Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

• • •

  So she gave Ziegler her time, her attention, the best she had.

  She wrote up her notes, put together a progress report, including all the interviews conducted.

  She created a chart listing the clients who had so far admitted to having any kind of sexual relationship with Ziegler, and how much each had admitted to paying in cash, gifts, hotel expenses.

  Beside each name she added marital status, or cohab status, added how many of those husbands, cohabs, were also on Ziegler’s client list.

  She ran each one, digging in for any instance of violent behavior or criminal offenses.

  She cross-checked with the names Trina had provided, did a pass on coworkers.

  And considered.

  When Roarke walked in, she had her feet up on the desk. “Another angle,” she began.

  “It’s not the financial one. Unless he’s a great deal more clever than I give him credit for, he doesn’t have any accounts other than what you have on record.”

  “Didn’t figure on it, but it’s good to have an expert opinion on it. A competitor. I’ve been narrowly focused on clients and sex. But he was bashed with a trophy. He gets and keeps a lot of wealthy female clients not only because—by all accounts—he’s good at his work, but because he offers them some hard-bodied sex. He makes solid commissions, the extra from sex, and he gets recognition. The trophy—I checked—also comes with a cash prize of a grand. He’s won the last three years running, and was favored to win this year. But instead of going to AC for the conference, and campaigning for the competition, he’s in the morgue.”

  “You think another trainer killed him for a thousand dollars and a trophy?”

  “Prestige, potentially more clients, bragging rights. He didn’t have friends at Buff Bodies. I bet he didn’t have any at other centers, either. Somebody he knew—it was a face-to-face, close-in attack. So, yeah, maybe a competitor, an associate, a peer who’d had enough of him.”

  “An associate,” Roarke repeated, “a competitor or a peer. You could add the sex in—because you can never have too much of it—and speculate that this competitor was also used for sex, or cheated on.”

  “That’s a good one. That’s a thought. I’d say Peabody and I are going back to the gym tomorrow.”

  “With that in mind.” He took her hand, pulled her up. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Didn’t we do that already?”

  “And sleep. It’s nearly midnight. If you keep at this much longer you’ll have been up for twenty-four hours.”

  “I feel like I want to push it, and it’s because I don’t like him.”

  “You won’t like him any better tomorrow. You can push then.”

  “It looks like I will. Whatever else you can say about Ziegler, he wasn’t lazy. Between work and sex, the guy kept revved every damn day.”

  “As you do.” He tugged her along. “Time to shut down the engines.”

  • • •

  She woke to the scent of coffee, and really, it didn’t get better than that.

  And yet it did.

  When she slit open her eyes, she saw Roarke. Fully dressed in one of his ruler-of-the-business-world suits—the cat sprawled over his lap. He sat on the sofa in the bedroom sitting area, working on a tablet. Financial numbers, data, codes, scrolled by on the screen he’d switched to mute.

  The faint blue wash from tablet and screen provided the only light, making him look both mysterious and fascinating.

  She had no idea of the time, was too lazy to look. Instead she watched him work while she ticked off the order of what she needed to do that morning.

  She needed to tag Peabody, tell her partner they’d meet at Buff Bodies, pursue the angle of competitor killer. Swing by the lab, browbeat or bribe Dickhead—Chief Tech Dick Berenski—on the tea and incense. Talk to Trina and Sima again. And she thought another pass through the crime scene was in order, this time looking specifically for tea and incense.

  Do that, she decided, before the lab. Have the samples right there in hand—if she found more.

  And onto more interviews with the vic’s clients.

  Someone who knew him. Someone he’d let in the apartment, let into the bedroom while he packed for his business trip.

  Client. Coworker. Blackmail mark. Lover.

  Would he have been confident or arrogant enough to let a mark or a seriously pissed-off client, lover, associate into the bedroom?

  She suspected not, but it wouldn’t hurt to get an expert opinion.

  Add a quick session with Mira to the list.

  “Lights on, twenty percent,” Roarke said, looking over into her eyes. “You might as well have some light since you’re thinking so loud.”

  “I was thinking very quietly. You have bat ears.”

  “When it comes to you, apparently.”

  She pushed up to sit. “What’re you working on? I can take an interest,” she added when he cocked an eyebrow. “At . . . shit, five-thirty-eight in the morning.”

  “Actually, you might be interested. We’ve made a few changes to the design of An Didean, and have added a memorial roof garden.”

  The old building in Hell’s Kitchen, she thought, he’d bought with the plan to rehab and turn it into a safe house for troubled kids. And where the bones of twelve young girls had been discovered behind the walls.

  “That’s nice.”

  “We’ll have a dome so it can be used year-round, and those we house there can learn something of horticulture. The architect’s wondering if we should use stones or benches with the names of the girls who died there.”

  Eve rose, saying nothing as she crossed to the AutoChef for coffee. The cat deserted Roarke to sprint over to her, winding slyly between her legs, ever hopeful, she knew, that food was involved.

  “I think, I guess you’re asking what I think.”

  “I am,” he told her.

  “I think creating a garden shows respect. And I think the kids you’d shelter there, educate there, don’t need to be reminded of cruelty and death, but of life. Of the, well, garden of possibilities of life.”

  “I think you’re exactly right. Thank you.”

  “Anytime. I’m going to grab thirty in the gym before I get ready.”

  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.

&nbs
p; “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.