Festive in Death (In Death #39)(50)

“Not at all, but I will now.” In her office he opened the wall slot, chose a bottle of wine. “A good, hearty red. How about a steak? All the mingling between meetings meant I missed lunch altogether. I’m starving.”

“I could go for steak. It’s the first thing I ever ate in this house. Why did I remember that now?”

“Holiday sentiment.”

“I love you.”

He set the bottle aside, stepped over to gather her in. “It’s always lovely to hear you say it.”

“I thought of it today when I was listening to, watching the Schuberts. They love each other. I could see it, clear as water, because I can feel it, all the way through me. So I don’t think they’re involved with Ziegler’s murder. Which is stupid because loving each other doesn’t mean one of them didn’t bash Ziegler then shove a knife in him.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t. But I’m a little worried about that holiday sentiment. I never used to have it.”

“A by-product of having love, and home.” He drew her back. “And life.”

“I guess so. I’ll get dinner.”

“No, you deal with the wine and I’ll get dinner, or else there’ll be nothing on the plates but steak and potatoes.”

“Why does there have to be anything else?”

“Because I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But she opened the wine, poured for both of them.

“Let me tell you about Martella’s social secretary.”

As they sat, she went over it from the start.

“I believed her,” Eve said. “There was something so upfront and clear-eyed about it. And still, it’s so damned convenient. No way I can prove or disprove what she told me, and it lays on the pattern, gives Martella, even the husband, some cover.”

“And still you believe her.”

“Do I just want to? Maybe I’m losing my cynical edge.”

“Never.” Laughing, he toasted her. “You’re a cop through and through, Lieutenant. Your cynicism and your instincts remain solid. To me, the story sounds plausible, and slides right into the pattern of your victim’s behavior. She’s attractive, this Catiana?”

“A stunner. More a stunner than her employer, and I got no vibe—not even a sniff of one—of interest between her and the husband.”

“But you’re going to run her.”

“Sure.”

“There’s my point.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Your cynicism remains intact.”

“Whew. So the sister.” Eve cut more steak, considered it another miracle she could indulge in actual cow meat on any sort of regular basis. “Yesterday she says nothing went on between her and Ziegler. I let it go because we got information from Martella, but it didn’t jibe, not altogether. And it fit less when we confirmed Ziegler used the drug on several women, did the extracurricular with several more for pay. And the straight sex for pay? He exploited female clients with money, and looks, and with about ten to fifteen years on him. Rich older women with time and money to spend. Natasha Quigley fit that criteria, but she wants to say nothing happened?”

“Not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall in bed with a gigolo.”

“Gigolo.” Experimentally, she let it roll over her tongue. “That word’s too fun and fancy for Ziegler.”

“You prefer?”

“Scumf*ck, but back to the point. Sure, not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall, but she fit his pattern of mark right down the line. So if she’d said, yeah, he made the moves, but she doesn’t pay for sex, or she gets so much sex at home she can’t handle more, or anything that rang true, okay. A dozen ways she could have played it, but she played it wrong, so I knew damn well she’d done it with him.”

She ate, lifted her glass, then grinned. “Hey, you’re right. Cynicism intact.”

“And instincts correct, I take it.”

“Yeah, she spilled it once I popped the cork. Rough patch in the marriage. That’s par for the course, right? I don’t get using that as an excuse to play around.”

Playfully, he walked his fingers up the back of her hand. “Which is why you’re not naked on the street, my darling Eve.”

“Two can say that. Anyway, made a mistake, blah blah. Trying to fix the marriage, please don’t tell my clueless spouse or he’ll leave me and so on. Tells me he never dosed her, but she willingly accepted, booked a hotel suite, paid him for services rendered. But she was done with it when she and her husband decided to try to patch things up, and how they’re taking a trip after the holidays.”

“She thinks lying to him, deceiving him about this, will improve things?”

Pleased he had the same reaction, the same question, she scooped up a bite of some sort of creamy potato. “A lot of people think that way. When I nudged her on what would he do if he knew, she claimed he’s not violent. But there was a little hesitation. And with some checking I found he’s got a quick fuse. Nothing really physical, but a lot of mouth that’s gotten him in trouble.

“And he’s an ass**le.”

“What sort? There are so many kinds,” Roarke pointed out.

“That’s so true. Misogyny, which is just a fancy word for a man who treats women like props or lesser conveniences. He was nervous when we talked to him, but snotty, too. I don’t think he cared for being interrogated by a couple of ‘girls.’”