“No, sir. Officer Shelby told us the scene had been compromised on her arrival.”
“All right. Had a struggle here, chair’s shoved, table overturned, broken crockery and glass. And that.”
She lifted her chin to a large vase of thick, faceted crystal, stained now with blood. More blood on the floor, on the carpet by the cracked vase.
“What the hell were you doing here, Catiana?”
For procedure, she crossed to the body, used her kit to formally ID the vic. “Victim is female, mixed race, age thirty-three. Catiana Dubois, employed by Martella Schubert, who is the sister of Natasha Quigley. The deep gash, the bruising on the forehead appear to be COD. Fell or was pushed, face-first, hit the ledge, the edge of it, and hit hard. Skinny-heeled boots,” she murmured. “Not much traction. She loses her balance, falls, smashes face-first into the edge here.”
She took the gauges Roarke handed her. “She
hasn’t been dead an hour.”
Gently, Eve lifted her hands, one at a time, by the wrist, examined them. “No defensive wounds I can see, no sign of skin under the nails, but Morris will look closer.
“She’s got her coat unbuttoned, her scarf unwrapped. Pretty cold out there, so it’s likely she did that after she came in. Comes to the door, the house droid lets her in. We’ll go over the droid. She comes in here . . .”
Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around the room. “I don’t see any cups, any glasses, broken or unbroken. No drinks, no refreshments. Coat’s still on, so maybe she planned to make it quick. An argument, a fight, a confrontation. With who? Copley or Quigley? Head and face trauma for Quigley, but Catiana here has delicate hands. No sign she hit anyone. If she fought with Quigley, it got physical and she knocked her unconscious with that vase, why is she dead over here and the vase lying over there? Doesn’t work. If she fought with Quigley, and Quigley shoved her, killed her, who bashed Quigley with the vase and why? It’s shaky.
“So.” She shoved up. “We’ll see what Copley and the droid have to say.”
Though Copley had stopped yelling, she followed the direction it had come from.
She found him sulking in a sitting room reflecting masculine decor. Deep colors, leather seating, hefty entertainment center, golfing art and memorabilia.
One of the uniforms—older, had vet written all over him—sat at his ease working on his PPC while a young female cop stood at parade rest.
She snapped to attention when Eve stepped in.
Copley lurched to his feet.
“For God’s sake. My wife’s been attacked. She may be dying, for all I know, and these—these—storm troopers are forcing me to stay here. I need to get to the hospital. I need to be with Tash.”
“Officer.” Eve looked toward the vet. “Would you contact the hospital, get Ms. Quigley’s status and condition?”
“Yes, sir.” He stepped out.
“Sit down, Mr. Copley. I’ll be right with you. Officer Shelby, please step out with me.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”
“I demand to be taken to my wife! Immediately!”
“I said sit down.” Eve snapped it, cold and fast, had the shock of it jerking Copley back. “And do us all a favor, simmer down while I do my job.”
She moved out of the room, took a few steps more, nodded to Shelby. “Run it through for me.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I was walking my beat, about to go take my ten sit-down, when the nine-one-one came in. I was only three blocks north, so I responded. The Dispatch call came in at eighteen-fifty- nine. I was at this location by nineteen-oh-one.”
“You move fast, Officer.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. There was no response to my knock or buzz for two minutes, twenty-three seconds. I was about to relay same to Dispatch when the man, identifying himself subsequently as John Jake Copley, answered. He appeared visibly disturbed, shouted incoherently, and rushed back into the residence. I followed him in, observed the female victim by the fireplace, the female victim beside an overturned table approximately ten feet away. Both victims were bleeding profusely from the head. I was forced to order Mr. Copley to calm down, to no avail, while I checked the pulse on each victim. The woman he identified as his wife, Natasha Quigley, was alive. I called for medical assistance and for backup as Copley only became more agitated, and somewhat abusive in his language.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. He called me a useless cunt, a moronic bitch, and at one point laid hands on my person. I was forced to restrain him.”
“He give you the bruise on your jaw?”