Festive in Death (In Death #39)(55)

“He’s got a side piece.”

When she started to rise, Roarke simply wrapped his arms around her. “I’m not done. Keep looking.”

She’d have looked better if she could get up, move, but she settled back. After all, he’d done the work.

“Cash withdrawals, three weeks running—back six weeks—for five thousand each. Paying somebody off? Has to be the vic. Wait, wait—it doubles at that three-week mark. Weekly again, but for ten thousand each. That’s not walking-around money.”

“Perhaps he walks in very rarified areas.”

“I’m calling bullshit there. That’s payoff, and it jibes with the accounting McNab pulled off Ziegler’s comp.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?” Roarke complained.

“Lost in the details, sorry. I just went over it before I came in. McNab pulled a kind of ledger from the vic’s home comp. Amounts, initials, he had them listed as legit services. Training, consults, massages—but that’s your bollocks.”

“Not mine.”

“Anybody’s. He also rated some—which have to be the sex scales—with a star system. He gave Kira Robbins two and a half out of three.”

“Your victim truly was more than a bit of a pig.”

“Yeah, but my pig. I’ve got these amounts corresponding to the initials JJ—listed as private training sessions. Didn’t figure they were. Can’t prove they weren’t. But seeing he withdrew the amounts, in cash, from hidden accounts? That says payoff loud and clear. It says, to me, Ziegler found out about the side piece, Copley paid him to keep it shut, then Ziegler got greedy. Doubled the payoff. Could start to piss you off. Maybe he wanted more yet.

“I need the side piece. I need to talk to her.”

“That I can’t get you.”

“Yeah, you can—have. You got hotels, restaurants, boutiques, the love nest. Somebody at those places knows her. I can find her. I will find her, and Copley will have told her something. Who can he bitch to about Ziegler hosing him, or his wife? His sex buddy.”

She circled around. “His wife claims they were mending things, that he suggested they take a trip. Maybe he’s broken it off with the side piece. That would piss her off, wouldn’t it? Nest just got feathered, and now he’s doing what a cheating husband usually does, runs back to his wife. His rich wife. Too much pressure from Ziegler,” she speculated. “And he caved.”

“You’re putting another suspect on your board. The mistress.”

“Mistress is too nice a word for a woman who lets some cheating bastard buy her shoes. I prefer lazy, greedy bitch.”

“Harsh, without knowing circumstances. Perhaps she loves the cheating bastard.”

“Nobody loves a cheating bastard. He has hidden accounts, he has a separate address, a side piece, and very likely he’s been paying his personal trainer blackmail. He definitely tops the list, with the wife and the greedy, lazy bitch right up there.

“Maybe she knew.”

“I’m going to assume you mean the wife.”

“Yeah.” Eve nodded, lining it up in her head. “She knows he’s got something going on the side. They mostly know even if they don’t know exactly. It causes tension in the marriage. Separate bedrooms.”

“Separate bedrooms is more than tension,” Roarke commented. “It’s a fracture in the foundation.”

“Yeah, Feeney said the same. So you’ve got your crater, or your fractured foundation,” she continued. “But Copley’s happy screwing the side piece so he’s fine not having to screw his wife. Except now he’s getting pressure. From the wife who retaliates by having sex with their mutual trainer, and is maybe thinking f**k this marriage. Maybe from the side piece who wants him to leave the wife, and he doesn’t want that because, lots and lots of money, and the prestige of the Quigley name and social status. He wouldn’t want to give that up. Then there’s Ziegler adding more pressure. Doubled the amount . . .”

“Copley ends it, or tries to, with the side piece,” Roarke suggested, “and that ups the ante. It’s more important now that little interlude be kept quiet.”

“Good thinking.”

“All in all, a sordid bit of business. I’m surprised the morgue’s not littered with bodies of the participants.”

“It’s not over yet. I still need to talk with Robbins. She fits fairly neatly. But Copley, he’s just tailor-made.”

Considering, Eve shifted, slid an arm around Roarke’s neck again, toyed with his hair. “I need two hours.”

“I have all the time in the world,” he assured her as his fingers danced up her thigh.

“Not for that. Jeez, sit on a guy’s lap and he goes straight into sex mode.”

“We’re weak and predictable creatures.”

“I need two hours tomorrow, first thing in the morning, to see if I can get a line on the side piece, talk to the blogger. If I find the side piece, I may need a little more time to work on Copley, but I could maybe do it in two.”

“You’re telling me this, while tacitly alluding to sex, because . . . ?”

“Just a couple hours.” She gave him a light, teasing kiss. “I can be back by ten. Noon latest. And I’ll dive right into party prep and all that. Total focus on it.”