Festive in Death Page 11

“You’re thinking about filling your stomach more than filling me in.”

  “Two birds, one dog. Each.”

  Amused, Eve headed for the cart. “Still short, right?”

  “Just till payday. We started this savings program—McNab and me. We’ve almost got enough put away to give to Roarke.”

  Eve stopped at the cart. “Why would you give money to Roarke? He already has almost all the money in all the known universe.”

  “To invest for us. He said he would, and who would you trust more to do that than Roarke, who has almost all the money in all the known universe?”

  “Good point.” She held up two fingers at the cart operator. “Loaded,” she added. “And smart,” she added for Peabody.

  “We figured, in a couple years maybe we could buy a place. That’s a kind of investment from an investment, so we put some away each payday, and it’s like gone.” She swiped her palms together. “I mean it’s something we agreed not to dig out except for emergencies. Not for Christmas presents and going to the vids and stuff like that.”

  “That’s pretty . . . adult.”

  “I know! It’s a little scary.”

  “Tube of Pepsi,” Eve told the vendor, glanced at Peabody.

  “I already had a fizzy. Damn. Make mine a Diet Pepsi.”

  “Okay.” With the dogs in hand, Eve turned back to Peabody. “Report,” she said and took her first bite.

  “Louanne Parsons,” Peabody began as they started to walk. “I tapped her at work. She and a friend own a gift boutique in SoHo, not that I could afford anything in there. Anyway, she denied, initially, any sort of sexual encounter with the vic. She’s in a long-term monogamous relationship. But with a little prodding, she admitted to it. One time, she said. Just one time. She’d hurt her shoulder, and Ziegler came over to do a massage.”

  “With tea.”

  “You got it. Long and short, when I filled her in, she didn’t get mad, she started to cry. Just sat there, tears streaming. She didn’t strike me, Dallas. I didn’t get the tiniest buzz from her.”

  “Alibi?”

  “At the boutique until five, both her partner and a clerk verified. Says she went home, boyfriend got home from work around five-thirty, and they stayed home until eight. Went out, met friends for dinner. She said she was going to tell her boyfriend, all of it, and didn’t know what he’d think or do. They’ve been together six years. She asked if I’d give her time to do that before we told him.”

  “We’ll toggle her down for now, and take a pass at the boyfriend. Maybe he found out, took care of Ziegler himself. Next?”

  “Teera Blankhead. On her second marriage, money on both sides. Big converted loft in Greenwich Village. Three kids. One from his first, one from her first, one together. She admitted it, was pissy. What the hell business was it of mine? She went out of orbit when I told her the details. Cried, too, but she was raging while she cried.”

  Peabody took another bite of her soy dog. “Man, why are street dogs so good? Anyway, Blankhead has a pretty sweet gym in her house, though she goes to the fitness center twice a week. She had Ziegler come over, twice a month for a personal session. He had the tea iced, called it an energy/detox blend. They ended up finishing the session by doing it on her yoga mat. Said she was pissed at herself after, that she and her first husband had both cheated, and she’d gone into this second marriage promising herself she wouldn’t, no matter what. She stopped the personal sessions after that, and kept it to the fitness center.”

  Peabody sucked down soda. “She has a temper, and she’s tall—about your height—strong. She was believable, but I could see her picking up a blunt object and bashing Ziegler in a rage.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Charity lunch deal until about three. She says she opted to walk home, did some window-shopping. Older two kids had after-school activities, husband dinner and a basketball game with a couple friends, and the nanny had the youngest at a holiday party. She was alone at home until after seven, when the kids started coming in.”

  “Then we keep her high on the list for now.”

  Peabody stopped in front of a trim, whitewashed building. “Robbins lives here. Forty-two, currently single. Two previous cohabs, no marriages. She’s a writer. Fashion blogs and books. She has the entire fifth—top—floor of the building. I found an article on her,” Peabody explained as they walked to the entrance.

  The building didn’t boast a doorman, but it did include door and lobby security. At the swipe of Eve’s master, a computerized voice requested her badge number for verification. Once she’d given it, the same tinny voice asked the nature of her business.

  “It shouldn’t be any of yours,” Eve shot back. “Police business. We’re here to speak with Kira Robbins.”

  Thank you for your cooperation. Ms. Robbins will be notified of your visit. Please wait.

  “It just pisses me off on principle,” Eve said, moving across the polished concrete floor to the polished silver of the elevator. “Having a bunch of chips and circuits tell me what to do.”

  She jammed the up button, scowled when the voice said:

  One moment please. Ms. Robbins requests the nature of your business.

  “You can tell Ms. Robbins that if she doesn’t engage this elevator, we’ll come back with a warrant and a lot more cops.”

  Thank you. Your message will be relayed.

  “Fucking A,” Eve replied, but seconds later, the elevator door opened. Inside, before she could order the fifth floor, the voice spoke again.

  This car will now take you directly to Ms. Robbins’s residence, where she is expecting you. Please enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

  “Good God, do they ever shut up?” Eve wondered as the elevator smoothly rose. “I don’t get why people tell you to enjoy your day, much less machines. If they don’t know you, what the hell do they care?”

  “No man is an island?” Peabody suggested.

  “Why would anybody say that? An island’s a scoop of land floating around on a bunch of water.”

  “I think it means—never mind,” Peabody decided as the doors opened onto a wide foyer with a bunch of tall potted trees.

  Kira Robbins stood between two flowering trees, a waterfall of blond hair spilling over the shoulders of a short, snug red dress. She wore matching heels and lips and a curious look in slanted blue eyes.

  “I honestly thought it was a joke, but you are the cops. I know you,” she said, pointing a finger with a glossy red nail at Eve. “Eve Dallas. Roarke’s inamorata, and top cop of Icove fame. And Delia Peabody. My God,” she continued, moving toward Eve, “that’s a fabulous coat. Just fabulous. Italian leather, slightly masculine cut, which only makes it more female on you. And powerful. And I love the boots. Would you mind if I got a picture? ‘Lieutenant Dallas, Fashionable Cop.’ A great article for tomorrow’s blog.”

  “Yes. I’d mind. We’re here on official business. We have some questions.”

  “I’m always on official business. And speaking of boots.” She smiled down at Peabody’s. “Those are adorable. Well, come in. We can have a drink and get down to business, whatever it might be.”

  She turned into a large open area with windows overlooking downtown—and a tall holiday pine decorated in gold and silver in the center.

  A low-profile sofa in a buff color was mounted with bold, floral pillows. It faced a small arched fireplace. Glossy black tables topped with bright white lamps with blue shades flanked floral-print chairs—with buff-colored pillows.

  “So what will it be?”

  “Answers,” Eve told her.

  “I meant to drink.” Robbins headed toward a high-gloss black bar. “I feel like some fizzy lemon.”

  “We’re fine. You’re acquainted with Trey Ziegler?”

  “Trey, of course.” Robbins opened the small, built-in friggie, took out a ta
ll bottle. “I heard about what happened to him last night, and more when I went to the gym this morning. It’s terrible, of course. He was a terrific trainer. but I didn’t expect to have the cops come to my door about it.”

  She plopped ice in a long, slim glass, poured the lemon drink over it. “Sure?”

  Eve only shook her head. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

  “Why would I be? He was a terrific trainer, but there are others. And he was kind of a shit otherwise.” She carried her drink to the sofa, sat down, leaned back. “Have a seat.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “Personally? Not really. He was great to look at. I mean that body was a killer. And he knew how to work me so I kept mine in shape. But he was smug, arrogant, and not terribly smart.”

  “But you slept with him anyway.”

  Robbins lowered the glass she’d started to bring to her lips. Her voice went as cold as the ice in her glass. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Sex can often lead to murder.”

  “Is that so? I hadn’t thought of it. For me, it generally leads to release, or what’s the point. Am I actually a suspect? Seriously? Because I slept with him once, against my better judgment, I’ll add. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  “Day before yesterday, between five P.M. and seven. Where were you?”

  “Here, working. I’m nearly finished with a new book, and I have the blog. I’ve been putting in a lot of day hours on both as I spend most evenings out. Holiday parties, events—they’re my fodder.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone.” She gestured. “I prefer to work alone, without distractions. I have an assistant, but I’ve got her out most days right now, scouting the stores and boutiques, sending me pictures.”

  She drank now. “God. I’m supposed to have an alibi. I have a January one deadline on the book I want to meet, then I’m going to Milan and Paris, doing coverage of spring trends. I didn’t kill a man because I was stupid enough to have sex with him. It was good sex, for that matter. Even though he’s not my type. He was an asshole—on a personal scale, I mean.”

  “How much did you pay him?”

  Robbins hissed through her teeth, “What the hell? I gave him five thousand. He didn’t come out and say—exactly—that some of the competition in my field might find it amusing that I’d slept with my trainer, but why take the chance? It wouldn’t make that much difference, I know how to spin it. I could probably do a series of blogs on it, but . . . the asshole factor.”

  She sighed, drank. “I was embarrassed,” she admitted. “Embarrassed I had sex with a man I didn’t like, on a personal level. So I gave him five thousand, said this was nice, but let’s keep it between us, and that was that. I figured next spring when my membership’s up, I’d switch gyms.”

  “He hinted at blackmail?”

  “I guess that’s the term for it, yeah.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A couple of months ago. No, more like six weeks, I guess. Not my finest moment.”

  “He came here? An at-home massage? Training session?”

  “A combo. We’d done that—not the sex—a couple times before. My assistant, too. I gave him extra to work with her a couple times. It was fun.”

  “Was your assistant here for this one?”

  “No.”

  Her right leg, crossed over the left, began to swing. Eve read irritation and nerves in the movement.

  “Look, do we have to go over every damn detail? I had sex with him, I paid him. It’s humiliating. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “What did you have to drink?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Robbins shoved up, threw her hands in the air. “I was doing a workout. I wasn’t drinking. Some tea. Just some herbal tea he made. I iced it, and it was nice enough.”

  “Did he light incense?”

  “So what?” But Robbins’s eyebrows drew together, and she sat again. “Yes. Right before the massage. The massage that wasn’t a massage because I decided I’d rather have sex. How do you know about the incense, what do you care about the tea?”

  Color dropped out of her face. “Jesus, Jesus, did he drug me? Oh God, did he give me something?”

  “We believe Ziegler routinely gave at-home clients, potentially others, a date-rape drug in the guise of tea, and accentuated it with incense that was also laced.”

  “I see.” She pressed her lips together, looked away. “That explains it. I wasn’t attracted to him that way, simply wasn’t, but that evening . . . I initiated it.” Her voice trembled a little. She picked up her glass again, drank slowly. “I initiated it almost as soon as I was on the massage table.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Eve said. “He initiated and took your choice away when he gave you the drug without your knowledge.”

  “I don’t know how to feel about this.” She pressed the cold glass to her forehead. “I don’t know how to feel. I was raped when I was sixteen by a boy I thought liked me. He slipped me something, too. Not enough, because I didn’t really drink much, just enough I felt weird and off. Not enough, so I said no. And when I said no, he held me down. He hurt me, and he forced me. And I didn’t tell anyone, I was so ashamed. It was years before I told anyone, and came to terms with it. Now this.”

  She closed her eyes again. “Trey didn’t force me. He didn’t hurt me.”

  “Yes, he did.” Eve’s flat tone had Robbins opening her eyes again. “He didn’t hold you down or put bruises on you, but he forced you. He raped you.”

  “You’re right. You’re right.”

  Her eyes filled. Eve watched her wage a fight against them. Win it.

  “Now I have to come to terms with it again. I will. Well, back to therapy.” She lifted her glass in toast. “What fun.”

  “I can give you a contact for a rape center,” Peabody told her.

  “That’s okay. I have a shrink on tap. I don’t have an alibi, and it looks like I had a motive. I didn’t kill him, but I’m sure as hell glad he’s dead. What happens now?”

  Eve rose. “We talk to other people in your situation. And if we find out you’re lying and you did kill him, we’ll be back to arrest you.”

  “Great. Terrific.” Robbins managed a weak smile. “That’s still a fabulous coat.”

  • • •

  On the way down to the lobby, Peabody brooded.

  “Don’t sulk over it,” Eve ordered. “Spill it.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m considering. Her statement makes it unquestionable our vic used date-rape drugs on numerous women, at least over the last couple months. And it also confirms he extorted money from at least some of them. Either one of those acts equals motive. Combine them, and it becomes a really strong motive. I know she doesn’t have an alibi, but I don’t think she did it.”

  “Because you liked her. And because you felt sympathy after her claim she’d been date-raped in the past.”

  “Well, yeah. In part anyway. Didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t not like her. As for the claim of previous date rape, she also indicated she never reported it. We can’t confirm it ever happened.”

  “No, we can’t, and, yeah, it could’ve been a bid for sympathy. But I believed her.” Still brooding, Peabody stepped out of the elevator, crossed the lobby with Eve. “I guess you didn’t.”

  “Actually, I did. Going through that humiliation and trauma a second time? Adds to the motive.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.” Peabody glanced up at Robbins’s windows as they walked to the car. “Damn it.”

  “We’ve got an asshole, fuckhead, serial date rapist as a vic, Peabody. We’re going to feel sorry for pretty much all the suspects. The women he used, the spouses, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, friends who learned about it. And now we veer off to yet another angle.”<
br />
  “Another angle?”

  “Competitors.” She slid behind the wheel. “David ‘Rock’ Britton also has a personal motive. The vic banged his baby sister—and maybe, who knows, he slipped her something to get her between the sheets.”

  “Well, hell.” Peabody pulled the address of the gym off her PPC, plugged it into the dash comp. “I hope I don’t like him.”

  Eve liked him, or more accurately liked his gym. A lot.

  She saw Rock Hard as a bare-bones, sweat-and-grunt facility. Clean, well-lit, and without a single frill. Top-of-the-line equipment—including heavy bags, speed bags, and a sparring ring that took center stage appealed to those who came in to put in their time, shower off the sweat, and move on with their day.

  No music played, so the sound of fists striking bags, of jump ropes whizzing through the air, and feet slapping the floor played all the tunes necessary. Lyrics? Grunts, curses, insults, and orders not to drop your guard, don’t be such a pussy, sang out.

  She liked the industrial beige walls, the no-nonsense gray floor, the filmy windows that blocked out the street and sidewalk. This wasn’t a place to preen. It was a place to work.

  She made Rock from his ID photo, watched him holding a heavy bag, spitting out hard-line encouragement to the woman—stripped down to sports bra, shorts, and sweat—who pummeled it.

  “From the shoulder, Angie, fer chrissakes. Use your hip. Switch it up. Right cross! Left cross! Right cross! Jab, jab, jab!”

  Though she hated to break it up—the woman was game—Eve crossed over. She palmed her badge behind the woman’s back, waited for Rock’s dark brown eyes to skim over it, lift to her face.

  “Finish him off, Ang. Pepper him. Pepper him. Go, go, go! Okay, okay, take a breather.”

  “Thank Jesus and his loving mother,” Angie said in a Brooklyn accent thick as a brick. She hugged the bag, swayed with it while she caught her breath.

  “I want ten minutes with the rope,” Rock told her.

  “You’re a freaking sadist, Rock.”

  “You’re damn straight.” He tossed her a towel, jerked his head to Eve and started back toward what she saw was an office even smaller than her own.