“During the restraining process, yes, sir.”
“I might have been forced to kick his ass. Restraining him was the better choice.”
Shelby’s lips trembled into a quick smile. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Officers Kenseko and O’Ryan arrived on scene, as did the medicals at nineteen-oh-eight and nineteen-oh-nine respectively.”
She cleared her throat, blinked a bit when Roarke offered her a glass of water.
“Go ahead,” Eve told her. “Hydrate, then finish your report.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, thank you.” She gulped some down. “After my fellow officers removed Mr. Copley to another room, and the medicals began to work on Ms. Copley, I again spoke with Dispatch, which informed me Copley was to be detained here until your arrival. The nine-one-one caller, who identified herself as Natasha Quigley, was attacked while calling nine-one-one, and at the end of the call shouted out.”
At this point Shelby swiped a fresh page on her notebook. “‘JJ! What are you doing? JJ, stop, stop! Don’t!’ before the call ended. There’s a broken pocket ’link on the floor in the kill room.”
“Yeah, I saw it. Good work, Shelby. Stand by.” Eve glanced over at Roarke. “Why don’t you come in with me for this? You add an extra layer of fear and intimidation.”
“Always glad to lend a hand. Officer Shelby. You should get a cold pack for that jaw.”
“It’s okay, sir, thank you. He just caught me with his shoulder when I restrained him.”
“No cold pack till we document,” Eve ordered. “Resisting and assaulting an officer dribbles on some icing.”
Eve went back to the sitting room. Copley paced, drinking what looked like whiskey from a short glass. He’d obviously talked Shelby into removing the restraints, and just as well.
She nodded again when O’Ryan stepped up, murmured in her ear. “Stand by,” she told him. “Mr. Copley.”
He whirled around, nearly slopping whiskey over the top of the glass. “What the hell is going on here? Some maniac comes into my house and assaults—was that one of Tella’s people? Was that Katherine?”
“Catiana.”
“Yes! Good God. She was dead. You could see she was dead. Her eyes staring. And the blood. But Tash. I ran in after I heard her scream. Ran downstairs, calling for her, and there she was lying there, bleeding. I ran to her, tried to lift her up. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive. I couldn’t tell. I thought she was dead. Why would that woman attack Tash?”
“I don’t believe she did. The scene doesn’t read that way.”
“But it had to be.”
“You’ve got blood on your shirt. Blood on your pants.”
“Tash—Tash’s blood. I tried to pick her up. I heard Tash scream, and I ran down. It was only seconds. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. No one was here. That bitch tried to kill my wife. Tash must have fought back, knocked her down.”
“After getting knocked unconscious?”
“Before, of course, then when they struggled or fought—about God knows what—she struck Tash. Tash must have fallen, maybe the women slipped and fell. How do I know?”
“What time did you get home from your golf outing?”
“I’m not sure, not exactly. About six, more or less.”
“And then?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do upon arriving home?”
“I went upstairs, spoke briefly to my wife. We talked about going out later for drinks, for dinner. I had a quick shower, changed, if you want specifics, stretched out, turned on the screen. I was just relaxing, as many do on a Sunday evening, when I heard Tash scream from downstairs.”
“Did you and your wife argue?”
“What? Of course not.”