“It may be both of them—the Schuberts are dealing, in their own way, with the trauma of it. It’s a double blow for him. The first, learning his wife believed she’d betrayed him with another man. The second, knowing she didn’t do as she’d believed but was drugged and raped. It’s a great deal for any man to cope with.”
He’d know, Eve thought. He’d know what it was to cope.
“Maybe. Maybe they’re both just trying to find their way through it. There’s another player on their end. Catiana Dubois, the social secretary—which is a bullshit title in my world of titles.”
“For some, the social life is a kind of career or vocation, and having someone to keep order is helpful.”
“You don’t have one.”
“I have Caro and Summerset. A man needs little more.”
She couldn’t argue with that one. “They seem cozy, the three of them. Not we-have-a-threesome-every-Tuesday cozy, but cozy enough. According to Catiana, Ziegler hit on her and she blocked. He then spread the word she was a lesbian, which she let pass because she didn’t care. And he got pissed when the guy she’s seeing came into the gym and it became apparent she liked men just fine.”
“Sorry, I’m a bit distracted by the threesome every Tuesday.”
“Wipe it out of your mind. The point is, Ziegler screwed with—on various levels—all five people in those two households. What are the odds?”
“Another reason you like one of them for the murder, particularly Copley as he appears the weakest in the moral sense, and somewhat of a dick.”
“That sums it up. Plus your basic motive, means, opportunity. Because he had time. He had enough time. Any of them did, really, if one of the others covered for them.”
“How did you get McNab’s shoe size?”
“I have my ways.”
“You really do. Would you stab my dead body in the heart with a kitchen knife if I cheated on you?”
“Your mind is the most marvelous machine,” Roarke said, with a touch of wonder. “Murder to threesomes to shoe sizes to speculative murder. No.”
“You wouldn’t stab my dead body in the heart with a kitchen knife if I cheated on you?” She found herself oddly insulted.
“There wouldn’t be enough left of it to stab. I expect I’d have already cut out your cheating heart and set it on fire. This, of course, after I’d—what was your phrase—‘beaten your lover into paste,’ after which I’d have castrated him. But not with a kitchen knife, mind you. I’d have used a dull, rusty, and jagged blade, putting it to use again in the aforementioned cutting out of your heart. And I’d feed his cock and balls to a vicious rabid dog I’d acquired for that specific purpose.”
“That should cover everything.” Now, rather than insulted, she felt well loved. “We’re violent,” she said after a moment.
“Speak for yourself.” He negotiated around a pokey tourist triple tram loaded with shivering bodies, sparkling lights, and garland. “If you hadn’t cheated on me, I would never have laid a hand on you outside of love, passion, and tenderness.”
“You cleaned Webster’s clock because he wished I’d cheat on you with him.”
“That should provide fair warning.”
“We’re violent,” she repeated. “We grew up that way. We know our own natures, mostly channel it. But our instinct would be to react with violence in this kind of situation. Or to threaten it in a way that should—and almost always would—have the opponent backing down. Then we’d own it. That’s our nature, too. These people aren’t violent—in the same way—by nature. This violence was of the moment, a control snap, and in every case if it was one of the four, a good lawyer would get them off on temp insanity, diminished capacity, extenuating circumstances. Except, that goes down the tubes with the flourish.
“The flourish was pure ego, was stupid, was very much bragging.”
“Which is why you like Copley.”
“Which is why.”
She rolled it around in her head while he parked.
“Follow my lead, okay?”
“Naturally. You know they may not be home on this bright and cold Sunday afternoon.”
“They’re somewhere. I’ll find them.”
Eve pressed the buzzer, did the scanning deal for the computer. The process moved quickly this time, and the house droid opened the door.