by J. D. Robb
“So it is in the world of business.”
“That’s why you’re handy to have along. You know the ins and outs, the slippery corners. They’re marketing people, right? So they’re always selling something.”
“Including themselves,” he agreed. “It’s not only selling the product, showing it in the best and most creative light, but hyping themselves as the ones with the best ideas, the freshest angles, the most muscular follow-through.”
“I get it, as a theory anyway. They’re coworkers, and there’s a pecking order. But they’re competitors, too. It’s not just other firms they compete against.”
“Exactly. There’d be accounts, prestige, and bonuses at stake. A daily race.”
“Could be one of them decided to narrow the field. But it’s not that simple.” She argued with herself, struggling to focus the picture. “There are easier ways to do that. This is ego, anger, cruelty, and a complete disregard for humanity—more for people he sees every day.”
They went inside, crossed the wide lobby to the security desk.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, holding up her badge, “and consultant, for Weaver, Callaway, and Vann—Stevenson and Reede.”
“You’ve been cleared, Lieutenant. Ms. Weaver’s expecting you. Elevators to the right. Forty-three West. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.”
With Roarke, Eve stepped into the elevator. “Forty-three West,” she ordered. “He didn’t ask for your ID. Weaver told him to expect me and a partner. She’s assuming Peabody.”
“I’ll try to be half as charming.”
“No charm, pal. You’re aloof. You’re not just a boss, you’re a megaboss. People like this aren’t worth your notice. I’m doing my duty. Follow-ups are routine. I intro you as consultant, but it’s clear you’re just here because we’re on our way home. You’re bored.”
Enjoying her, he smiled. “Am I?”
“You have planets to buy, minions to intimidate.”
“Well, now I am bored. I’ve already done all that today.”
“Then it won’t be hard to pretend to do it all again. Be scary Roarke-lite.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean. I don’t want them to piss themselves. I just want them off balance. Here we go.”
Nancy Weaver stepped forward as the elevator doors opened, then stopped short, eyes widening on Roarke.
Eve thought: Perfect. “Ms. Weaver, my expert consultant, civilian, in this matter, Roarke.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for coming, and so quickly.” She offered her hand to Roarke. “I was expecting the other detective.”
“Detective Peabody is handling another area of the investigation at this time,” Eve said as Roarke offered Weaver a cool nod and hand-shake. “You said Mr. Vann is also present for this follow-up.”
“Yes, Steve and Lew are waiting in the small conference room. Just this way.”
Weaver wore black, Eve noted—except for the flashy red soles on her towering heels. She’d drawn her hair back. The severe style accented the shadowed eyes and strain lines around them. Her voice carried the rough edge of someone who’d slept too little and talked too much.
“I sent all my people home,” she began as she led the way through a reception area as flashy and red as her soles. Sparkling white lights studded spirals of silver whirling from the ceiling. Weaver’s heels clicked over the dizzying pattern of floor tiles.
Glass doors whisked open at their approach.
“A number of people—companywide—have put in for leave,” she continued. “The CEO will issue a statement in the morning. Right now, everyone’s in shock. Everyone’s scared. So am I.”
“It’s understandable,” Eve said, and kept it at that as they moved down a wide, silent corridor.
“Steve and Lew and I thought, since we were at the bar before … before it happened, and as we had people at the café when … I got word an hour ago that Carly Fisher didn’t make it. She went to the café on her lunch break. She was one of mine. I trained her. She was my intern when she was in college, and I hired her as an assistant. I just promoted her.”
Weaver paused, voice shaking, eyes swimming. “I saw her on her way out to lunch, and I asked her to bring me a salad and a skinny latte. She never came back.”
Her voice broke as she pressed a hand to her mouth. “I got busy, and didn’t notice. She never came back. Then we heard about the café.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I keep thinking, if I hadn’t held her up, hadn’t asked her to take the time to get my lunch, maybe she’d have been out before it started. Maybe she wouldn’t have been there when it happened.”
“There’s no way of knowing.”
“That’s the worst part.”
Weaver opened double pocket doors. Inside Lewis Callaway stood beside the tall, slick-looking man Eve recognized as Vann from his ID shot.
Vann wore a power suit, a black armband, and a rich man’s golden tan.
The “small” conference room spread wider than the one she habitually used at Central. She wondered fleetingly how much acreage their large conference room took up. Windows ribboned two walls so New York shimmered outside the glass.
The long, glossy table dominated, surrounded by cushy, highbacked chairs. The wall of screens was currently blank, but the black counter held two AutoChefs, silver water pitchers, glasses, and a bowl of fresh fruit.
She took in the space and its fancy touches while she watched the men react to Roarke.
Shoulders went back, chins lifted—and while both men started forward, Vann moved just a hair faster, and reached Roarke first.
“An unexpected pleasure, even under the circumstances.” He offered his hand for a brisk, businesslike shake. “Stevenson Vann,” he added. “And this must be your lovely wife.”
“This is Lieutenant Dallas,” Roarke responded, with just a hint of cool, before Eve could answer herself. “She’s in charge here.”
“Of course. Lieutenant, thank you for meeting with us. It’s been a horrible two days.”
“You spent part of them out of town.”
“Yes. I shuttled back right after my presentation. Lew contacted me to tell me about Joe. I was at dinner with the client. We were both so shocked. It still doesn’t seem quite real. And now this new nightmare. Please, won’t you both sit. We’re so anxious to hear anything you can tell us, anything at all.”
“Actually, I’d like to speak with you alone first.”
He looked blank. “I’m sorry?”
“I haven’t interviewed you as yet, Mr. Vann. We’ll take care of that now. Here, if we can have the room. Or your office might be easier.”
“Oh, but couldn’t you just—” Weaver broke off, then simply sat down. “I’m sorry. I wish I could handle this better. I’m good in a crisis. I keep my head. But this … Can’t you tell us something?”
“I’ll tell you what I can once I’ve gotten Mr. Vann’s statement. Let’s take it to your office,” she decided. “Roarke? With me.”
She walked to the door, paused while the three exchanged looks.
“No problem.” Salesman smile back in place, Vann crossed to the door. “It’s just down the hall.”
As they walked, Roarke pulled out his PPC, gave it his attention. Rude, Eve thought. Just what she’d wanted.
Eve noted nameplates: Callaway’s office, Cattery’s, a large area of cubes and assistants’ desks, then Vann’s—a corner deal easily three times the size of hers at Central.
“I didn’t notice Ms. Weaver’s office,” Eve commented.
“Oh, she’s on the other side of the department. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“I’m good. Have a seat.” She gestured to one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk, gave Roarke a subtle signal.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Roarke asked even as he sat at Vann’s desk.
“No.” Obviously nonplussed, Vann spread his hands. “Help yourself.”
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“I’ll be recording this, and I’m going to read you your rights.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s routine, and for your protection.” She rattled off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“It’s just standard procedure. Why don’t you tell me about yesterday, before you left for your shuttle?”
“I’m sure Nancy and Lew told you that we—and Joe—had been working on a major campaign for some weeks.”
“Your campaign. You were on point.”
“Yes. I actually pulled in the account, so I headed up the project. I was due to give the presentation first thing this morning, and traveled yesterday evening to have dinner with the client, talk it up. As I said, I was at dinner when Lew called to tell me about Joe.”
“You all went to the bar together.”
“That’s right. We knocked off a little early as we’d finished the project. We all wanted to celebrate, just have a drink—and talk it through again.”
“Whose idea was it to go have a drink, and at that particular bar?”
“I … I’m not sure. It was more or less a group decision. It’s the usual watering hole for the company. It’s so close, and it’s a nice spot. Joe may have suggested the drink, and we’d all just assumed that’s where. We left together, arrived together. Grabbed bar seats. Actually, it was already crowded, and I stood at the bar. I couldn’t stay long. I left a few minutes after five, took the car service to the transpo station.”
“You must have had your presentation, your overnight, briefcase.”
“In the car. I’d given all but my briefcase to the driver.”
“Did anything strike you as odd or unusual at the bar?”
“Nothing. It seemed like the typical happy hour crowd. I saw a few people from the office spread around.”
“You go there a lot?”
“Once or twice a week, yes. With coworkers, or with a client.”
“So you see a lot of the same faces.”
“Yeah. People you don’t know necessarily.”
“And how did Joe get along with the rest of you, the others in the office?”
“Joe? He was a go-to guy. If you needed an answer, an opinion, a little help, you could count on him.”
“No problem with you coming in, snagging a corner office?”
“Joe wasn’t like that.” He spread his hands. His wrist unit—platinum, she’d bet her ass—winked. “Listen, some people might think I got a leg up, but the fact is I’m good at what I do. I’ve proven myself.” He leaned forward now, exuding sincerity. “I don’t flaunt my connection with the top. I don’t have to.”
“This major campaign, no problems with you taking point? Making the presentation solo.”
“Like I said, I brought in the client. I don’t look for special treatment, but I don’t step back when I’ve earned something. I don’t understand what this has to do with what happened to Joe.”
“Just getting a feel for the dynamics around here,” she said easily. “You’d understand that, getting a feel for how people work—alone and together. What they look for, what they want, how they work to get it.”
His smile came back. “I’m in the wrong business if I don’t. It’s competitive, that’s the nature of the beast and what keeps things vital and fresh. But we know how to work together to create the best tools for the client.”
“No friction?”
“There’s always a certain amount of friction. It’s part of being competitive.” He glanced toward Roarke. “We’re one of the top marketing firms in New York for a reason. I’m sure Roarke would agree that a certain amount of friction brings the fire needed to create and satisfy.”
Roarke spared Vann the briefest glance, said, “Hmmm.”
“Were you and Joe friendly outside work?”
“We didn’t really travel in the same circles, but we got along well. Our boys are about the same age, so we had that in common. His kid …” He trailed off a moment, looked away. “He’s got good kids. A nice place in Brooklyn. I took my son, Chase, to a cookout there last summer. The boys hit it off. God.”
“And Carly Fisher?”
“Nancy’s girl.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t really know her. To speak to, of course, but she’d just been promoted, and we hadn’t worked together yet. Nancy’s just sick about what happened to her.”
“Anyone else you’re friendly with here—outside the office?”
“If you mean romantically, that’s sticky. I try to avoid tangling work with relationships.”
“Okay.” Eve got to her feet. “We’ll finish up in the conference room.”
“I hope I was helpful. I want to help—anything. All of us want to help.”
Eve kept her eyes level with his. “I’m sure you do.”
12
Weaver and Callaway had their heads together when Eve walked back in. They each gave a quick, guilty start, then shifted in their chairs.
“Don’t get up.” Eve flicked a hand, then chose a seat at their end of the table. “A couple of questions. Was it Joseph Cattery’s habit to stay later at the bar, alone?”
“I … Not that I know of,” Weaver began, glanced to Callaway.
“We grabbed after-work drinks there now and then,” Callaway stated. “Sometimes he stayed on, sometimes we left together. He was friendly with some of the regulars, so he might stay, hang with someone else.”
“You left last, Mr. Callaway. Was he with anyone else, or talking to anyone else?”
“The bartender. They always got into sports. But I didn’t notice him ‘with’ anyone, if that’s what you mean. We blew off some steam. I left. I was beat. I think I told you yesterday, he wanted another drink, made some noises about going for food, but I just wanted to get home and crash. I wish I’d taken him up on the dinner idea. We wouldn’t be here now.”
“There was nothing odd in his behavior when you left him?”
“No.” He shook his head, picked up a glass of water but didn’t drink. “I’ve thought and thought about those last few minutes, trying to remember all the little details. It was just usual, just another day. It was all small talk and shop talk. He was tired, too, but he just wasn’t ready to go home.”
She reached in her file bag, pulled out Macie Snyder’s photo.
“Did you see this woman at the bar?”
“I don’t …” His brows knitted together. “I’m not sure. She looks familiar.”
“I saw her.” Weaver took the photo. “I’ve seen her in the bar a few times. I’m sure I saw her in there yesterday.”
“Must be why she looks familiar.”
Vann angled his head. “Oh yeah. She was at a table with another woman and a couple of guys. Lots of laughing and flirting going on.”
“Okay. How about this woman?”
She offered the photo of Jeni Curve.
“Jeni,” Nancy said immediately. “She delivers for Café West. She’s up here nearly every day for someone. Was she—”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“God.” Breath hitching, Weaver squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear God.”
“Do both of you know her as well?” Eve asked the men.
“Everybody knows Jeni,” Callaway said. “She’s a sweetheart, always ready to take the extra step, always cheerful. Steve had the flirt on with her.”
“She’s dead,” Vann murmured staring at the photo. “We just got lunch from her a couple days ago. Locked in on the campaign, and she brought in our lunch order. Extra soy fries because she knows I like them. She’s dead.”
He rose, walked over, poured water. “Sorry. It just hits. I got take-out from there one night last week, walked out just as she did—off her shift. I walked her home before I caught a cab. I walked her home, and I thought about talking my way up to her place. I think she’d have been open to it. But I had to work, so I let it go. She’s dead.”
“You were in
terested in her?”
“She’s beautiful and bright. Was. Yeah, I thought about it that night. Long day, take-out food because it’s going to be a long night of work. And here’s this bright, beautiful woman giving me all the right signals. I thought, well, why not. An impulse thing,” he said. “But the campaign.”
“So the two of you never connected that way.”
“No. I figured, plenty of time if the mood strikes again. That’s what you think,” he said as his grieving eyes met Eve’s. “There’s always plenty of time. Time for bright, beautiful women, or for another drink with a friend from work. Plenty of time to get your boys together at the park one Saturday. Goddamn it.”
Saying nothing, Weaver rose, opened a glossy cabinet and took out a decanter. She poured two fingers of rich amber liquid, took it to Steve.
“Thanks. Thanks, Nancy. I’m sorry,” he said to Eve. “It’s just hitting me. It’s real. It happened.”
“No apology necessary. What about you, Mr. Callaway? How well did you know Jeni?”
“I liked her. Everybody did. I never hit on her, if that’s what you mean. She was the delivery girl, and I liked her, but that’s it.”
“Tell me about Carly Fisher.”
Callaway looked mildly surprised by the request. “Another bright girl. Nancy’s protégée. Creative, hardworking.”
“I’m going to have a drink, too.” Weaver went back to the decanter. “Anyone else?”
“On duty,” Eve said simply.
“Oh, right. Lew?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Would you say Carly was competitive?” Eve asked Lew.
“Sure. You can’t make it in this business without an edge. She had one. She wanted to move up.”
“Always eager to work,” Weaver added. “She’d take on anything. She liked to be busy. She pitched in with both of you.”
“Yeah.” Vann sipped his drink, stared out the window.
“And you?” Eve prompted Callaway.
“If you asked her to get something done, she got it done. Nancy trained her, so she had a strong work ethic and plenty of ambition.”
