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“Twenty after seven.”
She paused, glanced back. “She said Copley would be home by six.”
Grim, she dashed to the bathroom for the Sober-Up.
With that, and the coffee Roarke programmed in go-cups, the mists lifted, the fog parted. For the second time that day, she climbed into the muscular SUV.
“I planted it in her head. I did it deliberately, figuring she’d let something slip to me, or dig out something and come to me with it. I never figured he’d go at her, never figured he’d be that stupid. If he killed her—”
“You’re jumping your fences, Eve. That’s not like you.”
She closed her eyes, pulled herself back in. “You’re right. I know better. No preconceived notions. But you said it yourself. She seemed a little afraid of him. I didn’t offer her protection, didn’t drive that lane, because she could’ve been part of it and the fear was useful.”
No point, no point in speculating, she warned herself. For all she knew, Copley could be dead.
Her comm sounded again. “Dallas.”
“Dallas, we’re heading in,” Peabody talked fast, “but it’s probably going to take about twenty minutes. We were at the SkyMall and traffic’s insane. We called in a black-and-white to speed it up, but we’re probably twenty out.”
“Just get there.”
“Soon as we can. Do you know the DB?”
“Not yet. I’ll get back to you.”
She shoved the comm in her pocket again.
The minute Roarke pulled behind a black-and-white, she jumped out, drew her badge out of her pocket.
Long strides took her to the door where a uniform scanned her badge, her face, skimmed a glance over Roarke. Nodded.
“What have you got, Officer . . . Kenseko?” she demanded, reading his nameplate.
“DB, female, head trauma. Another female, en route to the hospital, unconscious. Head and facial injuries. Male held on premises, ID’d as John Jake Copley, of this address. He ID’d the injured female as his wife, Natasha Copley. Wanted to go with her, but we held him here. He’s a handful, LT.”
“I got it. Keep him out of my way for now. Are you first on scene?”
“No, sir, that would be Officer Shelby. She answered the nine-one-one. She and my partner have Copley secured.”
“Stay on the door, Kenseko. My partner will be here in about fifteen.”
As she moved in, she heard Copley shouting from another room, threatening to sue the officers, the entire department, the state of New York.
Ignoring him, Eve took the Seal-It out of the field kit Roarke offered, used it while she studied the scene.
She’d expected to find Martella, which proved the rule about no expectations.
A brunette lay with her head on the marble ledge of the hearth. Faceup, a deep, long gash scoring her forehead and right temple. Blood pooled, on the marble, on the floor, painted the hand flung out, stained the bright blue coat, the boldly patterned scarf.
“Catiana Dubois.”
“The social secretary?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Somebody turned her over, somebody moved the body. Damn it. Kenseko!”
“Sir.” He hotfooted from the door.
“Did you or your partner turn the body over?”
