one of them may have killed Ziegler. Since she’s a known cheater and liar, she may be lying about Ziegler not pushing for more. And if he did, bash, bash. Or the illusion of romance she claims was more real, and she finds out he’s playing her like he played the rest.”
“Bash, bash,” Peabody said as Eve hunted for parking.
“Or, Copley did find out, confronted Ziegler. Bash, bash from his side. So let’s stay objective here.”
Peabody climbed out of the car, pulled on her gloves. “Pretty much everyone we’ve interviewed had motive to bash, bash. Our vic’s the guy people loved to hate. They used him—as a trainer, as an employee, as a massage therapist, as a bedmate, but any one of them could’ve picked up that trophy and given him a couple solid whacks.”
“And murder trumps cheating, lying, blackmail, and being a general asshole. So let’s see where John Jake Copley falls on the map.”
Inside the steel-gray lobby of the office building, Eve badged the security guard at the sign-in station. “John Jake Copley. ImageWorks Public Relations.”
He scanned her badge, nodded. “That’s your thirty-ninth floor, elevator bank B.”
Peabody pulled her gloves off as they joined a small pack of sharp suits for the elevator. Half of them nattered away on earbuds, others frowned importantly at their ’links or PPCs as they scrolled through data.
One of them, a six-foot blonde in a dark purple coat with lips dyed to match, did both.
“The Simpson meeting ran over,” she barked as they all piled on the car. “Shift my three-thirty to three-forty-five, and my four to four-thirty. I know I have a four-thirty, Simon, you’re going to reschedule that for five—drinks at Maison Rouge. I’ll follow up with the five-thirty, same place. Keep these meetings on schedule, Simon. There’ll be hell to pay if I miss Chichi’s holiday pageant tonight. I’m on my way up now. Get it together.”
As the woman marched off on the twenty-second floor, Eve decided she’d hold her own stunner to her own throat—on full—if she had to live by meetings scheduled minute by minute.
She’d much rather screw those meetings up by flipping out her badge.
Which she did at the glossy gold reception counter of ImageWorks.
A trio worked the counter, all in dark suits, all with perfect grooming and toothy, professional smiles.
The sleek brunette’s smile didn’t waver a fraction. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped the badge. “Dallas. With Detective Peabody. We need to speak with John Jake Copley.”
“Mr. Copley, of course.” She tapped nails painted cold, hard blue on her screen. “I’m showing Mr. Copley in the executive lounge for a strategy meeting. But he does have a few minutes free later this afternoon where I can schedule you in.”
“Do you see this?” Eve held up the badge again. “This is my strategy meeting. Where’s the executive lounge?”
“It’s through the double doors to your right, down to the end of the hall, to the left, through the double doors, and—”
“I’ll find it,” Eve said.
“But . . . It’s for executives,” the brunette said as Eve turned away.
Eve merely held up her badge again, kept walking.
“I really love that part,” Peabody said. “I’m a little ashamed, but I can’t help it.”
They passed doors, both opened and closed, busy hives of cubes, turned the corner, passed a staff lounge with Vending and a couple sofas, a wall screen scrolling through ads.
Things quieted through the next set of doors.
Eve nodded at yet one more set. “Odds are,” she said, and strode to them, pulled them open.
Laughter poured out.
On the wall screen a golfer teed off on the eleventh hole under sunny skies on a course green as Ireland. Around the room men—but for a lone woman who looked bored and annoyed—sat or stood with drinks in hand.
JJ Copley stood in front of the screen, teeing up just as his CGI counterpart. Handsome and fit in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, he swung. On screen, his avatar perfectly mirrored the move—and sent the little white ball soaring—over a sand trap, over a sparkling blue pond, and onto the edge of the eleventh green.
Raucous applause ensued.
“And that’s how it’s done.” Grinning, he turned toward another fit and handsome man holding a club, then spotted Eve.
“Ladies? Can I redirect you?”
“Copley, John Jake?”
“Guilty.”
“Well, that makes it easy.” Eve took out her badge again. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“Whoa, whoa!” He laughed, but this time a little nervous around the edges. “What’s all this about?”