“He told me he’d persuade her.” Copley looked away. “I told him he didn’t get the money until he did. Just two more times, and I could take it to my divorce lawyer.”
“When did you tell him?”
“Just last week when I went . . .”
“To his apartment.”
“Look, fine. I went there. One time. Just that one time because he dropped it on me at our training session she’d made noises about working on the marriage, maybe stopping the sex with him the day before. And she was talking to me about fixing things, getting teary, getting flirty. I just needed a couple more times to seal the deal.”
“He couldn’t do it, but he still wanted money. If you didn’t pay it, he’d go to your wife, confess—and you’d lose. He’d tell her about Felicity. And you’d lose. The prick was hitting you from every angle. It was never going to stop. So you stopped it.”
“I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t there.”
“The same way you were upstairs when Catiana was killed, when your wife was attacked? What had Catiana figured out? What did she know? She’d tell Natasha, and you’d lose again. She had to be stopped. You stopped her. But your wife walks in, and that’s not just losing your ‘financial advantage,’ that’s losing everything. She had to be stopped.”
“He used me. They all used me. I’m the victim here. I’m the goddamn victim. I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t there. I want to talk to Natasha. I want to talk to Felicity.”
“They’re done with you. What you’ve got now is me. So let’s start again.”
He fumbled and stumbled, raged a time or two. He pleaded, and he insulted. But he didn’t budge.
Eve decided spending Christmas in a cage might add the final incentive.
She sent him off, raging.
“He’s talked himself into it,” Peabody commented. “Didn’t Mira say something like that? How he could make himself believe the lie so it’s his truth.”
“Something like that. It may be harder for him to believe after another couple days behind bars. He keeps tripping up over things. Going to Ziegler’s apartment, paying Ziegler to nail his wife. We’ll keep piling up the stumbles until he falls flat.”
“There’s more than enough to go to trial.”
“Without a confession, the PA’s going to offer a deal. It’s not enough. Maybe I could swallow it on Ziegler, but not on Catiana. We’ll hit him again after Christmas. Go, grab McNab’s skinny ass, catch your shuttle, see your family.”
“Really? We have to write up the—”
“I’ve got it.”
“You always say that. I’ll—”
“I say it because I’m the boss. Get the hell out of here.”
“Thanks. Merry Christmas, Dallas. Don’t hit me.” Peabody flung her arms around Eve, squeezed. “I hope you like your gift half as much as I love my coat.”
She dashed off, presumably to get said coat.
In her office, Eve wrote up the report, copied it to Reo, the commander, Mira, Peabody.
She could work on the twists and turns of it, she thought, maybe straighten some of them out, talk to Quigley one more time.
Then she thought: The hell with it.
She was going home.
Maybe it dogged her on the drive, the insane drive full of rain and revelers. It dogged her enough for her to use her in-dash comp, to ramble some thoughts and speculations into it to sort through later.
But when she walked in the house, she ordered herself to leave it outside.
It wasn’t hard, not when she walked into warmth, light, laughter. Even if some of the laughter was Summerset’s.