Page 21 of Festive in Death

“I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t like to, but I can’t tell you. He’d showered or bathed—and thoroughly. He sports what’s called a Continental.”

Eve looked down at the razor thin, sharply edged zigzag of hair at the crotch. “Yeah, I noticed that. Weird.”

“But tidy. His genitals and what pubic hair he has were thoroughly washed and groomed. He died clean. He’d consumed about eight ounces of red wine less than an hour prior to death, a field green salad and an energy drink about two hours prior.”

“He had a little bag of dried leaves in his suitcase. Looked and smelled like tea to me, but...”

“The tox isn’t back yet—they’re backed up as usual—but from the condition of his body, his organs, I’d doubt he had any habitual illegals use. I see no signs he took any sort of drugs on a regular basis. This was a very healthy man in peak physical condition.”

“Personal trainer of the year.”

“In life and in death.”

“Thanks.” She rolled up her empty Pepsi tube, two-pointed it into his recycler. “That helped.”

“Anytime. I’m looking forward to your party. It’s the bash of the season.”

“Yeah? I’d guess Ziegler probably feels his big trophy was the bash of the season.”

“Ha,” Morris said.

•••

With Peabody, Eve worked down Ziegler’s client list, giving priority to women of means.

She hit the managing partner of a SoHo art gallery, the CFO of a real-estate company, the owner of a small chain of boutique day spas, and a couple of women who’d married well and spent most of their time spending money.

“The last one was skinny as a snake and barely five-foot-four.”

“And her current husband is six-foot, also has a BB membership, and plays lacrosse. Jealous husbands qualify, Peabody. We run him.”

“Got it.”

Eve walked toward the elegant three-story brownstone drenched in holiday glamour. “We’ll take this one—Natasha Quigley, spouse John Jake Copley—both clients. Then we’ll call it for the day.”

“Yay. My butt’s dragging.”

“Well, hike it up.” She rang the buzzer.

Good afternoon.

The computerized voice intoned polite reserve.

Please state your name and your business.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge to be scanned. “Our business is with Ms. Quigley and Mr. Copley.”

Your identification has been verified. One moment please.

“People ought to answer their own doors once in a while,” Eve said, “just to see what it feels like.”

“You have Summerset,” Peabody pointed out. “And a really big gate.”

Before Eve could respond, the door opened. A woman—no a droid, Eve realized quickly—in a smart gray uniform smiled with the same reserved politeness as the security comp. “Please come in. Ms. Quigley will see you.”

The house opened up to a soaring three-story foyer. Free-form silver chandeliers dripped down, showering light over what Eve thought might be the original wood floors.

That space flowed into a living area where a fire snapped inside a black marble hearth, a tree draped in crystals and red ribbon glittered, and two women sat on a massive circular sofa drinking clear liquid out of martini glasses.

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