Delusion in Death (7 page)

“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.”

4

Devon Lester had what Eve thought of as leprechaun red hair, worn in nappy dreads. It foamed and frizzed around a face the color of bleached burlap, and the face sat round as a beach ball on a neck thick as a tree trunk.

Eyes the color of raisins bulged out of it.

He
rat-ta-tatted
his fingers on the table, kept some quick, inner beat with his feet on the floor. Eve might have assumed he was a junkie jonesing for a fix, but he went still when his gaze latched on hers.

“You’re Roarke’s cop.”

“I’m NYPSD’s cop.”

“I meant, anyway, so anyway, I’m the manager. Roarke tagged me, told me there’d been trouble at the bar. People were dead. I’ve got a copy of the full crew I gave him.” He pulled it out of his pocket, set
it on the table, carefully smoothed it flat. “Maybe you don’t need it since you’re his woman.”

“I’m my own woman.”

“I meant—I’m not doing so well.” He rubbed big, wide hands over his beach ball face. “I can’t get my head around it, or my guts. He—Roarke—didn’t get real specific. Just the trouble, the dead people, and how I was to send him the names and contacts on all the crew, and who was on tonight, and who wasn’t. I figured there’d been a fight or something. We don’t usually have much trouble, it’s not that kind of place. But that’s what I figured until I started hearing the media reports. So I tagged Bidot.”

Eve sat down. “Who’s Bidot?”

“Oh, I figured you’d know all the stuff. The guy who handles the bar business for Roarke.”

“I thought that was you.”

“I’m the manager. He’s the one I report to. You don’t just tag Roarke every time you need to clear something, you know? A man like him has a lot of balls in the air, right?”

“Sure.”

“You got a pecking order. I report to Bidot, Bidot reports to Roarke if Roarke needs to know. Like that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Devon let out a whistle of breath, as if relieved to have that point cleared up. “He said, Bidot said, the cops were on it, and it was bad. Really bad. Like maybe—” He paused, swallowed audibly. “Maybe eighty people, maybe even more. Dead. In my place. My crew. He couldn’t tell me about my crew. I came in because I’ve got to know about my crew. I can’t get anybody who was on shift on the ’link. I need to know about my crew, and what—Jesus, lady, what the fuck?”

He was babbling, she thought, but had to give him credit for getting the information out. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Dallas. You were off tonight. Is it your usual night off?”

“Yeah. I make the schedule, two weeks running. I like to be flexible, in case somebody’s got something going, wants to change a shift. We run a good, smooth place, and I’ve got a damn good crew. D.B. was on the stick tonight. He’s the assistant manager. I can’t get ahold of him. I went by there first, by the bar, but it’s sealed up, and there’s cops on the door. They wouldn’t tell me jack even when I said it was my place. I mean—”

“I get it. There was an incident in On the Rocks this evening that resulted in the deaths of eighty-three people.”

“Mother of God.” The bleached burlap face went lightly, sickly green. “Mary, Mother of God. Was there a bomb? Or a—”

“We’re investigating, Mr. Lester.”

“My crew. I got all the names right there. D. B. Graham, on the stick; Evie Hydelburg, that’s our cook; Marylee Birkston, head waitress—”

“I have the names. Ms. Birkston was in surgery the last I checked. Andrew Johnson—”

“Drew. He goes by Drew. He’s a busboy.”

“He’s in a coma. They’re both at Tribeca Health Center.”

Lester waited a beat, then two. “The others? What about the rest? I had nine people on that shift.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lester, those are the only members of your crew who survived.”

“Okay, that’s a mistake.” He lifted his fingers, heels of his hands firmly planted on the table as if he needed the anchor. And his voice was all reason. “That’s a mistake. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Ms. Roarke, but—”

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Whatever.” Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, temper fired his eyes, and behind it crawled fear. “Seven of my people didn’t die. That doesn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Lester, and I understand this is hard to accept.”

“Well, I don’t accept it.” He surged to his feet. “Get that? It’s not acceptable. I want to speak to your superior.”

Eve rose as well. “I’ve just completed a briefing with my commander, and the task force assigned to this investigation. Which I’m heading. I’m telling you seven of your people are dead. Two are in the hospital, and you don’t hope any harder than I do that they survive.”

“This is bullshit.”

At the knock on the door, she pulled it open a bare inch. It didn’t surprise her to see Roarke.

“I can help here,” he said before she could speak.

She kept her mouth shut, though it took considerable effort, and stepped back. The instant Roarke entered the room, she saw he’d been right.

The heat in Lester’s eyes died instantly, and the fear rolled away into grief. “No. No.”

“Sit down, Devon. Sit down now.”

He obeyed, Eve decided, more because his legs just gave way.

“Just Marylee and Drew? All the others,
all
? They’re gone?”

“Yes. I need you to help the lieutenant, Devon. She’s going to do her best by them, by all of them. You can help her.”

“D.B. was getting married. He and his woman, they’ve been together three years, and they’re getting married in May. Evie, she just had her first grandkid. Katrina got a callback on an audition. I
changed her shift so she’d get off at eight tonight so she could prep for it. She was supposed to go home early tonight.”

Roarke said nothing, just let him talk of each one of the dead, people he couldn’t claim to know, but were his as well. His eyes flicked up to Eve’s, held a moment—full of sorrow—when she set water in front of Lester.

“What happened to them? Please. God, please. You have to tell me what happened.”

“I’m not able to do that yet.” Eve sat again. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“All right. All right.”

“You said you had a good crew, but even so, sometimes there’s friction or upset. Have you had to discipline anyone? Break up any arguments?”

“Look.” He swiped at his eyes with his forearm, struggled out a couple of steadying breaths. “Okay, look, there’s always drama. Somebody has a fight with the wife, the boyfriend, whatever the hell. Or a customer gets bitchy, right? It’s just the way of the business. But my people got along. It’s a good place—good pay, good tips. Somebody needs to switch shifts, we switch. Somebody needs a shift covered, somebody covers.”

“You didn’t go in at all today?”

“No. Slept in, then me and my guy went to this gallery in SoHo. He likes the galleries. Had a late lunch, did some shopping.”

“Did anyone from the bar contact you today?”

“No. And that happens, sure, now and again. But not today. First time my ’link rang, it was Roarke. Quirk and I had a quiet day.”