Festive in Death (In Death #39)(117)

“You weren’t home at the time Ziegler died. Catiana looked for you, couldn’t find you.”

“I was home. Of course I was home. Dozens of people saw me.”

“And when I interview them, each and every one, none of them will be able to verify you were there between six and seven that evening because you were rushing over to Ziegler’s apartment, killing him, and rushing back again.”

“I was home,” Natasha said coldly. “You’ll never prove otherwise.”

“Sure we will. And yesterday Catiana realized it. Talking with your sister, she started putting it together. Started wondering why she couldn’t find you in the house, why you’d canceled your hair and face time. Six to seven-thirty, according to your hair and skin techs. But she was loyal, Natasha. She didn’t run to me, to the police, she went to you. She went hoping you’d explain. But you couldn’t explain.”

“Tella, please. Call the nurse. My head hurts.”

“Tash.” Slowly, Martella eased back from the bed. “Oh my God, Tash. It can’t be true. Not Cate. You couldn’t.”

“But she did. She had to protect herself. Maybe you offered her money. She’d be shocked, insulted. You couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut, so you argued, you threatened. You shoved her. Did you mean to kill her or was it just a happy accident?”

Natasha shook her head, looked pleadingly at her sister. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. Believe me.”

“I think it was violent impulse,” Eve continued. “Like Ziegler. And like Ziegler, you couldn’t leave it at that. After you turned her over, made sure she was dead, you knew just how to use it all to your advantage. You could get rid of JJ—have him locked away like he deserved for cheating on you with that little stripper with the big tits. It would take some guts, but you’ve got them. So you made the nine-one-one call. You could claim you blocked video in your rush, your shock. You faked an attack, using your husband’s name. Then you dropped the phone, crushed it. You got your guts up, picked up that vase. You screamed—alerting JJ, boosting your adrenaline, then you struck yourself as hard as you could manage. Harder than you should have. It nearly killed you. You nearly died for pride and ego and payback to a cheating spouse.

“Was it worth it?”

“Every bit.”

When Martella began to weep, Roarke put an arm around her, looked at Lance. “You should take her out. She shouldn’t be here now.”

“Come on, darling. Come on now.”

“Go on! You always were the weak one,” Natasha called after her. “Go crying to Daddy, like you used to.”

Martella stopped, looked back. “You’re my sister.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “But she was my best friend. Cate. I’ll never forgive you for Cate.” And she walked away.

“Staff.” Natasha leaned back. “Anyone who makes friends or family out of paid staff is a fool.” She looked at Eve. “I was under duress. My husband’s petty cruelties and neglect, a lover flaunting his flings. I had a breakdown.”

“You can play that tune.”

“A breakdown. What happened with Trey that day? It’s as if someone else was inside my body. I couldn’t control myself. Catiana? She slipped. We were talking. I was upset, of course, but she slipped, fell. I was in shock. Again, out of my mind. No one in their right mind would strike themselves that way.”

“You’re going to learn the difference between legally sane and just being a cold, vicious, selfish bitch.”

“I’m in the hospital. I nearly died. I have a great deal of money to pay hard-hitting lawyers. No one mourns for Trey but me. And Catiana? She slipped.”

“You’re a good liar, but with the evidence I’m going to have stacked up against you, even your lies will sink. Natasha Quigley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Trey Ziegler, for the murder of Catiana Dubois, human beings. Additional charges will include but not be limited to obstruction of justice, lying to a police officer during an investigation. You will be held here, under guard until such time as you can safely be transported to prison to await trial.”

“I’ll get out on bail.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Eve took out her restraints, stepped forward.

“Stay away from me. You can’t use those on me.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that, either.” Eve grabbed one of her wrists, managed to block the swipe of nails forearm to forearm. “Add resisting arrest to the aforesaid charges.” She let the slap come, though the woman had some punch to her. “And a little icing for me with assaulting a police officer. Which allows me to—”

She took out a second pair of restraints, cuffed Quigley’s other wrist.

“I’ll have your badge for this.”

“What you’ll have is a crappy life in a cage. Your cheating putz of a husband is probably going to get a nice chunk of your money after all. Your name and face are going to be splashed all over the media, and the only social club you’ll belong to is Big Nellie’s Bitch-Slapping Circle. You’ll be the mascot. Merry Christmas.”

“Big Nellie?” Roarke asked as they walked out.

“First thing that came to mind. Officer.” She signaled the uniform she’d ordered for the duty. “Sit on her. I’ve got you on four-hour rotations, so you won’t miss Christmas altogether.”