Festive in Death (In Death #39)(99)

“Killing doesn’t upset him as much as being pinned for it does.” But it left a little hole she’d need to fill in. “He was trapped in there, with me. With the evidence. With the truth. He couldn’t handle it.”

“It’s certainly possible. I’ll review his medical history to determine if he’s experienced these attacks before or been treated for them.” Mira let out a breath of her own. “He’s an ugly little man, isn’t he? Still, I’ll treat him to the best of my capabilities, and unless the tests prove me wrong, he’ll be clear for you to interview tomorrow. I’ll send you a report.”

“Thanks.” Eve stood where she was a moment as Mira walked toward the glide. “Fuck. I want coffee.”

“I could do with some myself,” Roarke told her, went with her to her office.

“I had him. I would’ve had him.” She fisted her hand. “He wasn’t listening to the lawyer—the girl lawyer. Tripping himself up with this story, then another. Somebody else in there who looked like him? I mean, Jesus.”

She dropped down at her desk, drank coffee, scowled. “Panic attack. His eyes actually bulged out of his head. More like a temper tantrum, all respect to Mira. He wanted to go at me. If he’d had a weapon, he’d have used it.” She pushed up, paced the small office, while Roarke sat with his coffee in her miserable visitor’s chair.

“He couldn’t get that release, so he had the attack. Maybe, maybe. He couldn’t release the rage in any way, so his body went whack. I should’ve asked Mira about that, for the medical/psych terms for that.”

“I can only agree with Mira. He’s an ugly little man.”

“How do ugly little men get laid the way he apparently did?” Eve wondered. “I’m going to contact Felicity, who apparently had the good sense to break it off. And I want to talk to the Schuberts. And check in with Morris.”

“No point in reminding me I can go home. I have an excellent memory. I’m with you, for the fun and fascination.”

“Your choice. I’m going to call Peabody off then. No need for her to come in. We’ll hit Copley together tomorrow. Maybe her soft-pedal will keep him from going purple and flopping on the floor like a fish.”

She pulled out her ’link. It signaled in her hand. “Dallas.”

“Nurse Vick, Lieutenant. Dr. Campo authorized me to tell you Ms. Quigley is out of surgery. Her condition has been upgraded to serious, but stable. The patient requires rest and quiet for the next several hours. If you check in the morning, after eight, Dr. Campo will be available, and can let you know if Ms. Quigley is up to speaking with you.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Eve clicked off. “There’s good news. If I can get her statement, I can wrap Copley up in it. Well.” She drained her coffee. “Let’s go ruin the Schuberts’ holidays. Whatever that ass**le Copley thinks, Dubois was more to them than the one who handled Martella’s woman business.”

“You’d do better, as would I, with something more than popcorn in the system.”

“Maybe.” She fell into step with him. “We could grab a slice after the morgue.”

He took her hand. “See what I meant about fun and fascination? How many people could say just that?”

“All the many people who are cops.”

He laughed a little. She had him there.

20

A giggling Martella opened the door before Eve buzzed. Both she and Lance Schubert wore coats and scarves, and both had sparkles in their eyes.

Eve recognized the sparkle. While obviously on their way out the door, the couple had enjoyed a little predeparture sex.

“Oh, Lieutenant, you just caught us.” Martella slipped her hand into her husband’s. “We’re ridiculously late.”

“I’m sorry. We need to speak with you.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Schubert asked. “We should have left nearly an hour ago.”

Martella didn’t quite manage to stifle a fresh giggle as she sent her husband another sparkling look. “So rude.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait. It would be best if we go inside, sit down.”

“Oh, well. Another few minutes can’t matter that much.” As she stepped back to let them in, Martella’s gaze shifted from Eve to Roarke. “It’s Roarke, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you. Martella Schubert.” She offered a hand. “My husband, Lance.”

“I suppose this is some sort of official business. We can’t offer you a drink?” Lance led the way into the living area, where he turned up the lights.

“No, but thank you.”

Roarke waited as Eve did while Martella slipped out of a silvery fur coat, tossed it aside. Beneath she wore a hot blue cocktail dress with ice-white diamonds. Schubert didn’t bother to remove his coat, but sat with his wife.

“If this is about Ziegler,” he began, “I don’t know what else we can tell you. I won’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Lance!”

“There’s no point in pretense, Tella. As far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved. You’ve got a job to do,” he said to Eve. “But we have our lives to live.”