Delusion in Death

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.