Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Good enough.”

  “Word is, her husband whacked her.”

  “He’s in custody.”

  “I had one of those once—a husband. Instead of whacking him, and it was tempting, I divorced him.”

  “The simple reason you’re not in custody.”

  “Still wish he was. Okay, this way. We see too much domestic bullshit in here,” Campo said as she led them down a wide corridor. “Not as much as you, I expect, but plenty. Makes me wonder why people don’t need to take a psych test before they get a marriage license.”

  Campo’s demeanor changed from leaning toward irascible to gentle as she walked into 600.

  The scent of roses from the huge bouquet across from the bed nearly overpowered the sticky scent of hospital.

  Natasha lay in the bed, the head lifted to support her in an incline. Pristine white bandages covered the right side of her head and wrapped around her forehead, but didn’t quite cover all the purpling bruising. Her hair lay over her left shoulder in a loose braid. Without enhancement, with the strain of the last hours, she looked older and more delicate.

  Beside her, Martella sat in a roomy sleep chair, her sister’s hand in hers, eyes exhausted.

  “Doctor—oh, the police already. She’s sleeping. She needs to sleep.” Moving slowly, Martella released her sister’s hand, rose to walk quietly across the room that more closely resembled a good hotel suite than a hospital. “Can you come back? She’s just had all these tests. She’s worn out. Lance ran out to get her some Greek yogurt, some berries. You said that was all right?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Campo told her, patted Martella’s shoulder as she moved over to study the numbers on the machines. “She’s stable. Martella, you should get some rest yourself, and some food.”

  “I will. I will. But I don’t want to leave her until—”

  “Tella.”

  Natasha’s voice, barely more than a whisper, had Martella rushing back to the bedside. “I’m right here. Don’t worry, I’m right here.”

  “Ms. Quigley.”

  “Who is that?” Natasha turned her head. Her right eye showed more bruising and severe swelling from the blow. “Oh. Yes. I know you.”

  “Are you up to answering some questions?” Eve asked her.

  “I can try.”

  “You don’t need to tire yourself, Tash,” Martella began.

  “It’s all right. I want to know what happened. It’s all so confusing. Catiana? Is Cate really dead? It seems like a terrible dream.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I was upstairs. I was upset, still a little upset from when you’d been there before. JJ was home. Yes, that’s right, he’d come home. He’d been . . . Where had he been?”

  “Golfing,” Martella reminded her. “With Lance.”

  “That’s right. Yes. What did we talk about? I’m not sure. I just can’t quite remember. Then . . . I was downstairs. Was I looking for him? I went into the living area, and—and I saw . . . I saw Cate.”

  Tears blurred her eyes, clogged her voice. “I saw her by the fireplace. There was blood, so much blood. I ran over. Did I scream? I don’t know. I ran over, I turned her over, but it was too late. So much blood, and her eyes . . . Oh, Tella.”

  “Ssh, ssh.” Martella pressed kisses to her sister’s hand. “Don’t think about it anymore.”

  “You turned her over?” Eve persisted.

  “Yes. I think . . . It’s all so cloudy and in pieces. I think I did—trying to help her, but . . . I think I screamed. In my head, my head was full of screams. I needed to get help. I think I tried to get help. Did I scream for JJ? I think . . .”

  “Do you remember calling nine-one-one?”

  “I . . . Yes!” She struggled up a little higher in the bed. “Yes, yes. I called for help. Oh thank God, I called for help. I called for help, but . . .”

  Her eyes filled with more tears, more confusion. And fear. “Something happened. Something . . . someone.” Her free hand lifted to the bandages.

  “Who struck you, Ms. Quigley?”

  “I . . .” The drenched eyes evaded. “I can’t remember. It’s not clear. I can’t say because it’s not clear. I can’t remember.”

  “Ms. Quigley, we have the nine-one-one recording.”

  Her gaze darted to Eve, away again. “I can’t remember. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m tired. Tella, I’m tired.”

  “You have to leave now,” Tella said. “You have to leave her alone now.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Ms. Quigley.” Dr. Campo moved in. “You did very well. You get some more rest, and I’ll be back to check on you later. Lieutenant, Detective, that’s all for now.”

  “You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” Peabody said before they left the room. “You’re safe now.”

  In response, Natasha choked out a sob, turned her head away.

  Unsatisfied, Eve glanced back toward 600. “Why not tell us? She’s lying. She remembers. Why not just tell us?”

  “Confused, conflicted, scared. Here you’re trying to save your marriage—you know you’ve both screwed up, but you’re trying to patch it back together. And in one big reveal, you find out your husband’s a killer, and he tries to kill you. Add in scandal, embarrassment, media frenzy.”

  Eve added annoyance to dissatisfaction. “What kind of world does she live in where a woman’s embarrassed her husband tried to kill her? Where scandal—which is inevitable considering Catiana’s in the morgue—weighs over telling the cops: Holy shit, my husband tried to kill me. Lock him up and protect me.”

  “An old money world, I guess.” They rode back down to the garage. “She’s been through a big trauma, and maybe—yeah, she’s lying—but maybe she’s also convinced herself she’s really not clear, not sure. She’s going to come around when she’s steadier.”

  “Either way.” Eve shook her head. “We keep tabs on her, regular updates on her status. If they even think about the possibility of releasing her, we know about it.”

  “Pretty good bet she’s going to spend Christmas in the hospital. At least it’s a swank room.”

  “Hospital’s a hospital. We hit Copley, because if she doesn’t come around, it’s going to stick up the works. Let’s pull Reo in, get the legal take on worst case, but we hit him and we work him, and we tie this up.”

  But when she walked into the Homicide bullpen, Jenkinson hailed her. “Yo, LT. There’s a guy waiting in the lounge—Steven Dorchester. He wants to talk to you. Says he’s Catiana Dubois’s boyfriend.”

  “Okay. I’ll take him,” she said to Peabody. “Set up the interview, contact Reo. Might as well give Mira the heads-up, too.”

  She stood for a moment, studying a couple fake ears of corn now hanging on the pathetic tree.

  “Isn’t the corn thing Thanksgiving? Why is fake corn hanging on that tree?”

  “For Kwanza,” Jenkinson told her. “Trueheart said it’s one of the seven symbols. He looked it up. We’re all-inclusive in Homicide, ’cause whatever your race, color, or creed, you can get dead.”

  “We should write that up under a Merry Christmas sign.”

  Eve made her way to the lounge with its scatter of tables, and vending machines. Somebody cursed at one, gave it a punch with the side of his fist. Knowing she wasn’t the only one to war with those machines cheered her right up.

  She scanned a few cops, a couple talking quietly with civilians. Then the man sitting alone, staring down at his own folded hands.

  She crossed to him. “Mr. Dorchester.”

  He looked up at her out of red-rimmed eyes. “Yes. I’m Steven Dorchester. You’re Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “That’s right. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Dorchester.”

  “Steven. It’s Steven. I . . . keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’s all
going to be a terrible dream. Or it’s just some horrible mistake. But . . .”

  He went back to staring at his hands when Eve sat across from him.

  Strong face, she thought, though the strain showed. Longish hair, a few reddish streaks through the dark brown, a single silver stud through his right earlobe, a trio of stars inked on the back of his right wrist.

  Something artistic about him, she thought. Someone good with his hands. She speculated on it, considered he and Catiana would have made an attractive couple, while she waited for him to compose himself and speak.

  “There’s nothing I can do. I’m going over to see her family this morning, be with them, but there’s nothing any of us can do. She’s gone.” He looked up again. “I know there’s probably not much you can tell me, but if there’s anything . . . I’m going to be with her family.”

  “I can tell you I’ll do everything I can to see that the person responsible for taking her from you, from her family, who took her life, is punished to the full extent of the law. There may be something you can do to help.”

  “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

  “When did you last see or speak with Catiana?”

  “Yesterday morning, when she left for work. We went to a party Saturday night, and she stayed at my place. We were . . . we were going out last night, then going back to my place again. Sort of an early Christmas, just the two of us, because we were going to the parents’ tonight. Mine, then hers. We were spending Christmas Eve at her mother’s, the night, I mean. They have a big deal, so we were staying, and we were going to have our own little Christmas last night. But . . .”

  “Can you tell me if she was upset about anything? Worried about anything?”

  “No. She was great. We were great. I . . .” He reached in his pocket, took out a pretty little box. “I made this for her. I do some silverwork, and I made this for her. I was going to give it to her last night.”

  He opened the box. Inside a small, intricate key hung on a delicate chain.

  “It’s beautiful work.”

  “It’s the symbol—the key. I was going to ask her to move in with me. We said we were taking it slow, but I wanted her to move in with me. So, the key. For her.

  “How did this happen?”

  “When I have all the details, I promise I’ll tell you. Did she talk to you about Trey Ziegler?”

  “Yeah. Jerk. That was her word for him. He put some moves on her. She gave him the brush-off, so he spread it around she went for girls. Like if she brushed him off she didn’t go for men. Didn’t bother her. Why would it? I went by the gym a couple times, just to give him the needle. Probably shouldn’t have.”

  “You talked about his murder.”

  “Yeah. It shook her up some. She didn’t like him, but still.” He stroked the key, still in its box, with his finger. “She has a soft heart.”

  “Did she talk to you about who she thought may have killed him?”

  “We played that game, you can’t help it, right? And after—when it came out what he did to Tella, and Cate said he did the same with other women, we figured one of them found out and did it. Or one of their husbands or friends, you know. It’s why she went to work on Sunday, even though she could’ve taken the day off. She wanted to be around for Tella.”

  “You didn’t talk to her on Sunday after she left for work?”

  “No. We were supposed to meet at eight for dinner, at this place we like, and she didn’t show up. I tried to reach her, but she didn’t answer her ’link. I went by her place, but she wasn’t there. I even went to the Schuberts’ place, but they weren’t there, either. Then her sister . . . Her sister tagged me, and she told me. And everything just stopped. Everything stopped. I don’t know if it’ll ever start again.”

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks, no. I don’t think I could swallow anything.”

  “Steven, can you tell me how she felt about Natasha Quigley, JJ Copley?”

  “She got along fine with them. She was really tight with Tella, and she and Tella’s sister got along fine. She didn’t much like the husband. She said he was a little bit of a prick.” He smiled a little. “She had opinions. She’d help Ms. Quigley out now and then.”

  “Like for her holiday party.”

  “Yeah, like that. I got to go, and it was okay. A little stiff for me, if you know what I mean. But she’d help out like that now and then. With parties, sending out invites, or thank-yous if Ms. Quigley was slammed. She didn’t mind. She liked the job.”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t help any.”

  “You did. You’ve given me a good picture of her. Who she was, how she was. I hope it helps you to know she matters to me. Getting justice for her matters.”

  “Did you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Just one day.” His red-rimmed eyes, swimming with tears, bored into hers. “Even just a few hours. If I’d said, Please don’t go to work today—or Hey, I’ll go with you. Something. It wouldn’t have happened. Did you ever wish you could do that, just turn the clock back?”

  “All the time.”

  When he left, Eve went into her office to shake off his grief. It wouldn’t help in interview.

  “Knock, knock.” Cher Reo walked in. The pretty blonde with Southern roots might have looked delicate, but Eve knew she could be an Amazon in court. “I was in the building, keeping close in case. Give me coffee and we’ll talk John Jake Copley.”

  “Help yourself. You got the report. No sign of break-in, just him in the house with dead body and unconscious wife. Wife’s nine-one-one call that clearly speaks his name.”

  “I listened to it myself.” With her coffee, Reo walked over, sat in Eve’s desk chair. “I’m not sitting in that awful visitor’s chair. You talked to the wife this morning?”

  “She’s awake, maybe a little confused yet.” Eve relayed the gist of the interview. “She won’t pull the trigger,” Eve finished. “Won’t confirm Copley struck her.”

  “Could be a little problem.”

  “The nine-one-one recording—”

  “Oh, we’ll use the hell out of it, but if I were his lawyer I’d use it, too. I’d claim the victim was in shock, in fear, was calling for her husband, was then attacked, and this unknown assailant fled.”

  “How—the cam clearly shows—”

  “Out a window, into a hidey-hole until he or she could slip out undetected. It’s weak, Dallas, and I can promise we’ll tear it to shreds, but it could be a little problem. A confession eliminates that little problem. We’d deal the murder to Man One—”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Listen. Man One on Dubois, assault with intent on the wife. He does twenty-five—no parole. Another ten concurrent on the wife. Again, if I were his lawyer, I’d take it. Saves a trial, eliminates the possibility of life in a cage. Twenty-five years is a good long time.”

  “Catiana Dubois won’t get another twenty-five.”

  “Nothing we do changes that. But consider how a man like Copley will deal with a quarter of a century in prison.”

  He’d cry and wail and blubber like a little girl—but it wasn’t enough. “I’ll get him on Ziegler, too.”

  “If you get him on Ziegler, deal’s out.” To illustrate, Reo flicked her fingers in the air. “That’s two murders and one attempted. Murder Two on both, but the addition of the knife in the heart? The jury will be appalled, I promise you. But you have to get him, and right now, you don’t have him.”

  “The day’s young.”

  “You can tag me until eight. After eight, I’m off the clock and I mean it, until December twenty-sixth. Tie him up before that, we’ll put a bow on it. Otherwise, have yourself a merry little Christmas. I mean that, too.” She rose, patted the bag Eve had given her. “I love this.”

  When she sauntered out, Eve kicked her desk. �
�Man One, my ass!” She thought of Steven Dorchester and the key he’d made, put in a pretty little box. Fuck Man One.

  She strode out. “Peabody! With me. Let’s do this,” she said as Peabody scrambled up from her desk.

  “His lawyer’s not here.”

  “Then she better hustle.”

  Eve pushed open the door of Interview B. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, entering interview with Copley, John Jake.”

  “I’m not talking to you without my lawyer.”

  “Then don’t talk.” Eve tossed down her files, played the nine-one-one call, hit replay, hit it again.

  On the third play he broke, just a little. “She was calling for me, calling for my help. Anybody who hears it will know that.”

  “Really? I heard it, that’s not what I know. Peabody?”

  “Didn’t sound like that to me. Just the opposite.”

  “Of course, that’s just the two of us. We could take a poll,” Eve suggested to Peabody. “I’m betting people who hear it—like say a jury—hear what we hear. Just like they’ll hear what we heard when we talked to Natasha this morning.”

  “You talked to her? What did she say?”

  Eve shook her head. “He wants us to answer his questions, Peabody, but he won’t answer ours. Doesn’t strike me as what you’d call equitable.”

  “I want to know what she said! Does she know I’m in here, in this place? Does she know what you’re trying to pull?”

  He banged both fists on the table. Working himself up to another tantrum, Eve thought, and turned casually to Peabody.

  “So, when does your shuttle leave?”

  Peabody smiled. “We’re catching one at six, if we can clear things. But we’ll catch a later one if we have to. How about you and Roarke? Big dinner out? Quiet evening at home?”