Festive in Death (In Death #39)(42)

She’d much rather screw those meetings up by flipping out her badge.

Which she did at the glossy gold reception counter of ImageWorks.

A trio worked the counter, all in dark suits, all with perfect grooming and toothy, professional smiles.

The sleek brunette’s smile didn’t waver a fraction. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped the badge. “Dallas. With Detective Peabody. We need to speak with John Jake Copley.”

“Mr. Copley, of course.” She tapped nails painted cold, hard blue on her screen. “I’m showing Mr. Copley in the executive lounge for a strategy meeting. But he does have a few minutes free later this afternoon where I can schedule you in.”

“Do you see this?” Eve held up the badge again. “This is my strategy meeting. Where’s the executive lounge?”

“It’s through the double doors to your right, down to the end of the hall, to the left, through the double doors, and—”

“I’ll find it,” Eve said.

“But . . . It’s for executives,” the brunette said as Eve turned away.

Eve merely held up her badge again, kept walking.

“I really love that part,” Peabody said. “I’m a little ashamed, but I can’t help it.”

They passed doors, both opened and closed, busy hives of cubes, turned the corner, passed a staff lounge with Vending and a couple sofas, a wall screen scrolling through ads.

Things quieted through the next set of doors.

Eve nodded at yet one more set. “Odds are,” she said, and strode to them, pulled them open.

Laughter poured out.

On the wall screen a golfer teed off on the eleventh hole under sunny skies on a course green as Ireland. Around the room men—but for a lone woman who looked bored and annoyed—sat or stood with drinks in hand.

JJ Copley stood in front of the screen, teeing up just as his CGI counterpart. Handsome and fit in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, he swung. On screen, his avatar perfectly mirrored the move—and sent the little white ball soaring—over a sand trap, over a sparkling blue pond, and onto the edge of the eleventh green.

Raucous applause ensued.

“And that’s how it’s done.” Grinning, he turned toward another fit and handsome man holding a club, then spotted Eve.

“Ladies? Can I redirect you?”

“Copley, John Jake?”

“Guilty.”

“Well, that makes it easy.” Eve took out her badge again. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Whoa, whoa!” He laughed, but this time a little nervous around the edges. “What’s all this about?”

“Murder,” Eve said flatly. “Trey Ziegler.”

“Oh, right, right. Damn shame. I’d be happy to sit down with you in, say, thirty? We’re in a strategy session.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Now works for me. Does now work for you, Detective Peabody?”

“Yes, sir, it does. This room works, too, but then so does Central.”

“Yeah.” Eve stared into Copley’s eyes. “Either way.”

“Fine, then, fine. Never let it be said I didn’t cooperate with the boys—or girls—in blue. Fellas, give me the room for a few minutes. Guys—oh, and Marta—I need the room. We’ll take this up as soon as I’m finished.”

Eve watched the lone woman shoot Copley a look of cool dislike before she filed out with the rest.

“Have a seat. What can I get you?”

“Answers.”

“No problem there.” He dropped down onto a black sofa. “It looked like we were goofing off, but the fact is we represent the company—and the spokesman—for the games. A new set of interactive sports games and training vids they hoped to launch next spring. We’re working in tandem with the ad company on a smooth launch. You gotta know the product to rep the product.”

“Sure. Tell me about your relationship with Trey Ziegler.”

“He’s—he was—my personal trainer. Damn good one, too. I worked with him at my gym. Buff Bodies.”

“And outside of the gym?”

“We played golf a couple of times. He loved the game. He and my brother-in-law and I played a few times. Treated him to a round, some drinks, that sort of thing.”

“When was the last time you were in his apartment?”

“I . . . Why would I go to his apartment?”

“You tell me.”

“I never went there. No reason to. He was a damned good trainer, worked you until you wanted to cry like a girl. Gave a good massage, too. Pretty good golfer. But we weren’t buddies, if that’s what you mean.”

He rose, walked to the wet bar, poured himself a tall glass of water, squeezed a lemon slice into it. “Sure?” He tipped the glass right and left.

“Yes. When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?”

“I guess it would’ve been Monday morning, regular session with him at the gym. I actually had one scheduled yesterday, but they tagged me, told me he’d been killed. That was a shocker,” Copley added, drank deep.

“Did he ever ask you for money? Hit you for a loan?”

“Money?” Copley drank again, slid one hand into his pocket, jiggled whatever he carried in there. “No. I always slipped him some extra after a massage, but he never had his hand out. Look, I liked the guy. He was a good trainer, so I liked working with him. I gave him a couple perks—golf at the club, like that. We had some laughs on the course. That’s it.”