Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, hey. Thought I should tell you I’m back.”

  “And in a timely fashion.”

  “Yeah. There’s a bunch of everybody out front. A parking lot of vehicles so I’m going to pull into the garage.”

  “Well, all right then.”

  “But, the thing is, I can’t remember the code.”

  On the dash screen, he smiled at her. “Eve, have you still not read the bloody manual for your vehicle?”

  “I find stuff when I need it.”

  “In that case, you’ll find you’ve only to access your in-dash comp, request accessories, order the garage doors open by remote. It has your voiceprint. You’d close them the same way, or by the garage comp once you’ve parked.”

  “Right. Got it. Thanks.”

  “I could point out, that if you’d read the manual, you could have parked out front and sent the car to the garage by remote, but that would be rubbing it in, wouldn’t it?”

  Rather than respond, she cut him off, snarled after the screen went blank. “Smart-ass. Computer engage.”

  Engaged, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

  “Accessories.”

  Accessories confirmed. Would you like a listing by alpha order or by category?

  “Just open the damn garage door.”

  Do you wish to open the garage door at your current location, which is residence, or an alternate location?

  “Why the hell would I want to open a door where I’m not? Never mind. Open the door, current location.”

  Garage door, residence. Would you like to open the main door, the rear door, the second level—

  “Main door, for God’s sake. Open the main garage door, residence.”

  Garage, residence, main door opening.

  She waited while it rose, slow and silent, then drove in.

  She wouldn’t bother to roll her eyes at the number of vehicles housed inside. Or just a minor eye roll. All-terrains, sedans, sports cars, muscular trucks, sexy motorcycles.

  Some flashy, some classy, some sinewy, some sleek.

  She was pretty sure there had been some refinements since she’d last been inside—she knew there hadn’t been a slot labeled DLE, the make of her car, the last time she’d been in here. No question there’d been some additions because the man purchased vehicles the way others might buy socks.

  She pulled into the slot as the computer asked politely,

  Do you wish to close the main garage doors, residence, at this time?

  “Yeah, yeah, do that.”

  She got out, glanced around at Roarke’s shiny toys, and spotted a pristine work counter—who else had a pristine garage?—with a computer, an AutoChef and a friggie.

  “A garage you could live in. Who else?”

  Inspired, she crossed to the counter, narrowed her eyes at the computer.

  “Computer on.”

  It sprang immediately to life.

  Good morning, Dallas, Lieutenant, Eve.

  “Yeah, yeah. Can you interface with my home office computer?”

  Affirmative. Would you like to do so at this time?

  “Yeah, I’d like to do so. Open files on Ziegler, Trey, subset Interviews. Create new doc on Prinze, Felicity, crossed with Copley, John Jake.”

  Working . . .

  “Pull up any incoming communication or data from Peabody, Detective Delia.”

  Secondary command in progress. Initial command complete.

  “Why doesn’t my office comp work this fast?”

  Would you like a scan and diagnosis of this specific computer?

  “What’s the point? Negative.”

  Acknowledged. Secondary command complete.

  “Give me Peabody’s data first. On screen.”

  Data on screen.

  She’d been right on Felicity’s age. Barely twenty-one. Born Shipshewana, Indiana, one of three offsprings—all female—of Jonas and Zoe Prinze, with Felicity being the youngest. No criminal, not even a little dent, unless she counted two minor traffic violations during the teenage years.

  And she didn’t.

  Graduated high school, and Peabody had added the shiny bits. Homecoming queen, captain of the cheerleaders, the lead in the school musical two years running, president of the theater club.

  Two years community college, majoring in theater.

  Employed, part-time, for three years at Go-Hop as a server.

  Relocated to New York, resided for seven months in Alphabet City—a flop, Eve noted, reading Peabody’s research on the address—that rented by the hour, day, or week.

  Employed as a dancer, Starshine Club, for three months. Current residence, the big, shiny apartment overlooking the river.

  No marriages, no cohabs, no current employment.

  A corn-fed, naive kid, potentially with some talent, with big dreams, who got herself scooped up by some guy twice her age. Who was potentially a killer.

  Eve added her notes, compiling them into a report.

  As she read it over, refined it, the side door opened.

  Roarke walked in.

  “Did you get lost?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re working in the garage?”

  “It was here, and it’s quiet, and I only needed a few minutes.” She glanced at her wrist unit, winced. “Or so.”

  She’d refine later, if necessary, but shot the report to Peabody, to Mira, and as an update to her commander.

  “That’s it. I’m going in. Why are there more trees?”

  “Than what?”

  “Than we already had. Guys were hauling in more trees when I drove up. Why?”

  “Because it’s Christmas.” He took her hand. “If you need more time, you don’t have to take it in the garage.”

  “It’s nice in here. A vehicle palace with technology and snacks. But that’s it for now.”

  She could always slip away later, squeeze in a little more.

  “All right then. Want a lift back?”

  He gestured to a short line of motorized carts.

  “I’ve got legs.”

  “Which I admire as often as possible.”

  Still holding her hand, he led her out the side door. “We’ll stroll back then, and you can tell me about the side piece.”

  “She’s pitiful. No, that’s not fair.” She stuck her free hand in her pocket to warm it. “She’s a kid, Roarke, twenty-one and painfully naive. From someplace out in corn land. Shipshewana, Indiana.”

  “Shipshewana? Are you winding me up?”

  “It’s an actual town, I looked it up. If you consider a place about one square mile a town. Barely six hundred people live there. A lot of them farm. They probably have more cows than people there.”

  The thought of which gave her the serious creeps.

  “So our young side piece bid farewell to Shipshewana, came to the bright lights, big city, and ended up in a river-view apartment, being kept by a married man.”

  “That’s the short of it,” she agreed. “The long’s got more gray areas. She’s desperate to be a Broadway star. Came to New York for those bright lights, and ended up working at a strip joint.”

  “All too common, isn’t it?”

  “Says she just danced—no sex—and you have to believe her. Not just that open face, the way she just babbles out reams of information because she’s lonely, but her background data finishes the picture. Copley’s set her up there with the usual bullshit. His wife doesn’t understand him, treats him bad, he’s working on a divorce, then they’ll get married.”

  “You’re saying they grow them green in Shipshewana.”

  “If Felicity’s an example, they don’t grow them greener. And, meanwhile, Copley will invest in her future by paying for dance and voice and acting classes. And she sleeps with him whenever he’s available, fawns over him, m
akes him feel desirable and important. She thinks he’s out of town right now, on important business.”

  “Did you tell her otherwise?”

  “Not directly. She wouldn’t have bought it from me anyway. I sort of put a couple thoughts out there, and steered her toward talking to her stripper friend who seems to know the score. She took me for a pal of his, was pitifully grateful to meet what she took as a pal of his, to spend time, to talk about him because—she says—she’s not really supposed to talk about him or them. Fucker. She’s going to have a few scars from this. Still, maybe they’ll be good for her in the long run.”

  “And Ziegler?”

  “She didn’t recognize the name. She doesn’t know anything on that. Copley tells her what works for him, and that’s it. But what it told me? She’s young, sexy, and built like every straight man’s wet dream.”

  “Is that so. Have you a photo?”

  “Pervert,” she said mildly.

  “Perhaps, but as a straight man I could verify your findings.”

  “My findings tell me he wants to keep his sexy toy as long as he can. He gets sex, adoration, and devotion, and since he’s paying for it out of money he’s skimmed from his wife, it’s a full win for him. One he might have killed for if Ziegler found out, threatened to clue in the wife.”

  “So you managed to cross a name off your suspect list with the young Broadway hopeful, and gain another area of motive for one of the top on your list. Not a bad bit of work in a short time.”

  “I had Peabody do the run on her, so that saved me time. Data indicates the kid came from a solid, two-parent household, has two older sisters, played well in school. Why do they call it ‘homecoming’?” she wondered.

  “Who calls what ‘homecoming’?”

  “People—the thing in high school.”

  “Ah.” He paused by a side door of the house. “That’s an American thing, isn’t it?”

  “You live here,” she reminded him.

  “I do, yes. I think it’s something to do with football. American football, and a particular game that gets specifically celebrated with a dance, perhaps a parade as well. And they choose students to be king and queen.”

  “That’s just weird. But she was one of those, and head cheerleader, leads in plays, part-time work at some fast-food joint until she came here. A few months working in a strip club should’ve scraped some of the green off. It didn’t. I think it goes down to the bone.”

  “You liked her quite a lot,” he said as they went inside.

  “I don’t know if it was like, but I hope somebody can cushion the fall when she finds out the truth about Copley.”

  “A solid family, older sisters. That could provide the cushion.”

  “I guess it could. Either way, my job is to drill Copley. She’s going to tell him I was there.” Considering it, Eve stepped into the elevator with Roarke. “The next time he tags her up, she’ll tell him. That’s going to chap his ass. How did I find out about her—was it something Ziegler had documented, which reminds me to check Ziegler’s spreadsheet on his side businesses. He’s going to want to know exactly what Felicity told me, and if he’s not smart and careful how he does that, he’s going to have even ridiculously gullible her wondering what the hell. Unless her stripper pal does that first.”

  She stepped out with him into her home office. “What are we doing in here?”

  “You won’t need your coat, nor I mine.” He took hers, then his own to a small closet she never thought about much less used. “And you’ll want a bit more time to update your board, check that spreadsheet.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Again, you don’t answer to me on this.”

  Her shoulders hunched. “I’m not talking to Summerset again. I’m back. I’ll be up there, on the battlefield in like fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you at some point during the fray.” He took her shoulders, yanked her in for a hard, quick kiss. “Secure your weapon, would you, Lieutenant, before you join in? Otherwise you may be tempted to use it before we’re done.”

  “I’d keep it on low stun.”

  “Regardless.” He kissed her again. “If you run much over the fifteen,” he said as he started out, “Summerset will have something to hold over your head for years.”

  “Crap.” That was so true.

  She went straight to her board. She added Felicity’s photo, some basic data, crossed it with Copley’s. Then after a moment’s thought, with Natasha Quigley’s, with a question mark.

  She couldn’t be sure the wife didn’t know about the side piece.

  Stepping back, she studied it.

  Of all the players, Felicity and Sima struck her as the most naive and vulnerable. Though Sima not as much as Felicity. Then again, Eve figured no one over the age of four could equal Felicity’s level of naivete.

  Still, wasn’t it interesting that Ziegler and Copley—victim and potential killer—both hit on the naive and trusting? Copley paid the freight—or more accurately his wife (whether or not she knew of the arrangement) paid the freight for living quarters, expenses. Ziegler had exploited Sima’s desire for a hot boyfriend so she paid most of the freight.

  But they’d both manipulated women to get what they wanted.

  Ziegler made a habit out of manipulating and exploiting, she thought as she circled the board.

  Had Copley?

  Maybe another pass at his financials would tell her, but for that she’d have a smoother path with Roarke. Plus, she just didn’t have the time right now.

  But she could squeak out a little for the spreadsheet.

  At her desk, she brought it up, scrolled through looking for Copley’s initials.

  She highlighted them, transferred the payments and dates to her board.

  She found other sets of initials with different amounts, but nothing else as consistent over the past six weeks—which corresponded to the new locks on the vic’s employee locker.

  Records and payments for NQ (Natasha Quigley), MQS (Martella), KR (Kira Robbins), all jibed with their statements. These, too, she added to her board.

  There were plenty of others, he’d had a hell of a sideline. Those she could cross with clients already interviewed also jibed. Extortion in some cases, or straight money for sex in most of the others.

  Sex and money, two of the top motives for murder. She could ascribe both to Copley, add in fear of exposure, which would likely lead to loss of money when the wife booted him.

  And wouldn’t she?

  Going through a rough patch, trying to save the marriage. Quigley had all but begged her not to tell Copley about the sexual arrangement she’d had with Ziegler.

  She backtracked to her notes on that interview, refreshed her memory.

  Quigley stated if Copley knew she’d been sexually involved with Ziegler he would end the marriage. Because he wouldn’t tolerate the cheating, Eve assumed.

  But what if Quigley had copped to Copley’s arrangement with the sexy young thing, had used that knowledge to pressure Copley into fixing the marriage—or losing the big house, the big income, the status? It wouldn’t do for him to get wind she’d been playing around on the side right along with him. She’d lose her leverage.

  She gives Copley the ultimatum. He decides Ziegler double-crossed him. Kills Ziegler. Fit of passion and temper, followed by the flourish. Merry Christmas, fucker.

  Goes home, parties, tells the wife he’ll break it off, they’ll go on a trip. Has to tell sexy young thing he’s been called out of town, give it all a chance to cool down.

  He’d have to break it off with Felicity, or convince Quigley he had. With Ziegler out of the picture, he’d have a better chance of keeping things status quo if he played penitent with the wife.

  Another round with Quigley, Eve decided. Drop Felicity’s name, get a reaction. Rui
n a marriage, most likely, she thought, but one that was built on a pile of lies and betrayals anyway. Likely topple it on that shaky pile, but potentially bag a murderer.

  Something to think about.

  “But not now, damn it.”

  Seeing her time was more than up, she shut down, hurried from the room.

  Hurried back, muttering curses as she stripped off her weapon harness. She secured it in her desk drawer, secured the office doors for good measure. Then bolted in the direction of the ballroom to face the music.

  • • •

  It was a war, she realized when she pulled up at the open ballroom doors. Just as chaotic, just as fraught, just as noisy.

  Some shouted or snapped out orders or directions like commanders to the foot soldiers who hauled, carried or clashed. Some stood on towering ladders that made her stomach jitter.

  People of all sizes, shapes, colors swarmed the enormous room, trudged or scurried in and out of the open terrace doors where more of them swarmed.

  The trees recently brought in stood in each corner, celebrational giants now outfitted or being outfitted with lights, gold beads, red berries, and long drops of crystal. Under one, someone arranged boxes wrapped in red paper with gold bows, gold paper with red bows, as meticulously as if placing explosives.

  She saw what appeared to be miles of tiny white lights, acres of greenery, pounds of berries, and enough crystals to blind the sun.

  That didn’t count wreaths, filmy drapery, plants, or flowers.

  She thought about running away, dealing with Summerset’s righteous wrath. It could be worth it.

  She actually took one testing step in retreat.

  “Mrs. Roarke!”

  A woman burst through the swarm. She waved a tablet, streaked across the crowded floor on glittery airboots. What looked like a couple sets of painted chopsticks stuck out and up from her messily bundled hair.

  No retreat, Eve ordered herself. No surrender.

  “Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me, I’m just a little frantic. Ha. Ha. Ha.”