Festive in Death (In Death #39)(89)

“And possibly a blunt object.”

“Yeah, very possibly. Peabody said Martella was very cooperative, got a little overwrought here and there. The secretary, Catiana, kept her calm, as did Peabody’s innate there-there approach. She agreed to the tap, with a little nudge on how it might help clear things up, might protect her sister. It meant she had to use the angle I’m looking at her spouse, but she’s looking at Copley, and feels she’s got the stronger case.”

“Essentially playing the couples against each other to see what breaks.”

“More or less. It’s in there. My gut tells me it’s in there. I had another round with Robbins, the blogger, and there’s nothing there. It’s not just because I get the rape angle, it’s because I think I get her. And there’s nothing there on this.”

“Then you’re definitely shortening your list.”

“It looks that way. Peabody’s going to take another pass at the girlfriend, but I don’t see that, either. If we don’t tie it up tomorrow . . .”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah, that. If we don’t, it could take days more, if we’re lucky, with Peabody heading off to her family, and everything shutting down. Hell, half the city closes up between Christmas and New Year’s, and if my prime suspect flies off to the tropics, I can’t stop him. Not with what we have.”

“You’d like him to have his Christmas goose and pudding in a cage.”

“I think the best he’d get in a cage would be fake turkey, maybe a slice of pie, but yeah.”

“Does the idea that with you nipping at his heels he’s unlikely to have happy holidays help?”

“I think anybody who could shove that knife into dead Ziegler, and according to the statement of witnesses, party directly thereafter, isn’t going to sweat it. It’s all about the right now. It’s how he could set Felicity up in a swank condo, forget about his marriage while he was there, forget about her when he was with his wife.

“I’ll tell you who fits,” she added. “Ziegler and Copley. Two greedy, selfish, cheating ass**les. And that’s all of our time they get for today. Let’s pop some corn.”

“I want my own,” he told her as they walked out of her office. “I’d actually like to taste it rather than butter and salt.”

“I keep telling you, the corn’s just the delivery system for the butter and salt. What’s the vid?”

“We’ve an advance copy of Unbidden. It’s being released Christmas Day—very hot property. Alien invasion, top-flight cast, strong FX.”

“But do things blow up?”

“Indeed they do if the trailer I previewed is any indication.”

“Sounds perfect.”

• • •

It was. Stretched out hip to hip on the sofa, plenty of popcorn and a nice, smooth red wine to wash it down. And the action on screen hit all the notes.

Alien invaders bent on conquering the planet, decimating or enslaving its human inhabitants. It offered a feisty yet emotionally scarred female lead, the reckless but charming male counterpart, and the motley and courageous band of resistance fighters who joined them. The story worked, the romance clicked, and lots of stuff blew up.

The effects worked so well she got mildly queasy during an air battle. And the characters resonated, causing a pang when the hero’s feckless screwup of a brother sacrificed himself for the cause.

All in all, it provided an excellent excuse to laze around on a Sunday eating popcorn and getting a little buzzed on wine while Galahad sprawled over their legs.

“Good one. It was fun watching the guy who played Feeney in the Icove vid play the tough ex–Army vet. Figured he was going down, but he copped to the whiny redhead being an alien infiltrator in the nick. I don’t get aliens.”

“Don’t you?”

“They’re always zipping down, wanting to take over the planet, and blowing up major cities on the way. It never works out for them.”

She tossed more butter-and-salt-saturated popcorn in her mouth. “Smarter to start in the middle.”

He managed to reach around, snag the wine bottle, pour the very last of it into their glasses. “The middle of what?”

“The country—since they’re apparently all about the U.S. on top of it. Start in the middle, the less populated areas—like, say, Shipshewana, Indiana.”

“Of course it must be Shipshewana.”

“Then, work your way out to the cities as you gain ground, eliminate the populations.” She took a long, happy drink of wine. “You’d think if they could get here from wherever the hell, they’d be smarter.”

“Lucky for us, for Shipshewana, and the planet, they aren’t.”

“I’ll say. Who wants an implant shoved into the base of your skull to control your thoughts and deeds?”

“Not I.”

“And what do the aliens accomplish?” Wound up, she drilled a finger in his chest. “Sure they level some cities, kill a bunch of people—and there’s always at least one of those people who tries to negotiate with them.”

“Fools.”

“You bet. After they destroy New York or New L.A. or East Washington, because those are usually prime targets, the survivors end up uniting the fractured world, creating heros out of the ordinary, and helping a couple of really pretty, bloodied, and sweaty people to find true love and hot sex.”