Coburn’s. The two women known to have had access to the bedroom both stated the vic’s latest trophy stood prominently on the bureau.
So the reconstruction held from her point of view. As did the probability—97.4 percent—the murder was the impulse and passion of the moment.
A man, approximately six feet in height—or a woman of that height or in heels that lifted her to it.
Unless Sima had been standing on a box, that left her out. And however Eve felt personally about Trina, she couldn’t see the hair-and-skin monster beating a guy’s head in because he’d dissed a friend.
Coburn. Possible if she’d worn five-inch heels, which strangely women did. But then why leave so much evidence tying her to the scene? Panic? Possible. But writing a note, getting a knife from the kitchen, jamming that knife into a dead body, didn’t speak of panic.
If a woman had the cold blood for that, she had enough control to grab her bra and her shoes.
Still . . . Eve played with her notes. Would that same woman be clever enough to leave incriminating evidence behind as a kind of cover? A stretch, Eve thought. Something to weigh in, but she just hadn’t gotten shrewd calculation from Alla Coburn.
Lill Byers, the vic’s supervisor. Absolutely no evidence she’d had anything but a professional relationship with the victim. Physically, she’d fit. Height, strength, and she’d have known the vic’s address. She’d known at least some of what he did on the side.
Possible kickback? Vic pays her a percentage of his side business in order to run it smoothly out of the facility. She wants more, they argue over it, she loses it.
Weak, Eve thought, just weak. And the computer agreed with her at a 53.6 probability.
David “Rock” Britton. About the right height, certainly strong enough. Motive and potential opportunity with the lack of an alibi.
The computer liked him, she noted, with a probability of nearly ninety percent. But the computer hadn’t looked in his eyes. If he’d gone after Ziegler, he’d have used his fists.
The fashion blogger. Tall enough, fit enough. And if her previous experience with date rape held true, more than enough motive. Somebody got away with it once, by Christ, this fucker wasn’t getting away with it.
So motive, no alibi, physically able.
Eve rose, walked around her board, rearranged some photos, some data.
She sat again, studied it again.
Of that group, the blogger went to the top. The flourish of the note, the knife? Yeah, she could see it. Insult to injury.
Martella Schubert. Delicate—but that was personality more than physicality. She seemed delicate, a little on the fragile side. Monied, pampered—and there was always power in money. Taken at face value, her statement indicated she hadn’t known she’d been dosed, felt guilty for betraying her marriage.
And, taken at face value, her statement could indicate she felt guilty enough to confront the vic, argue with him. He wants more money to keep their tryst a secret. She loses it.
It could play, Eve mused. She could see that playing out. But she couldn’t see the delicate Martella adding the flourish.
But who was she with the first time Eve had interviewed her?
The sister. Big sister.
Impulse, rage, violence, panic.
What if she’d called on the sister.
Tash, I’m in trouble. Oh God, he’s dead! I killed him. What should I do?
What would big sister do? Would she run to the rescue, assess the situation? And with the knowledge the vic had slept with her and the sister, lead with a little of her own rage?
The note, the knife, then unity. Each keeping the big secret while dribbling out bits of the rest.
Maybe.
Or Natasha Quigley alone. She claimed the arrangement with Ziegler was over, ended with her hopes of mending her marriage. Maybe Ziegler didn’t want it over—wanted her to keep paying. Or maybe she’d found out about her sister, confronted Ziegler.
Alibi reasonably tight, Eve mused. But all from staff of one kind or another, and staff often said or did what they were told to say and do.
And physically she fit the bill.
As for the husbands, she couldn’t see Schubert. Like Rock, he’d have used his hands, his fists.
Now JJ Copley didn’t strike her as a guy who led with his fists. A blunt object seemed more his style. And the flourish, well, that fit, too. Payback without any chance of confrontation.
She could see him stabbing a dead man. Yeah, she could see it.
But maybe she could see it because she just didn’t like him.