Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  The woman at the desk beamed a bright smile that dimmed when Eve badged her. “I need data on Quigley, Natasha. A Dr. Campo’s operating on her.”

  “The Patient Privacy Act—”

  “Is trumped.” Eve slapped her badge on the counter. “Quigley is the victim of an assault. I have a suspect in custody who killed another woman and attempted to kill Quigley. I need her status, and I need it now.”

  “I need to check your identification, and the identifications of those with you. Once verified, I can pass you through to the nursing station. The head nurse, Janis Vick, would be able to give you the information available to her.”

  “Do it.”

  While she did, Roarke wandered over to Vending. He knew the preferences, and offered Peabody and McNab fizzies, handed Eve a Pepsi.

  Before she could crack it open, the woman at the desk shifted back. “You’re verified. Straight through the double doors.”

  They buzzed, clicked, slowly swung open.

  More decorations, brighter lights, and the sound of rubber soles padding on tile. Eve smelled hospital, a scent that always hit the center of her gut. Sickness, antiseptics, heavy cleaners—and a metallic underpinning she thought of as fear.

  She moved to the wide semicircle of counter where some of the staff—all wearing a variation of a bright-colored tunic she supposed was meant to be cheerful—worked on ’links or comps.

  “Janis Vick.”

  A woman on a comp held up a finger. She had brutally short stone-gray hair with a snaking blue streak. Rising, she came around the counter.

  “Lieutenant Dallas? You want the status of Natasha Quigley. She’s still in surgery.”

  “That much I know.”

  “I can tell you there were some complications. Her BP dropped, and at one point her heart stopped. Dr. Campo found a second, smaller bleed. They were able to stabilize the patient while Dr. Campo closed the bleeds. While the patient has been downgraded to critical, the head surgical nurse reports the patient is, as I said, stabilized at this time.”

  “How much longer will she be in there?”

  “I can’t tell you that, but from what I can gather, the surgery should be done within the hour. From there, the patient will be monitored in Recovery. It could be two hours, or several hours, before she’s able to talk to you.”

  “What are her chances? You’re not head nurse on the surgical floor for nothing,” Eve pushed when Vick hesitated. “You have a gauge.”

  “I can tell you, the patient’s lucky. Dr. Campo, in my opinion, is the best neurosurgeon we have. With her performing the surgery, I’d give the patient strong odds. If you give me your contact information, I can see you’re notified when she’s in Recovery.”

  The best she’d get, Eve determined. They couldn’t wait hours to move on the rest.

  “You want to start on Copley,” Peabody said as they rode down to the lobby again. “I can do the notification. I can handle it,” she added when Eve glanced at her. “You can be working on Copley while we—McNab and me—head to Brooklyn, take care of that.”

  Eve cracked the soft drink tube, considered it. “It’ll save time. I’ll take the first pass at him while you notify next of kin. If I don’t crack him, first pass, we’ll try for Quigley again, take him on together. You need to get the mother, and have her pull in the sister so you can work her. Get them to tell you anything, I mean anything, the vic might have said about Ziegler, about Copley, Quigley. Get a sense of the connections. Everything plays now.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want transpo?”

  “Be nice,” Peabody said, then sighed. “But the subway’s probably quicker.”

  “Contact me once you have it done,” Eve ordered, and parted ways. “I don’t like dumping the notification on her. She’ll carry it longer than I would.”

  “I doubt that,” Roarke said. “You carry them all.”

  Claiming otherwise would be a lie, she admitted, and why bother. “I’ll waste my time saying this again, but you could go home.”

  “It’s never less than entertaining, watching you interrogate a suspect.”

  “Whatever floats.” She pulled out her ’link as he drove, contacted Mira. “Sorry to disturb you at home,” she began, “but you said you were interested in observing when I had Copley in the box.”

  After making arrangements with Mira she contacted Central to make certain Copley was where she wanted him.

  “Interview B,” she said when Roarke drove into Central’s garage. “Reo’s heading in. He used his one contact for his lawyer. Didn’t use it to check on his wife. The lawyer’s with him, making lawyerly noises.”

  “One expects no less.”

  Eve eyed the elevator with distrust, but got on. “The last time I was on this, Drunk Santa let loose a nuclear fart while showing me his grimy little dick.”

  “You lead such a colorful life.”

  “I’m pretty sure he puked right after I got off, because I heard they had to shut down this car for two hours.” She sniffed cautiously. “You can still sort of smell the detox.”

  “We can hope this ride proves less eventful.”

  As it did, she peeled off straight to her office. “I’m going to put a file together—DB, the first-on-scene’s record of Quigley, the scene itself, the nine-one-one.”

  “And Ziegler?”

  “Second file. I may hold that back, depending. He doesn’t know his wife’s status, and I can use that. His lawyer can’t access it—Patient Privacy Act—so they don’t know I haven’t interviewed her.”

  “You’ll lie.”

  “Fortunately, I can lie my ass off.” She checked the time. “He’s had a good long sweat, the lawyer’s told him to keep it zipped, but he won’t.”

  “He’s . . . excitable.” Roarke looked over at her. “You’ll use that.”

  “Damn straight. He doesn’t know what the hell’s going on regarding Quigley. He’ll have a story though, and he’ll want to tell it.”

  “And lawyer or not, you’ll make sure he does.”

  “That’s the plan.” She picked up the files. “If you get bored in Observation, I’ll find you. If you want to go home, just go.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her. “I’ll be here.”

  Armed with her files, she walked to Interview B, and went in.

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Copley, John Jake, regarding case files H-28901 and H-28902. Mr. Copley has exercised his right to legal representation.”

  “Edie McAllister with Silbert, Crosby, and McAllister, representing Mr. Copley.”

  “So noted.”

  “As Mr. Copley’s legal counsel I demand his immediate release.” She clipped the words out, all confident, outraged lawyer. “He’s been held here for nearly three hours. He’s been prevented from accompanying his injured wife to the hospital. He’s been prevented from contacting the hospital to learn his wife’s condition. This extreme hardship is—”

  “You are aware evidence strongly indicates Mr. Copley is responsible for his wife’s injuries?”

  “That’s a lie!” Copley banged his fist on the table, rattling the chains that secured him.

  “JJ.” The lawyer, a swirly-haired blonde in potent red, laid a hand on his. “You have no tangible evidence, and, in fact, have Mr. Copley’s own account that he found his wife unconscious. We strongly believe, and evidence will show, that Catiana Dubois assaulted Ms. Quigley, was killed during the struggle.”

  “If you’re thinking of that as your opening statement at the trial, it’s not going to get you far. Catiana Dubois came to your residence—your own security disc clearly shows this, and shows she was upset at this time. You let her in, you argued. You’ve got an impressive temper, Copley, which I can testify to personally. You pushed her. She fell, striking her head on t
he edge of the marble hearth in your living area.”

  “I never touched her. I barely know her. I never saw her.”

  “You didn’t see this?” Eve took the crime scene photo of Catiana from the file, tossed it on the table. “In your living area?”

  He glanced down at the file photo, quickly away again. “I meant I didn’t see her before. I didn’t let her in. I was upstairs. Natasha must have let her in.”

  “And, according to your fairy tale, Catiana subsequently attacked your wife. Why?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “Mr. Copley is unaware of any friction between his wife and the deceased.” McAllister spoke firmly, working to focus Eve’s attention on her and away from her client. “However, in her capacity as social secretary for Ms. Quigley’s sister, the deceased often inserted herself in personal affairs.”

  “How did she do that?” Ignoring the lawyer, Eve spoke to Copley directly. “I thought you barely knew her? Which is it, Copley? You barely knew her or she stuck her nose in your business?”

  “I didn’t pay any attention to her. She dealt with Tella’s social stuff, with women’s business.”

  “Define ‘women’s business.’”

  “Parties, shopping, lunches.” He shrugged it off. “Garden clubs and whatever women do.”

  Eve smiled toothily at McAllister. “Is that your business? Parties and lunches? Is that how you got your name on the letterhead? Going to garden clubs?”

  “Obviously, my client means the victim handled his sister-in-law’s social calendar.”

  “I think we both know what he meant, and that he’s a misogynistic asshole, but we’ll let that slide for now. Were you aware of any tension between your wife and the deceased?”

  “No. I don’t get into that sort of thing. But she attacked Tash. It’s obvious.”

  “Contrarily, it’s impossible.” Eve took out another photo. “As you see, there are ten feet, four inches between the deceased’s body and Ms. Quigley’s. Just how did Catiana DuBois manage to bash your wife over the head with this lead crystal vase while she was dead, ten feet, four inches away?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Copley snapped even as his lawyer ordered him to stay quiet. “That bitch attacked Tash, Tash fought back. The bitch fell, hit her head. Clear self-defense. Then Tash tried to get out, get to me, and only made it that far.”

  “Let’s have some fun with that. You’re already seeing it,” she said conversationally to McAllister. “Catiana attacks your wife, smacks her upside the head with this vase—the vase that’s here, cracked and bloody on the floor right beside your wife’s unconscious body. Then, somehow, with a fractured skull, with a brain bleed, your wife manages to struggle with the deceased, drive her across the room, where she conveniently falls and kills herself on the hearth. Then, in this miracle of physical determination, your wife gets back across the room, neatly hits the mark where she was attacked, and drops.”

  “She’s a strong woman.”

  “Her neurosurgeon agrees with you. She also says your creative scenario is impossible. Our reconstruction will back that up.”

  Eyes on him, Eve leaned back, kept her voice, her body language almost casual.

  “You argued with Catiana, you shoved her—like you shoved your golf buddy, Van Sedgwick, at your country club.”

  “That’s ridiculous. That’s a lie. He slipped. I never—”

  “Only you don’t have a handy water trap in your living area, so this shove resulted in Catiana Dubois’s fall, in her death.”

  Eve angled forward, just a little, hardened her tone, just a little. “Where did you go after? Did you panic, run off, trying to figure out how to cover it up? An accident, it had to look like an accident.”

  She built the edge—harder, stronger—tapping her fingers faster, faster, on the crime scene photo.

  “But when you came back in the room, Natasha had come in, had seen. She’s in the way, damn it! You had to get her out of the way. To shut her up, just shut her up, so you picked up the vase, charged at her.”

  “I was upstairs!” He shoved up, shook the table. “I heard Tash scream, and I ran down to help her. She’s my wife, you ignorant cunt.”

  “JJ, stop! Sit down, and stop. My client has nothing more to say at this time.”

  “Fine, let’s hear what Natasha Quigley has to say.”

  Eve set the mini recorder with its copy of the nine-one-one call on the table, ordered on.

  She’s dead! I think she’s dead! Oh my God, Cate. It’s . . . Wait, please. Oh God. This is Natasha Quigley at 18 Vandam. I need to report a— JJ! Oh, JJ, something terrible happened. JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don’t!

  Copley stared at the recorder, mouth agape.

  “You were too enraged to hear her.” Eve tapped the recorder. “Too caught up to think. It was act. Act now.”

  “That’s a fake. It’s a fake! She was on the floor when I ran in. She . . . there must have been someone else there. Someone else must have been there. Maybe he looked like me. She was upset. She . . . she wasn’t talking to me. She was . . . calling for me so I’d come help her.”

  “Maybe you need to hear it again.” Eve replayed, letting it run under Copley’s increasingly hysterical rants.

  “You’re doing this. It’s you, it’s you! You have it in for me. I knew it the minute you came into that meeting. You’re trying to frame me. Someone else was there. I was upstairs.”

  “JJ, we’re done,” McAllister said, all but physically holding him down in the chair. “Not another word. Do you hear me?”

  “Maybe it was more than rage, more than panic. Maybe you saw your chance. Kill her, kill them both, make it seem like they fought. It clears the path for you and Felicity.”

  “I didn’t . . . How do you know? . . . It was you! You’re the reason Felicity moved out, you’re the reason she won’t answer her ’link. You bitch! I could kill you!”

  “No handy blunt object.” Like Copley, Eve surged to her feet. She leaned in, leaned hard. “Ziegler knew, blackmailed you, and it’s never enough. It would never stop. You made it stop. Taught that ungrateful bastard a lesson. Catiana knew, wouldn’t listen to reason. You lost your temper, shoved her. Then it’s Natasha. It’s time to finish it. Just finish it. So you fractured her skull. You thought you’d finished it, would have finished it, but the cop’s at the door so fast, too fast.”

  She kept going, raising her voice over his rants, his lawyer’s shouts. “Girl cop at your door, stupid cunt, what the hell does she know? But she gets in your way, she won’t do what you tell her to do. You have to make your best pitch, it’s how you make your living. But it won’t work, Copley. It’s all right here.”

  She slapped her hand on the file. “It’s all right here. Ziegler.” She dug out the crime scene photo. “Catiana.” Slapped hers beside it. “Natasha.” Added the last. “But you left Natasha breathing. And she’s going to bury you.”

  His face glowed red. His eyes literally bulged. Eve half expected him to just explode, spewing flesh, brains, and fury all over the room.

  Instead, he collapsed, wheezing, with sweat slicking those bright red cheeks.

  “Get a medic!” McAllister ordered, and leaped to kneel beside him.

  Eve glanced toward the two-way glass, turned to the door, wrenched it open. In seconds Mira rushed in.

  “I’m a doctor. Lieutenant, some water?”

  “Shit. Mira, Dr. Charlotte, entering Interview to treat suspect. Dallas, exiting Interview for—”

  She broke off, took the bottle of water Roarke offered from the doorway.

  “Correction, Dallas remaining in Interview.”

  She cracked the water open, offered it to Mira.

  “Slow your breathing, Mr. Copley. Look at me now, you’re having an anxiety attack. Slow your breathing. Sip some of this.”
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br />   “Can’t breathe.” He wheezed, staring out with eyes the size of moons. “Can’t.”

  “Slowly. You need to take slow breaths. Lieutenant, send for a medic.”

  “Already done,” Roarke told Eve when she reached for her comm.

  “We’re going to get you some oxygen, Mr. Copley. That will help. We’re going to help you, and take you to the Infirmary.”

  “His heart,” McAllister began.

  “We’ll run all necessary tests, but this is a severe anxiety attack.”

  “Dying. Chest . . .”

  “You’re not dying,” Mira said calmly. “Look at me. Mr. Copley, look at me. I’m Dr. Mira. I want you to look at me, hear my voice.” She signaled for the med kit when the medic ran in. “Get his BP,” she murmured as she took out the oxygen mask, activated it. “I’m going to put this over your nose and mouth. Look at me, JJ. I want you to take slow breaths once I do. Slowly.”

  “Two-ten over one-ten, Doc. Benzodiazepine in the kit.”

  “Let’s wait a minute. JJ, I know your chest hurts, it’s difficult to get a breath. It will pass. Take those breaths, slow. That’s good, very good. You’re going to feel some relief in a moment. Breathe in. Let’s transport him down to the Infirmary.”

  “Will do. BP one-ninety over ninety. It’s leveling down.”

  “No one talks to him outside of my presence.”

  “Get a grip, McAllister,” Eve advised.

  “You badgered him into a heart attack! Don’t tell me to get a grip.”

  “Ms. McAllister, is it?” In that same calm tone, Mira shut the lawyer down. “Your client hasn’t had a cardiac incident but an anxiety attack, which is passing. We will, of course, examine, test, and treat him.”

  “I want him taken to the hospital immediately, and examined by his own physician.”

  “Not going to happen,” Eve countered, “unless Dr. Mira deems it necessary. Out here,” she ordered when McAllister started to protest.

  She stepped out, moved several feet away from the room. “Look, you and I both know the record will show he worked himself up into a rage that turned into a panic attack. Fricking apoplectic. Medical assistance was speedy, and medical treatment will continue. But he gets it in my house.”