Festive in Death (In Death #39)(102)

“I had my mates. That was family for me.”

“Mates. You think of that word first as lovers, that two-person connection. But it’s a good word for friends when you mean it. My sense is Tella and Catiana were mates. She loves her sister, feels close to her, but for the deep and down, she’d turn to the mate. She’d have told Catiana about what happened with Ziegler before she told her sister. And here’s what else. Neither of them much like Copley. They’d golf with him, hang out, go to parties, have family deals, but neither of them would have considered confiding in him. They wouldn’t have trusted him to keep a confidence. And it irked them he treated Catiana like a servant—but they sucked it up, mostly for the sister’s sake.

“And still,” she said when they arrived at the morgue. “Both of them claim, with apparent sincerity, they can’t conceive of Copley hurting anyone.”

“I think, speaking of general population and not cops, or me, most can’t conceive of someone they know well, are family with, killing anyone.”

“A lot of the general population are wrong.”

Eve strode briskly through the tunnel, and through the double doors of Morris’s room.

He wore a clear protective cape over a steel blue suit with steel- gray chalk stripes, a braided tie that twined the two tones. His dark hair slicked into three slim, stacked tails. He sat at a counter working at a comp while some sort of hymn soared through his music system like angel wings.

“Sorry to pull you in.”

“Don’t be. The nights are long; work shortens them. And her nights?” He rose, walked to where Catiana lay on a slab. “Are over. Filling in for Peabody?” he asked Roarke with a faint smile.

“I am.”

“I spoke with our favorite detective shortly ago. Catiana’s family is coming in soon. They don’t want to wait to see her until tomorrow. I’ve enough time to soften the worst.” He indicated the head gash. “She has no other injuries to speak of. The fall broke her nose, and as you can see, there’s some minor lacerations, contusions on her knees, forearms. They would have been incurred in the fall.”

“She went down hard.”

“The depth of the wound would indicate considerable force. The secondary wounds on her limbs? She didn’t have time to brace for the fall, to try to catch herself. She fell face-first, striking a solid edge.”

“Marble hearth.”

“Yes.”

“Tripped or shoved?”

“Hmm. It can be both. A slip’s unlikely, as unless she’d been impaired in some way—and I found no illegals or alcohol in the blood—she should have attempted to catch herself. Her palms would show some impact. Again the depth and width of the gash indicate force. I’d speculate she was shoved from behind, lost her footing—”

“She was wearing those high, skinny heels.”

“Harder to regain balance as heels, by construction, lean the body forward. She went down hard and fast, and had the very bad luck to have a marble ledge in the way of the fall. You won’t get Murder One on her. I found no sign of offensive or defensive wounds other than what I’ve told you.”

“No, I know it. Murder Two’s enough. Still. Are you sure about her being shoved from behind?”

“Highest probability given the angle of the wound, the lack of other injuries to the body.”

“She turned her back on him. Maybe walking away, except the fireplace is on the other side of the room from the doorway to the foyer. But she turned her back.”

“Pacing.”

Eve glanced at Roarke. “What?”

“Pacing. You do that when you’re thinking or upset. Stride away, back and away.”

“Huh. Yeah. She was upset, had gone there without telling her boss—and friend. Distracted. Got a date with the guy she’s in love with, but upset and distracted enough to stop off there first. Talking, pacing, and telling him—speculatively—something she’s figured out or knows that could implicate him with Ziegler. That’s what plays for me. And, like with Ziegler, he goes with the raging impulse of the moment. In this case, he pushes her. She falls hard and fast, and she’s dead. Blood coming fast, too. Head wound, you always get plenty of blood.”

Eve paced now, and the act of it made Roarke smile. “He left the room, had to leave the room or the wife would never have gotten so far on the nine-one-one call. Does he hear her? Maybe she screamed. People do when they walk in on blood and a body. So he rushes back in, sees her. And that rage is still pumping, so he goes after her. It’s what plays.”

“And fairly tidily,” Morris commented.

“Yeah, it’s the fairly I have to eliminate.”

“It’s going to be difficult for her family—the holidays. Difficult enough,” Morris continued, “to get through holidays after a loss, but when the loss is so closely connected to them, harder still.”

Hesitating, Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. “If they have any questions, you can tell them to contact me.”

“I will, but I should be able to answer most.”

“Okay, well. Listen, if you don’t have any plans for Christmas, you could hang with us.”

Morris looked at her. His eyes darkened a moment—a war of emotions. Then he crossed to her. “You won’t mind,” he said to Roarke, and laying his hands on Eve’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks, one then the other. “You don’t need to worry about me.”