Page 115 of Festive in Death

“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.

“Lieutenant. How can I help you?”

“I want to speak with Ms. Quigley. Mr. Copley, too.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Copley isn’t at home at this time. Ms. Quigley has an appointment shortly.”

“Then I’ll try not to keep her long.”

“Of course. Please come in. I’ll let her know you’re here. Make yourselves comfortable,” she added, leading them into the living area. “May I serve you anything?”

“We’re good.”

Eve waited until the droid left the room. “You know she’s already told Quigley who was at the door. Why do they always act like they haven’t?”

“It’s a procedure. It’s a nice old building,” he observed. “Very well rehabbed.”

“Taste and money?”

“It would take both, and an admirable respect for the character of the brownstone.”

He turned, as she did, at the quick click of heels. “Lieutenant, I wasn’t expecting... Roarke.” Natasha’s smile flashed out as she clicked over, extended a hand. “We met, very fleetingly, several years ago, at an art show in London.”

“It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Please, sit down. I didn’t put it together when I spoke with you before,” she said to Eve. “I suppose the upset over everything fogged my focus. Eve Dallas, Roarke’s wife—and the star of The Icove Agenda.”

“Marlo Durn’s the star of that. I’m a cop.”

And you’re a liar, Eve thought. She’d made the connection already. Why pretend otherwise?

“Of course. I heard Nadine Furst is working on a second book based on one of your cases. I’ll look forward to reading it even more now that we’ve met. Even under the circumstances.”

“Where’s your husband?”

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