He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her. “I’ll be here.”
Armed with her files, she walked to Interview B, and went in.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Copley, John Jake, regarding case files H-28901 and H-28902. Mr. Copley has exercised his right to legal representation.”
“Edie McAllister with Silbert, Crosby, and McAllister, representing Mr. Copley.”
“So noted.”
“As Mr. Copley’s legal counsel I demand his immediate release.” She clipped the words out, all confident, outraged lawyer. “He’s been held here for nearly three hours. He’s been prevented from accompanying his injured wife to the hospital. He’s been prevented from contacting the hospital to learn his wife’s condition. This extreme hardship is—”
“You are aware evidence strongly indicates Mr. Copley is responsible for his wife’s injuries?”
“That’s a lie!” Copley banged his fist on the table, rattling the chains that secured him.
“JJ.” The lawyer, a swirly-haired blonde in potent red, laid a hand on his. “You have no tangible evidence, and, in fact, have Mr. Copley’s own account that he found his wife unconscious. We strongly believe, and evidence will show, that Catiana Dubois assaulted Ms. Quigley, was killed during the struggle.”
“If you’re thinking of that as your opening statement at the trial, it’s not going to get you far. Catiana Dubois came to your residence—your own security disc clearly shows this, and shows she was upset at this time. You let her in, you argued. You’ve got an impressive temper, Copley, which I can testify to personally. You pushed her. She fell, striking her head on the edge of the marble hearth in your living area.”
“I never touched her. I barely know her. I never saw her.”
“You didn’t see this?” Eve took the crime scene photo of Catiana from the file, tossed it on the table. “In your living area?”
He glanced down at the file photo, quickly away again. “I meant I didn’t see her before. I didn’t let her in. I was upstairs. Natasha must have let her in.”
“And, according to your fairy tale, Catiana subsequently attacked your wife. Why?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Mr. Copley is unaware of any friction between his wife and the deceased.” McAllister spoke firmly, working to focus Eve’s attention on her and away from her client. “However, in her capacity as social secretary for Ms. Quigley’s sister, the deceased often inserted herself in personal affairs.”
“How did she do that?” Ignoring the lawyer, Eve spoke to Copley directly. “I thought you barely knew her? Which is it, Copley? You barely knew her or she stuck her nose in your business?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to her. She dealt with Tella’s social stuff, with women’s business.”
“Define ‘women’s business.’”
“Parties, shopping, lunches.” He shrugged it off. “Garden clubs and whatever women do.”
Eve smiled toothily at McAllister. “Is that your business? Parties and lunches? Is that how you got your name on the letterhead? Going to garden clubs?”
“Obviously, my client means the victim handled his sister-in-law’s social calendar.”
“I think we both know what he meant, and that he’s a misogynistic asshole, but we’ll let that slide for now. Were you aware of any tension between your wife and the deceased?”
“No. I don’t get into that sort of thing. But she attacked Tash. It’s obvious.”
“Contrarily, it’s impossible.” Eve took out another photo. “As you see, there are ten feet, four inches between the deceased’s body and Ms. Quigley’s. Just how did Catiana DuBois manage to bash your wife over the head with this lead crystal vase while she was dead, ten feet, four inches away?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Copley snapped even as his lawyer ordered him to stay quiet. “That bitch attacked Tash, Tash fought back. The bitch fell, hit her head. Clear self-defense. Then Tash tried to get out, get to me, and only made it that far.”
“Let’s have some fun with that. You’re already seeing it,” she said conversationally to McAllister. “Catiana attacks your wife, smacks her upside the head with this vase—the vase that’s here, cracked and bloody on the floor right beside your wife’s unconscious body. Then, somehow, with a fractured skull, with a brain bleed, your wife manages to struggle with the deceased, drive her across the room, where she conveniently falls and kills herself on the hearth. Then, in this miracle of physical determination, your wife gets back across the room, neatly hits the mark where she was attacked, and drops.”
“She’s a strong woman.”
“Her neurosurgeon agrees with you. She also says your creative scenario is impossible. Our reconstruction will back that up.”