“I woulda done the same thing,” Ollie said understandingly. “How about the second shot?”
“Lester was falling. I tried to catch him. I wasn’t looking into the wings.”
“And all the other shots?”
“I was kneeling over Lester. I heard someone running off, but I didn’t see anything. There was a lot of confusion, you know.”
“Wereyou planning to run for Deputy Mayor?”
“I wasn’t asked to do so. I was only Lester’s aide.”
“What does that mean, anyway?” Ollie asked. “Being an aide?”
“Like his right hand man,” Pierce said.
“Sort of like a secretary?”
“More like an assistant.”
“So you don’t have any political aspirations, is that correct?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you do?”
“I wouldn’t be in politics if I didn’t have political aspirations.”
“Excuse me, Alan,” a voice said.
Ollie turned to see a slight and narrow, precise little man wearing a blue blazer, a red tie, a white shirt, gray slacks, gray socks, and black loafers. Ever since the terrorist bombing at Clarendon Hall, everybody in this city dressed like an American flag. Ollie figured half of them were faking it.
“We’re having a conversation here,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I wanted to ask…”
“You know this man?” Ollie asked Pierce.
“Yes, he’s our press rep. Josh Coogan.”
“Excuse me, Alan,” Coogan said, “but I was wondering if I should get back to headquarters. I know there’ll be hundreds of calls…”
“No, this is a crime scene,” Ollie said. “Stick around.”
Coogan looked flustered for a moment. He was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five years old, but he suddenly looked like a high school kid who hadn’t done his assignment and had got called on while he was trying to catch a nap. Ollie didn’t have much sympathy for politicians, but all at once this seemed very sad here, two guys who all at once didn’t know what to do with themselves. He almost felt like taking them out for a beer. Instead, he said, “Were you here in the hall when all this happened, Mr. Coogan?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Where in the hall?”
“In the balcony.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“Listening to sound checks.”
“While you were listening to these sound checks, did you happen to hear the sound of a gun going off?”
“Yes.”
“In the balcony?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“From somewhere down below.”
“Where down below?”
“The stage.”
“Which side of the stage?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Right or left?”
“I really couldn’t tell.”
“Was anyone with you up there in the balcony?”
“No, I was alone.”
“Incidentally, Mr. Pierce,” Ollie said, turning to him, “did I hear you tell those reporters you went upstate with Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where upstate?”
“The capital.”
“When?”
“We flew up together on Saturday morning. I’m his aide. Iwashis aide,” he said, correcting himself.
“Did you fly back together, too?”
“No. I left on Sunday morning. Caught a sevenA.M. plane.”
“So he spent all day Sunday up there alone, is that it?”
“Yes,” Pierce said. “Alone.”
“You the detective in charge here?” the ME asked.
“I am,” Ollie said.
“Your cause of death is gunshot wounds to the chest.”
Big revelation, Ollie thought.
“You can move him out whenever you like. We may find some surprises at the morgue, but I doubt it. Good luck.”
Monoghan was walking over with a man wearing a red bandana tied across his forehead, high-topped workman’s shoes, and bib overalls showing naked muscular arms, the left one tattooed on the bicep with the wordsSEMPER FIDELIS.
“Weeks, this is Charles Mastroiani, man in charge of decorating the hall here, you might want to talk to him.”
“No relation to Marcello,” Mastroiani promptly told Ollie, which was a total waste since Ollie didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. “My company’s called Festive, Inc.,” he said, exuding a sense of professional pride and enthusiasm that was all too rare in today’s workplace. “We’re listed in the city’s yellow pages under ‘Decoration Contractors.’ What we do is we supply everything you need for a special occasion. I’m not talking about a wedding or a barmitzvah, those we leave to the caterers. Festive operates on a much larger scale. Dressing the stage here at King Memorial is a good example. We supplied the bunting, the balloons, the banners, the audio equipment, the lighting, everything. We would’ve supplied a band, too, if it was called for, but this wasn’t that kind of affair. As it was, we dressed the hall and wired it, made it user-friendly and user-ready. All the councilman had to do was step up to the podium and speak.”
All the councilman had to do, Ollie thought, was step up to the podium and get shot.
“Will you get paid, anyway?” he asked.
“What?” Mastroiani said.
“For the gig. Him getting killed and all.”
“Oh sure. Well, I suppose so.”
“Who contracted for the job?”
“The Committee.”
“What committee?”
“The Committee for Henderson.”
“It says that on the contract?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Who signed the contract?”
“I have no idea. It came in the mail.”
“You still got it?”
“I can find it for you.”
“Good. I’d like to see who hired you.”
“Sure.”
“All these people who were onstage with you when he got killed,” Ollie said. “Were they regulars?”
