He grabbed his crotch, pumped his hips, then spread open a slit in the dirty red pants to reveal an unfortunately grimy penis.
“That,” the uniform finished.
“I like ’em naughty!” Santa exclaimed, then broke fantastic wind.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Somebody crack a window!” Santa suggested, and added, “Ho, ho, ho!”
Eve did better. She leaped off the elevator on the next floor, one short step in front of Peabody. As the doors shut, she heard Santa bellow, “Merry Christmas to all!” right before the gagging noises.
“I think that was alive.” Cautiously Peabody sniffed at her own sleeve. “We may need detox. Uniforms don’t get paid enough.”
“Nobody gets paid enough around here. Send a departmental memo. Nobody rides in that car for a month. That should be about long enough. I’m not kidding,” she added when Peabody laughed.
“On it.”
“Meanwhile, back to murder. We dig on Copley. His business, his marriage, his finances, any priors no matter how minor. His politics, his religion, his favorite fucking color. Everything.”
“You think maybe Ziegler was blackmailing him.”
“It’s possible,” Eve said as she and Peabody stepped onto a glide. “It’s just as possible his wife’s fling with Ziegler wasn’t as discreet as she thinks. Let’s get a couple of uniforms over to Ziegler’s building with a shot of Copley. Maybe we’ll find somebody who saw him visit Ziegler’s apartment. We just need to find one lie to deepen the hole.”
“He struck me as too weenie. Shit! I wish I hadn’t said weenie because it makes me think of that sick pervert’s weenie. Do we smell like Drunk Santa fart?”
“If we did, people would be diving off this glide like lemmings.”
“You’re right.” Still, Peabody took another cautious sniff of her sleeve. “We escaped in time. I need a replacement for the W word. Copley struck me as too wussy. There, a W for a W.”
“Wussies kill, too.” Eve stepped off the glide, headed for Homicide. “He finds out his wife’s been doing the trainer. He thinks: That asshole’s fucking my wife, laughing at me behind my back. I’m paying him, and he’s doing my wife. I took him golfing at my club, for Christ’s sake. Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“He’d be pissed,” Peabody agreed. “Anybody’d be pissed.”
“He goes to Ziegler’s place to confront him—or maybe if he really is a wuss, he goes to plead with Ziegler to break it off. Either way, why wouldn’t Ziegler let him in? ‘Hey, man, I’m packing, but come on back. What’s up?’”
“Copley says, ‘You’ve been banging my wife. It has to stop.’”
“Maybe. And maybe Ziegler starts off denying, maybe not,” Eve speculated. “Maybe he pushes for money. ‘Just providi
ng a service. I can stop the service, but you have to make up the fee.’ Simple business transaction. Ziegler’s not worried about this guy. Hell, he’s the trainer. ‘Your wife was happy to pay, so if you don’t want me providing the service, cough it up.’”
“And Copley snaps. Bash, bash.”
“Maybe,” Eve said as they turned into the bullpen.
Someone had added a dented menorah to the decor. It stood on a bed of virulent greenery she suspected was supposed to be pine boughs. Beside it stood a sickly gray figure in a Santa suit, grinning viciously.
“What the hell is that?” she demanded.
Santiago glanced up from his work. “It’s Zombie Santa. We’re trying to be inclusive.”
“They make Zombie Santas? Who thinks of things like that?” Shaking her head at all mankind, she strode to her office.
It surprised her to find Feeney studying her board.
The EDD captain, her former trainer and partner, wore a rumpled suit the color of . . . reindeer dung, Eve decided. Wiry silver strands poked through his explosion of ginger hair like carelessly tossed tinsel.
Like the suit, his face had a rumpled, lived-in look. His eyes might have resembled a basset hound’s, but they were cop sharp as he scanned her photos, timelines, data.