right. Damn shame. I’d be happy to sit down with you in, say, thirty? We’re in a strategy session.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Now works for me. Does now work for you, Detective Peabody?”
“Yes, sir, it does. This room works, too, but then so does Central.”
“Yeah.” Eve stared into Copley’s eyes. “Either way.”
“Fine, then, fine. Never let it be said I didn’t cooperate with the boys—or girls—in blue. Fellas, give me the room for a few minutes. Guys—oh, and Marta—I need the room. We’ll take this up as soon as I’m finished.”
Eve watched the lone woman shoot Copley a look of cool dislike before she filed out with the rest.
“Have a seat. What can I get you?”
“Answers.”
“No problem there.” He dropped down onto a black sofa. “It looked like we were goofing off, but the fact is we represent the company—and the spokesman—for the games. A new set of interactive sports games and training vids they hoped to launch next spring. We’re working in tandem with the ad company on a smooth launch. You gotta know the product to rep the product.”
“Sure. Tell me about your relationship with Trey Ziegler.”
“He’s—he was—my personal trainer. Damn good one, too. I worked with him at my gym. Buff Bodies.”
“And outside of the gym?”
“We played golf a couple of times. He loved the game. He and my brother-in-law and I played a few times. Treated him to a round, some drinks, that sort of thing.”
“When was the last time you were in his apartment?”
“I . . . Why would I go to his apartment?”
“You tell me.”
“I never went there. No reason to. He was a damned good trainer, worked you until you wanted to cry like a girl. Gave a good massage, too. Pretty good golfer. But we weren’t buddies, if that’s what you mean.”
He rose, walked to the wet bar, poured himself a tall glass of water, squeezed a lemon slice into it. “Sure?” He tipped the glass right and left.
“Yes. When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?”
“I guess it would’ve been Monday morning, regular session with him at the gym. I actually had one scheduled yesterday, but they tagged me, told me he’d been killed. That was a shocker,” Copley added, drank deep.
“Did he ever ask you for money? Hit you for a loan?”
“Money?” Copley drank again, slid one hand into his pocket, jiggled whatever he carried in there. “No. I always slipped him some extra after a massage, but he never had his hand out. Look, I liked the guy. He was a good trainer, so I liked working with him. I gave him a couple perks—golf at the club, like that. We had some laughs on the course. That’s it.”
“Did he ever contact you at home, at your office?”
“What for?”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t remember anything like that. I’d see him a couple times a week at the gym. A couple times at the club when either I or Lance—my sister-in-law’s husband—set it up. Maybe once a week I’d get a massage from him. That’s it.”
“Are you nervous, Mr. Copley?”
“The cops are talking to me about a guy I knew that was killed. So, yeah, some. Plus I’ve got work waiting. I can’t tell you anything about what happened to Ziegler, so . . . if there’s more you should go through my lawyer. We’ll keep it smooth that way. Is that it?”
“For now.” Eve started for the door. “Oh, you mentioned your brother-in-law. But you didn’t mention your wife also used the deceased as a trainer and a massage therapist.”
“So what?”
“Interesting.” Leaving it as that, Eve started out.
She walked down the wide hallway again, through the doors, glanced at Peabody.
“He’s lying.”
“Oh yeah, he is.”
She wanted Copley in the box, Eve thought, but knowing in her gut he was lying didn’t equal proof. The minute she tapped him, he’d lawyer up. She didn’t begrudge him legal representation—rules were rules for reasons—but a lawyer was bound to block and dodge her questions, see she was on a fishing expedition.
But Copley was lying, and there was damn well a reason for that, too.
“We dig,” she told Peabody as they took the elevator up from the garage at Central. “We dig on Copley until we find enough to stand on, then we bring him in. He’s not going to talk to us again without a lawyer, so we find some holes.”
She checked her wrist unit for time as a couple of uniforms pulled in a heroically drunk Santa who looked—and