a great deal of money to pay hard-hitting lawyers. No one mourns for Trey but me. And Catiana? She slipped.”
“You’re a good liar, but with the evidence I’m going to have stacked up against you, even your lies will sink. Natasha Quigley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Trey Ziegler, for the murder of Catiana Dubois, human beings. Additional charges will include but not be limited to obstruction of justice, lying to a police officer during an investigation. You will be held here, under guard until such time as you can safely be transported to prison to await trial.”
“I’ll get out on bail.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Eve took out her restraints, stepped forward.
“Stay away from me. You can’t use those on me.”
“Wouldn’t bet on that, either.” Eve grabbed one of her wrists, managed to block the swipe of nails forearm to forearm. “Add resisting arrest to the aforesaid charges.” She let the slap come, though the woman had some punch to her. “And a little icing for me with assaulting a police officer. Which allows me to—”
She took out a second pair of restraints, cuffed Quigley’s other wrist.
“I’ll have your badge for this.”
“What you’ll have is a crappy life in a cage. Your cheating putz of a husband is probably going to get a nice chunk of your money after all. Your name and face are going to be splashed all over the media, and the only social club you’ll belong to is Big Nellie’s Bitch-Slapping Circle. You’ll be the mascot. Merry Christmas.”
“Big Nellie?” Roarke asked as they walked out.
“First thing that came to mind. Officer.” She signaled the uniform she’d ordered for the duty. “Sit on her. I’ve got you on four-hour rotations, so you won’t miss Christmas altogether.”
“I’m Jewish, sir.”
“Okay, Happy Hanukkah.”
She spoke to the head nurse on duty, relayed the status to Dr. Campo via ’link.
“Her sister’s going to suffer.”
“She’s married to a steady guy—a fricking rock. But, yeah, she’ll suffer. Murder doesn’t stop at the vic, not most of the time. She set him up good, and he was such an asshole, it played. Little niggles here and there, but it played. They’re so much alike—Copley, Quigley. He could’ve done it, for all the same reasons. Except, he doesn’t have the balls to damn near kill himself to get away with it.”
“You closed it. You got both your victims justice.”
“Messy, but closed. Now I have to go spring Copley, that asshole.”
“You could do it in the morning, let him rot just a bit.”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“It’s what makes you not a bit like either of them.”
“It’s a pisser right at the moment. It’s going to take me a while.” She looked up at him as they stepped out of the elevator. “Couple hours to deal with the paperwork, the lawyers. Screws up our Christmas Eve.”
“We’ve already had the crescendo, the rest can wait.”
“Yeah.” They stepped out into the night. The cold rain had stopped. She thought she caught the glimmer of a couple stars.
She took his hand, gave his arm a swing. “Nice coat,” she said, made him laugh.
She’d do her duty, do her job. Then she and the man who knew her and loved her anyway would go home for
Christmas.
• • •
For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/robbchecklist