Delusion in Death

3

She went straight up to her office, ignoring everything else—and did what she rarely did. She shut the door.

Inside the small space with its single skinny window, she dropped down at her desk. And ignored her flashing message light on her desk ’link.

For the next fifteen minutes, if she could manage it, she wanted to concentrate on putting everything she knew, had seen, had confirmed, every detail, every conversation, every speculation into words.

Narrowing her focus, she worked. She backtracked, changed angles, rechecked timing. She scanned a text from Peabody—her partner was on her way.

No time to dump grunt work off, so she printed out stills from her record of the crime scene, of individual victims. She checked her incomings only to add to her list of names: victims and survivors.

Notification of next of kin, she thought briefly, would be a nightmare. One, due to the number, she’d have to share.

She didn’t glance up at the knock on the door, but started to snap out when it opened. Swallowed the harsh words as Roarke stepped in.

He looked as tense and pissed off as she felt.

“Word was you were back,” he said briefly. “I need some bloody coffee, and not that slop they have up in EDD.” He went straight to her AutoChef and programmed two cups as she didn’t have one on her desk.

He knew she stocked the blend he supplied her with. And had wooed her with.

“You’re busy, I know.” He set her cup down by her computer.

“We all are.”

“We’re not going to be able to tell you much more than you already know.” He glanced down at the stills she’d started to organize, sighed once. “Confirming the time it began, how long it lasted, and the fact all of it was concentrated inside the place. You hear them screaming,” he said quietly. “You hear a lot of them screaming.”

“I could tell you you don’t have to do this, any of this.”

“You could.”

“I won’t.”

“It’d be better that way. The fact I own the place is a small part of it. Too small to matter.”

“I don’t know that yet. It may be you were the target, some kind of revenge or grievance.”

He passed an absent hand over her hair. “You don’t think that. If it were, why not select a place where I might be? Some restaurant where I’m holding a meeting, or even the lobby area of my head-quarters?” He walked to the window, stared out at the busy world of New York. “It’s not me. It’s nothing to do with me, really.”

“Odds are slim, but I can’t discount it yet. I can’t discount any single one of the vics was the reason. Or that none of them were. Not that much time’s passed. Someone, or some group, may take credit for it yet. Send us a message, or more likely send one to the media.”

“You hope for that.” He turned back to her. “Once credit’s taken, you’ll have a line to tug, a direction.”

“Yeah. Even better will be if we find some screwed-up suicide note on one of the vics, or at their residence, their work.”

He knew her face, her tones, her inflections. “But you don’t think that either.”

“I can’t discount it, yet. It would be the best answer.”

“And you and I, cynics as we are, don’t believe in answers handed to us on a platter.”

She could say to him what she’d say to few. “It’s not done. I felt it as soon as I understood what happened in that place. Maybe before when I talked to a couple of the survivors. Those who lived through this will carry it with them every day. It’s pretty fucking likely each of them killed someone they know, someone they liked. Maybe someone they loved. If and when they fully understand that, how do they cope?”

The cruelty here, she thought, was so bright, so ugly.

“Killing because you have to, to protect a life, to save your own or others? It’s hard enough to live with that. We have to start notifications after the briefing. A lot of families will be grieving by morning. So, I think, for whoever’s responsible, that’s a goddamn blazing success.”

He came back to her because she needed it, whether or not she knew it.

“Did Feeney start facial recognition on the people picked up going out, going in?”

“He’d put someone on that when I left. It shouldn’t be difficult to ID the two women going in, their faces are clear. Those going out will take a bit of time, I think, as the camera only caught partials.”

“The women going in didn’t come out. They’re either dead or in the hospital. So they’re not going to be hard to ID.”

He touched her hand, just the lightest of contacts. “Do you know how it was done?”

“Parts of it. I’ll get into it in the briefing.”

“All right.” He moved to her window again, stared out at the air traffic, the buildings, and down to the street. “When I was a boy in Dublin there were still some pockets of fighting, holdouts from the Urban Wars. Those who were too angry or entrenched to stop. Now and again there’d be a bomb, homemade boomers, that were unreliable at best. In a car, a shop, tossed through someone’s window. It was a fear you learned to live with so you could go on with your day-to-day.”

He turned back. “This is more. Bigger place, more people, and a more terrible threat even than a well-placed bomb.”

“We’re not calling it terrorism yet.”

A shade or two of the rage she’d seen earlier slid back across his face. “It’s nothing but terrorism. Even if it turns out to be a one-off, it’s nothing but. If there’s another, or possibly even if not, you’re going to have Homeland coming in on you.”

She met his eyes levelly, and thought he had two levels of rage going. “I’ll deal with that when the time comes. They don’t worry me.”

He came to her, took her hand. “Then don’t let me worry you either, when it comes to that.”

She thought of what he’d done for her, for only her, by subjugating his need for revenge against those from Homeland. The agents who’d ignored her cries as a young girl in Dallas, her pleas for help as her father had beaten her, raped her. He’d let it go because she’d needed him to.

“I won’t. I wasn’t.” She gripped his hand tight. “Don’t let me worry you either.”

“You’ve still hurt places from going back there, from everything that happened only weeks ago. They may not show, darling Eve, but I see them well enough. A bit of worry’s my job. Look that up in your famous Marriage Rules.”

“Then we’ll deal with that, too. But now I’ve got to get to the conference room. We’ve got a hell of a mess on our hands.”

“I’ll help you set it up.”

When they got to the conference room, Peabody had already started.

“Your door was closed,” Peabody told her, “so I got going on this. I’ve got the time line. And the list of vics. I’ll get ID photos and crime scene printed out.”

“Already done.”

“Oh.” For a second, Peabody look mildly put out. “Okay, I’ll match them up. They lost another. One of the ones in surgery didn’t make it. One looks good, another’s holding, but they don’t give her much of a shot. They’re working on the one they had in pre-op when you were there. The one in the coma’s still out. But I was able to talk to the one guy. Dennis Sherman. He lost an eye. He works at Copley Dynamics. That’s the same building, different floor from where CiCi Way works.”

“Small world,” Eve murmured.

“Big city, full of tight districts and neighborhoods. Yeah, small world.”

“I bet he used that bar a lot.”

“You win,” Peabody confirmed. “It’s his regular place. Tonight, he’d come in after work with a couple coworkers. They’d already left, and he was hanging a little longer, talking to the bartender. He’s a regular so they know each other, talk sports a lot. And one minute, the best he remembers, they’re bullshitting about post-season play, then next, the bartender slams a bottle down, and jabs the shard in Sherman’s cheek. He didn’t remember a hell of a lot after that, but I got it on record. He talked about the place filling up with water, and sharks everywhere, circling him, drawn to the blood from his face. How he had to beat them off, stab at them.”

“Did you get the names of the coworkers?”

“Yes, sir. I got all I could, but they wouldn’t let me talk to him long. The one who didn’t make it? The bartender.” She glanced at Roarke. “Sorry.”

“So am I.”

“Let’s get these stills up, and I want to be able to pull any I’ve printed off the disc and on screen.”

“I’ll see to that,” Roarke told her.

“Did you get anything from Morris?” Peabody asked as she and Eve finished with the boards.

“They breathed in a nasty stew of psychotic drugs and illegals.”

Peabody’s hands stilled. “It was in the air?”

“That, and some contact, some trace on the skin. We don’t have all the details. The lab’s on it. That’s the next stop when we’re done here.”

It was a long process, pinning the faces to the names, papering the board with scenes of blood and death. She’d nearly finished when the door opened.

And she came to attention for her commander.

“Sir. We’re nearly finished setting up.”

“Lieutenant. Your report was brief, but impactful.”

“I wanted to get you as much salient data as quickly as possible. We still have—”

He held up a hand, silenced her, then moved to the boards.

She saw the tension in his stance, a big man with a powerful build. And read the controlled stress on his wide, dark face. Silver threaded though his close-cropped hair. As he scanned the boards, the lines bracketing his mouth seemed to dig deeper.

Every inch of Commander Jack Whitney said command, and every inch carried the weight of it.

“This, all this in under fifteen minutes?”

“Closer to twelve, sir. Yes.”

“Eighty-two confirmed dead.”

“Eighty-three. Another died after surgery, Commander.”

He continued to study the board in silence as Mira came in. Perfectly groomed in a suit of quiet blue, she crossed the room to join Whitney at the board.

“Thank you for coming in, Doctor Mira.”

Mira only shook her head. “I read your brief, preliminary report.” She shifted her gaze to Eve. “I appreciate you calling me in.”

They began to filter into the room now. Feeney, McNab, and Detective Callendar from EDD; Trueheart, Baxter, and the rest. Each one scanned the board before taking a seat. For once a room full of cops remained almost silent.

Get it started, she told herself, and walked to the front of the room.

“Shortly after seventeen-thirty this evening eighty-nine people were infected with an airborne substance we must believe was deliberately released inside On the Rocks, a bar on the Lower West Side. Data and witness reports give us a time line for the length of the incident. It lasted from approximately seventeen-thirty-three to approximately seventeen-forty-five—the last TOD, on scene, of any victim so far processed.”

Cops did the math, and there were murmurs as the narrow window of time made its impact.

“As of now we have no confirmation on when the substance was released,” Eve continued. “We know that this substance caused those eighty-nine people to hallucinate; it drove them to murderously violent behavior. Under its influence these eighty-nine people attacked each other. Eighty-three of those people are dead. Of the six survivors, we have been able to interview three. All their statements bear certain similarities. A sudden headache followed by extreme delusion. Preliminary reports from the medical examiner conclude this substance was most probably inhaled.”

She ran through the mix, using street names, watched the faces of her cops darken.

“Most of you have seen the result of that exposure, on scene. But to keep it in the forefront. Screen One on, display in turn crime scene stills one through eight.”

She waited and she watched as each still flashed on, held, flashed to the next.

“EDD has spliced together some transmissions from pocket ’links recovered on scene. Captain Feeney?”

He puffed out his cheeks, pushed to his feet. “Some of the vics were on their ’links prior to exposure. We got eleven ’links with some form of transmission, and seven of those continuing transmission during the incident. In all but two of those cases, the other party had already disconnected or the transmission went straight to voice mail. One transmission was made to Freeport, and we’ve contacted the other party to request a copy of the transmission from their end. As the other party was stoned out of his mind during the transmission and after, we’re currently working with the local Freeport PD to obtain. The other was made to an individual in Brooklyn. Detective Callendar was dispatched to speak with the individual, and has just obtained the ’link.”

He glanced at her.

Callendar, in tight red skin-pants and a scooped yellow shirt that showed off her considerable assets, shifted in her seat. “Schultz, Jacob J., age twenty-four. Single. He was cooperative, and also, if not stoned, considerably under the influence. He believed the transmission, which he replayed for me at his residence, was a practical joke played by his friend. I did not disabuse him of that belief.”

She shifted again so her black hair, done in a mushroom cloud of curls, bounced. “He was toasted, Lieutenant. You’d have to be seriously toasted to hear and see what’s on that ’link and think it was somebody’s idea of a big yuck.”

“Can you put it up?”

She nodded at Eve, rose. “We made a copy. The ’link’s sealed and logged.” Moving to the computer, she slid the disc in. “On screen, Lieutenant?”

“On screen.”

“Vic on screen is Lance Abrams, age twenty-four. Ah, he’s number twenty-nine.”

Callendar stepped back as the young, good-looking face came on screen.

“Yo, Jake! ’S on?”

“Decomp time. Might’ve had a half day, but the fucker was a day and a half. Brew’s going down easy.”

“I hear that. Stopped off for a couple, and I got a line on that sweet blonde I told you about.”

“Big Jugs? In your wet dreams, jerkoff.”

“I’m telling you, and she’s got a friend. How about it? I said we’d hit a couple of clubs, get some chow. She busted with her boyfriend, man, and she’s prime for it.”

There was a long slurping gulp as, Eve assumed, beer went down.

“You want me to come all the way in so you can get laid?”

“She’s got a friend.”

“How big are her tits?”

Abrams grimaced, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Fuck, need a blocker. You want to party or not?”

“I got brew, prime smoke, and I’m tapped till payday. Why don’t you bring them here? I’ll show you a party.”

“Asshole.” The attractive face became a mask of ugly rage. “You fucking prick.”

“Got my fucking prick here, too,” Jake said placidly, “and my good left hand.”

“Fuck up, fuck up, fuck everything up. I’m coming over there and fuck you up.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and what ninja army? Take a snap of the friend, yeah? Let me see if I want to get laid. What’s with the screaming, man? You at some sex club?”

“They’re coming.”

Behind Abrams, blood spattered. Someone ran by, fingers curled like talons, blood running down his face.

“They’re coming,” Abrams repeated in a scream, “for all of us.”

“Who’s that? Hey!” There was a moment of concern in Jake’s voice as the screen tilted, as flashes of people—mostly feet now, or those crawling, came in and out of view. “Hey, man, performance art? Chilly stuff. Where you at, bro, maybe I will come in. Yo, Lance! Nasty!” He laughed as a woman fell into view, clutching at the gash in her throat. Someone tripped over her and was beaten viciously with a broken chair leg.

“Shit man, gotta piss. Get me back.”

Jake clicked off, and the screen went blank.

Feeney cleared his throat. “We have the same transmission from the vic’s ’link, but this gives us the visual. We pieced together some of the others before they were aborted. What we’re going to do is dissect the audio, look for any key words, any patterns. But from what we have now, you’ve just seen the most comprehensive. I can run you the rest if you want it now.”

“It can wait. I want a copy of both. At this point we don’t know the method of dispersal, the motive. We don’t know if the individual or individuals who released this substance survived, or if survival was their intention.”

“You think this might’ve been some whacked-up suicide?” Baxter asked.

“Some people don’t want to die alone, or easy. But it’s low on the list. Think of Schultz’s reaction to it. Chilly, he thought. Yeah, he thought it was a show, a joke, but watching people kill each other, it’s entertaining. Whoever did this? I think they enjoyed it, enjoyed the punch of causing it. Possibly one or more of the victims was a specific target, but taking out a bar full of people in minutes? Had to be a rush. Doctor Mira, would you agree with that, or do you have another take?”

“I agree. To kill so many, so quickly, and more to manipulate them, like puppets. Very likely not getting his own hands dirty.”

Her gaze stayed calmly blue as she studied the death posted on the case board. “Ordinary people,” she added, “doing a routine, ordinary thing after the workday. It’s playing God—a vicious, vengeful God. Intelligent, organized, sociopathic. He, or they, likely have submerged violent tendencies. This was a play. Yes, performance art—the young man wasn’t far off. He observes, can’t connect. He’s unable to connect, except on the surface. He—or possibly she—plans and considers, but enjoys taking risks. He may be envious of the people who come together to enjoy a social hour after the workday. He may, certainly, have a specific target or a particular tie to or grudge against the bar.”

“He would have known the routine, the happy hour business in that location.”

“Yes.” Nodding at Eve, Mira crossed her legs. “He wouldn’t be a stranger there. Unless, and I agree the probability is small, this was an elaborate self-termination, he is also very controlled. He would have walked away. He couldn’t stay and watch what he’d created, what he’d caused. What he’d accomplished, and it would be difficult not to see. He’ll follow the story religiously in the media. If he can insert himself into it, he will. He’ll want that connection—to the power, not to the victims.”

“He’ll do it again.”

“Yes. And he will likely escalate, try for larger groups. He must have a place, a small lab, where he can create his substance. He must have, or have had, test subjects. Animals, I would think. And if he’d done this before we would have heard of it—I suspect this was his big test. The first on a group of human subjects.”

“It could be political,” Whitney suggested.

“Yes,” Mira agreed. “The basic profile remains should this be the work of a group or organization. If it is, they will certainly take credit, and quickly. They would crave the attention and the platform for whatever cause they believe in. The fact that it’s been several hours now without any group claiming credit lowers that probability in my opinion. The longer without that contact, the higher the probability this is the work of an individual, or a small group with no specific agenda to hype.”

She paused to study the board again. “He’s making a big statement. A public place, a place for society, for gathering. And he kills at a distance. He doesn’t need to see, to touch, to feel it.”

“He’s better than they are,” Eve suggested. “Removed.”

“Yes. His targets were primarily white-collar. Executives, those striving to be—admins, assistants. He works with them or for them. He knows them. It’s most probable he works or has worked in that area—the area that provides the bar with its after-work clientele, or indeed works or has worked for the bar. He might have been fired, or passed over for promotion.”

“I’ve checked the firings at the bar,” Roarke put in. “There’s been none since I acquired it. I kept the staff when I bought it. The manager runs it well, and has for two years, which is longer than it’s been mine. He wasn’t on today. The barman who was among the victims also stood as assistant manager.”

“We’ll interview all the bar staff,” Eve said. “Any who weren’t on shift, and especially any who requested off, or don’t show up as victims or off schedule. We’ll also interview the three people who EDD tagged as exiting the scene shortly before the event, once we’ve ID’d them. And we’ll interview coworkers, family, friends of every vic. It’s going to be a long process. I’ll assign a group of vics to each of you. You’ll work the case individually and as a team. You’ll do the notification to next of kin on the vics assigned to you. You’ll do the necessary interviews, and work the cases of your vics. Every interview, report, hunch, step, stage, and sneeze is documented and copied to me, the commander, and Doctor Mira. We’ll brief eight hundred hours. I’ll clear any and all OT.

“Baxter, Trueheart,” she began and handed out specific assignments.

When she’d finished, Whitney rose. “Lieutenant, if and when you need additional manpower, it will be assigned. While you correctly initiated a Code Blue, it won’t hold. There are substantial leaks already—too many people, including civilians, to cover. The department, and the mayor, will issue statements. I’ll take point there, at this time.”

“Yes, sir. Considering Doctor Mira’s profile, the media attention is what he wants. That may satisfy him, at least long enough for the investigation to earmark a suspect. Or it may charge him up so he does it again—and bigger.”

“I agree.” Mira nodded. “I’d like to work with you and the media liaison on the statement, Commander. How it’s worded, and how it’s delivered could buy us time before another attack.”

“We’ll get started immediately. Whatever you need,” he told Eve, then turned briefly to the others. “Good hunting,” he said, and left them.

“Let’s get to work. I want all notifications done tonight.” Nobody, she determined, was going to hear they’d lost their spouse, child, father or mother, sister or brother over the damn screen. “Take a booster if you need it, but I want the interviews started. Be prepared to report, in detail, at eight hundred hours. Dismissed.”

She turned to Peabody. “This is our briefing room until we close. It’s secured when we’re not in it. Make that happen. We’re going to split the notifications. Take a uniform with you. One you know has his shit together. We’ve got the top twenty-five in numerical order. You take the last twelve of that. When you’re done with that, I want you to go over the reports—crime scene, ME, whatever we get from the lab, anything further from EDD. Write your own report from that, send it to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get some sleep, and be ready at zero eight hundred.”

“I’ll take Uniform Carmichael if he’s still around. Otherwise—”

“If you want Carmichael, take him. If he’s off shift, tell him he’s back on.”

“I’ll get him.”

She turned to Feeney as he walked up.

“He got hits on the two women going in the bar.” His gaze tracked to the board, and Eve knew.

“Which are they?”

“Numbers sixty and forty-two. Hilly and Cate Simpson. Sisters. Hilly Simpson lives in Virginia, the other’s a buyer for City Girl, some ladies’ shop right down from the bar.”

“Sister came in to visit, maybe. They went in for a drink, maybe to meet the New York sister’s friends. Jesus Christ.”

“Twenty-three and twenty-six. Age,” Feeney explained, and rubbed at his face. “Some of them tire you out before you get started.”

“Hit my office for some real coffee.”

“Might just.” He pulled out his communicator when it signaled. “Here’s something. We got another hit. The couple who walked out at seventeen-twenty-nine. Got a hit on her anyway. Shelby Carstein, works at Strongfield and Klein.”

“Same firm as Brewster, one of the survivors.”

“Got an address on her.”

“Send it to me. I want to talk to her.”

“Already sent. Listen, we can’t give you much more on the ’links until we have more to work with,” he began. “You get us the vics’ electronics, we’ll be all over them. We’ll start on their memo books, scan through, see what we can find. But unless one of them was a specific target, or involved, we’re shooting in the dark.”

“Understood. I’m going to swing by the lab, see what I can shake loose, then go see Shelby Carstein.”

“If I’m not needed in EDD,” Roarke said, “I’m with you, Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant. Sorry.” Trueheart jogged back in. “We had some people come in. Two of them stated they’d been in the bar, left a coworker there. Another states he’s the bar manager.”

“Where are they?”

“The sergeant on the desk put the two in the lounge, the manager in Interview A. He didn’t think you’d want them together.”

“He’d be right. I’ll take the two, then the one.”

“I’ll start on the notifications, Dallas,” Peabody offered. “From the bottom up. If this takes you longer, I’ll keep going until you’re loose or they’re done.”

“All right.” With her eyes on the board she spoke to Roarke. “You can come to the lounge, but don’t go in with me. Sit nearby. You’ve got good eyes, good instincts. Get a read on the two I’m going to talk to, then you can do the same from Observation on your manager. How well do you know him?”

“Not well at all, in the big picture,” Roarke admitted. “I spoke to him extensively during the transition. We did the usual background check, security check, and so on. I also spoke, extensively, with key staff to get a read on him as well as them. He cleared, and very well. Since then I haven’t had any personal dealings or contact with him. I haven’t needed to. He’d report directly to the coordinator assigned to that property.”

“I might want to talk to the coordinator, depending.”

“I’ll arrange it if you need it.”

“Go in first. Get some coffee and—”

“Not in there, I won’t.” He managed a ghost of a smile. “But I know how to cover.”

“Right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She gave Roarke three minutes, then walked to the lounge.

A handful of cops risked the coffee or one of the offerings from Vending. Roarke sat with a cowardly tube of water and his PPC at a table near two civilians.

Both looked tired, fretful. The woman’s springy blond hair cascaded down around her shoulders. Her feet snugged into skids to go with the casual pants, the light sweater. The man wore dark pants, a blue shirt, and old boots.

She judged them in their thirties, the man in the early part, the woman headed toward the forty mark.

They weren’t wearing suits or carrying briefcases, but Eve made them from the security disc. The visit saved the investigation the trouble of digging for two more IDs.

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas.” She sat down with them, watching them both straighten in the hard plastic chairs.

“Nancy Weaver, and my associate Lewis Callaway. I contacted Lew when I heard the reports on deaths at On the Rocks. We were there, after work. We were right there, with Joe—Joseph Cattery—and Stevenson Vann. I was able to reach Lew and Steve—Steve left before I did. He had to catch a shuttle to Baltimore for an early-morning meeting. But I haven’t been able to reach Joe. Lew said Joe was still at the bar when he left.”

Eve let the woman ramble. She did so concisely, like someone used to giving presentations and data, but there were hitches and quavers in her voice.

Deliberately now she shifted her focus to the man. He had a smooth-shaven face and short, straight brown hair. “You work together.”

“Yes. Marketing and Promotion, Stevenson and Reede. We’d just finished a major campaign. We went in to brainstorm a little on the presentation, and to blow off some steam. Steve couldn’t stay long as he was taking point on the meeting in Baltimore.”

“What time did you get there?”

“About quarter to five? I don’t know exactly.” He glanced toward Nancy for confirmation.

“We left the office about twenty to five, and it’s no more than a five-minute walk. More like three. Steve left after about fifteen minutes. I left around twenty after five, I think. I had an eight o’clock date, and I wanted to get home, change, regroup.”

“Joe and I had one more round,” Callaway added. “His wife and kids are out of town, so I kept him company for a bit. He talked about going on, grabbing some dinner, but to tell you the truth, I wanted to get home myself.”

He lifted his hands off the table, let them fall again.

“We’ve been putting a lot of extra hours into this campaign. I was tired. In fact, I was half asleep on the couch when Nance contacted me. I figure Joe probably turned off his ’link, maybe went to a club. You know?”

“Come on, Lew.”

“His wife’s away, and you know how tight a rein she keeps on him.” He said it with a hint of a smile, a kind of understood wink. “He probably just wanted to bust loose a little. But Nance is worried, and by the time she finished, she had me worried.”

“All the reports are so vague, and that makes them more frightening,” Weaver insisted. “We were there. Right there at the bar. One of the reports said there might be seventy people dead.”

“Take it easy.” Callaway put a hand over hers, briefly. “You know how the media exaggerates.”

“People are dead.” Her face, soft around the edges, went hard. “That’s no exaggeration. How could that happen? It’s a good place. It’s not a dive or a joint. Hell, I’ve taken my mother there. Nobody will tell us anything,” she continued. “They’ve all told us we had to wait here, for you. I know who you are. I watch the media reports like a kid eats candy. You’re a homicide lieutenant. Were people murdered?”

“I’ll tell you what I can. There was an incident at On the Rocks this evening that resulted in multiple deaths.”

“Oh God. Joe?”

“I’m sorry to inform you Joseph Cattery has been identified as one of the victims.”

“Well, Jesus.” Callaway simply stared at her. His eyes, so dark they read black, went blank for a moment. “Jesus. Jesus God! Joe’s dead? He’s dead? How? He was just sitting at the bar, having a drink. We were all just having a couple drinks.”

“I’m not able to give you details at this time. Did either of you notice anything out of the ordinary while you were in the bar?”

“Nothing,” Weaver murmured, with tears swimming in her eyes. “There was nothing. It was happy hour, and most of the tables were full, so we just took the bar. I didn’t want anything to eat anyway. We just sat at the bar, talked about the presentation, the campaign. Just shoptalk.”

“Did both of you leave alone?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Callaway concurred. “I actually walked out with somebody else from the company. Not our department. Whistler,” he said to Weaver. “I didn’t know he was in there, and we hit the door pretty much together. Said how’s it going, and went our separate ways.”

“How did he die?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Weaver, I can’t tell you at this time.”

“But his wife, his kids. He has a boy and a girl.”

“We’ll be talking to her. I’m going to ask you not to contact her until tomorrow, until we can make the official notification.”

“There must be something you can tell us,” Callaway insisted. “Something we can do. Joe … we were all there with Joe.”

“I can tell you that we’re actively investigating, and we’re pursuing any and all leads. We’ll be issuing a media release as soon as possible. You can tell me if either of you know of anyone who’d want to harm Mr. Cattery.”

“No, absolutely no.” Weaver took a long, steadying breath. “He’s the original Mister Nice Guy. He coaches a soccer team. He’s the first one to give you a hand if you need it. He’s been married—first and only time—for … I don’t know, twelve years, maybe more. He doesn’t forget your birthday.”

“Everybody likes Joe,” Callaway confirmed. “You have to.”

“How long have you worked with him?”

“I’ve been with S&R for nine years next January,” Weaver said. “He came on a few months after me.”

“I’ve been there almost ten years. We don’t always work together,” Callaway qualified. “We have solo projects, team projects.”

“And Stevenson Vann—related?”

“He’s the COO’s nephew,” Weaver informed Eve. “He came on about five years ago. He’s good. He’s got the knack. He and Joe are pretty friendly, actually. Their boys are about the same age—Steve’s divorced, but he gets the kid every other week. They talk kids. They talked kids tonight a little. Oh my God, who’s going to tell Steve?”

“I’ll do it.” Callaway took a breath. “I’ll tell him.” When Weaver covered Callaway’s hands with hers, he patted it. “I’ll get in touch with him tonight.”

“Did you know anyone else in the bar?”

Callaway blinked at her. “Sorry?”

“You said you walked out with someone you knew. Did you know anyone else in the bar?”

“I … I don’t know, honestly. I mean to say, you see familiar faces as it’s a popular spot for people who work at S&R and in the area.”

“We had our backs to the room most of the time.” Weaver squeezed her eyes shut. “There could have been other people I knew in there, and I wouldn’t have noticed. They might be dead, too.”

After taking their contact information, Eve walked them out. Waited for Roarke.

“Your take?” she asked him.

“The woman’s emotional, but knows under most circumstances how to pull it in.”

“Controlled.”

“Yes, and so is he.”

“What’s S&R?”

“Cleaning products. Industrial, home, body. They’ve been around for more than a century. Very solid. And to save you time—Weaver is the VP in charge of Marketing. Vann, Callaway, and your victim work under her. Though Vann heads this current campaign, under her supervision. Callaway and the victim carry the marketing exec title. Weaver’s single, with two official cohabs in the past, and Vann’s divorced. Callaway’s single. And the victim, as you were told, married with family. Vann has a boy, eight—as does the victim, and a girl, five. No children for Weaver or Callaway.”

“You make a good aide.”

“I can get you more, if and when you need it.”

“It’s enough for the first picture. Any sense of a thing between Callaway and Weaver?”

“Sexual or romantic? No.”

“I didn’t get one either, but he came when she called. Is that an obey the boss thing or a friend thing? We’ll see.”

She stopped outside Interview A. “Tell me about this guy.”

“Devon Lester, forty-three. Second marriage—same sex—no children. He’s been in food and beverage for more than twenty years. Worked bars, tables, climbed up the rungs to manager. He’s managed the bar for two years. Some minor criminal. Some Zoner busts in his late teens, early twenties. One assault charge, dropped when it was proven he’d attempted to break up a fight rather than start or participate in one. He makes his own brew, and in fact we carry it in the bar.”

“Some knowledge of mixing up a stew—so to speak.”

“You could say.”

“Let’s see what he has to stay. Observation for you.”

“As you like, Lieutenant.”