Festive in Death (In Death #39)(43)

“Did he ever contact you at home, at your office?”

“What for?”

“I’m asking you.”

“I don’t remember anything like that. I’d see him a couple times a week at the gym. A couple times at the club when either I or Lance—my sister-in-law’s husband—set it up. Maybe once a week I’d get a massage from him. That’s it.”

“Are you nervous, Mr. Copley?”

“The cops are talking to me about a guy I knew that was killed. So, yeah, some. Plus I’ve got work waiting. I can’t tell you anything about what happened to Ziegler, so . . . if there’s more you should go through my lawyer. We’ll keep it smooth that way. Is that it?”

“For now.” Eve started for the door. “Oh, you mentioned your brother-in-law. But you didn’t mention your wife also used the deceased as a trainer and a massage therapist.”

“So what?”

“Interesting.” Leaving it as that, Eve started out.

She walked down the wide hallway again, through the doors, glanced at Peabody.

“He’s lying.”

“Oh yeah, he is.”

9

She wanted Copley in the box, Eve thought, but knowing in her gut he was lying didn’t equal proof. The minute she tapped him, he’d lawyer up. She didn’t begrudge him legal representation—rules were rules for reasons—but a lawyer was bound to block and dodge her questions, see she was on a fishing expedition.

But Copley was lying, and there was damn well a reason for that, too.

“We dig,” she told Peabody as they took the elevator up from the garage at Central. “We dig on Copley until we find enough to stand on, then we bring him in. He’s not going to talk to us again without a lawyer, so we find some holes.”

She checked her wrist unit for time as a couple of uniforms pulled in a heroically drunk Santa who looked—and smelled—like he’d spent some time rolling around in reindeer dung.

“Really? You couldn’t take that up the stairs a couple flights to the drunk tank?”

“Gotta take him up to Sex Crimes, Lieutenant. He—”

“Hey, little girl!” Drunk Santa sent Eve a bleary smile. “I got whatcha want for Christmas right here!”

He grabbed his crotch, pumped his hips, then spread open a slit in the dirty red pants to reveal an unfortunately grimy penis.

“That,” the uniform finished.

“I like ’em naughty!” Santa exclaimed, then broke fantastic wind.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Somebody crack a window!” Santa suggested, and added, “Ho, ho, ho!”

Eve did better. She leaped off the elevator on the next floor, one short step in front of Peabody. As the doors shut, she heard Santa bellow, “Merry Christmas to all!” right before the gagging noises.

“I think that was alive.” Cautiously Peabody sniffed at her own sleeve. “We may need detox. Uniforms don’t get paid enough.”

“Nobody gets paid enough around here. Send a departmental memo. Nobody rides in that car for a month. That should be about long enough. I’m not kidding,” she added when Peabody laughed.

“On it.”

“Meanwhile, back to murder. We dig on Copley. His business, his marriage, his finances, any priors no matter how minor. His politics, his religion, his favorite f**king color. Everything.”

“You think maybe Ziegler was blackmailing him.”

“It’s possible,” Eve said as she and Peabody stepped onto a glide. “It’s just as possible his wife’s fling with Ziegler wasn’t as discreet as she thinks. Let’s get a couple of uniforms over to Ziegler’s building with a shot of Copley. Maybe we’ll find somebody who saw him visit Ziegler’s apartment. We just need to find one lie to deepen the hole.”

“He struck me as too weenie. Shit! I wish I hadn’t said weenie because it makes me think of that sick pervert’s weenie. Do we smell like Drunk Santa fart?”

“If we did, people would be diving off this glide like lemmings.”

“You’re right.” Still, Peabody took another cautious sniff of her sleeve. “We escaped in time. I need a replacement for the W word. Copley struck me as too wussy. There, a W for a W.”

“Wussies kill, too.” Eve stepped off the glide, headed for Homicide. “He finds out his wife’s been doing the trainer. He thinks: That ass**le’s f**king my wife, laughing at me behind my back. I’m paying him, and he’s doing my wife. I took him golfing at my club, for Christ’s sake. Who the f**k does he think he is?”

“He’d be pissed,” Peabody agreed. “Anybody’d be pissed.”

“He goes to Ziegler’s place to confront him—or maybe if he really is a wuss, he goes to plead with Ziegler to break it off. Either way, why wouldn’t Ziegler let him in? ‘Hey, man, I’m packing, but come on back. What’s up?’”

“Copley says, ‘You’ve been banging my wife. It has to stop.’”

“Maybe. And maybe Ziegler starts off denying, maybe not,” Eve speculated. “Maybe he pushes for money. ‘Just providing a service. I can stop the service, but you have to make up the fee.’ Simple business transaction. Ziegler’s not worried about this guy. Hell, he’s the trainer. ‘Your wife was happy to pay, so if you don’t want me providing the service, cough it up.’”