Occam let it slide. “You never ate at Elidios’ Pizza?” When I shook my head no, he said, “The unit should go there for supper one night.”
I made a noncommittal sound and Occam turned his attention back to the streets and the wait that was both boring and too full of turmoil. When the city police had determined that the immediate area was safe enough to move, I crawled to my feet, left Occam lying there, and entered the closest restaurant, begging the use of the bathroom and something to eat. Anything they had left over. The restaurant manager, two cooks, and three waitpersons had been hiding in the kitchen, and they opened the place up just for the emergency responders, offering sandwiches and reheated soup, food that they claimed would be thrown out anyway. It was pretty good eatin’, according to the officers who came in for something warm. But to a girl raised in the church, where women knew how to cook, the bread was slightly stale and the soup needed bay, thyme, and black pepper. I didn’t say that, though. I knew about gift horses and minding my manners and I was hungry enough to eat that gift horse.
Once I had used the facilities and stuffed soup and a sandwich in my mouth, and Occam had eaten three hoagies with double meat, we went our separate ways, Occam to take Rick some food and work with him on perimeter and rooftop examination, as well as the pattern of physical evidence. Crime scene techs showed up and began the collating and collection process. I traced up and down the street with the psy-meter 2.0, catching small spikes on level four again. So the readings hadn’t been erroneous. Our shooter creature, whatever he was, had a definite pattern. It suddenly hit me. I read a low-level four. But . . . I didn’t spike. So this thing wasn’t a whatever-I-was. Relief, and maybe a little regret, moved through me like a slow tide.
I sent my new info to JoJo at headquarters and then crossed the street and entered the relatively warm room the city police had commandeered for questioning witnesses, where two FBI agents, T. Laine, and Tandy interviewed the bystanders and the people who had been in the restaurant. I watched through the door until the questioning was over and the last haggard couple left the room for the cold of night, followed by the PsyLED agents. They stopped when they saw me.
T. Laine said, “No one saw anything except the chaos that erupted when the shooting started. Questioning so far has been an exercise in futility.” T. Laine had perfect teeth, and had lots of schooling—most notably she had some training in large-animal veterinary medicine, which came in handy with Unit Eighteen’s werecats.
I looked at Tandy for his assessment. He looked pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. His reddish hair was mussed up as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“No nudges on his truth-o-meter,” T. Laine said, “but he’s tired, and we have the bigwigs to talk to next.”
“Too much fear in such a small place,” he said. “Panic has a smell and a taste, and—” His words cut off as he swallowed.
“Go take a break,” T. Laine said. “Get hydrated. Nell can help me with this one.”
A tingle of excitement raced through me, but I squished it down. “There’s water, coffee, and food across the street. The manager stayed on after he officially closed up, just for law enforcement.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Tandy walked away.
“Bigwigs?” I asked.
“The Tollivers. The senator and Justin, the rich brother, and their wives.” She sent me a knowing look, her dark eyes amused. “Excited, probie?”
“As a dog with his tail stuck in an electric fence.”
T. Laine shook her head and said to me, “Come on. Grab a water. No telling how this will go. We’ll have Secret Service and feebs and God knows who else in there with us.”
The room was short on space, short on heat, and short on amenities. It had a five-foot-long folding table with a lamp on it and a few chairs: two for the couple, one for the questioner, and three against the wall, out of the way, so the interviewed would see only the primary interrogator. The rest of us were supposed to stand. The air inside was stale, laced with the stink of the fire and scorched coffee.
There was also a plastic-wrapped case of water and a stack of legal pads, as well as the recording equipment, which consisted of a futuristic mic—a four-inch, freestanding handle topped with a metal circle and a wire through it, hardwired to a box about the size of a pack of playing cards. T. Laine had her cell out to record. So did the others. I didn’t bother.
An African-American woman in a trench coat, pants, and low heels walked into the room and I had no doubt this was the Secret Service special agent in charge of the crime scene. Behind her, and similarly dressed, strode another woman, one I recognized from the Holloways’ house investigation. Stevens? Stoltz?
They both placed tablets and pads for notes on the table and looked around at us, taking everyone in. The second woman’s eyes didn’t so much meet mine as bore a hole into my brain. I had made a reputation for myself when I took down the Knoxville FBI chief as a paranormal serial killer, and some feds didn’t like me much. The first woman spoke. “For those who haven’t met us, I am Special Agent Elizabeth Crowley, Secret Service. This is Special Agent E. M. Schultz, FBI. I will be leading this discussion. Not interrogation. Discussion. The Tollivers are neither persons of interest, nor are they suspects. They are an elected government official and his wife and they are distraught. They are terrified. This will not be questioning as usual. If you have a question, you may ask it after Schultz and I have completed our questions. You will be polite and respectful and show proper deference. Is that clear?”
I nodded. T. Laine nodded. Everyone nodded. I had a feeling that anyone who disagreed would have been put out of the room with extreme prejudice. The SSSAIC was scary. She picked up the mic, clicked it on, gave the date and time, and introduced herself. “This is Elizabeth Crowley, Secret Service. I am joined by . . .” She held the mic to Schultz, who gave her name and rank. Crowley then pointed the mic at T. Laine, who said, “PsyLED Special Agent Tammie Laine Kent.”
Crowley went around the room and ended with a finger pointed at me. “PsyLED Probationary Special Agent Nell Nicholson Ingram.”
Crowley looked back and forth between T. Laine and me, as if memorizing our faces and putting them together with a mental dossier she was keeping on each of us. “Anything I should know from your agency before we begin?”
T. Laine shook her head no. I raised a hand the way I had in grade school. “Ming of Glass seems to be afraid that both attacks were actually aimed at her.”
“The Master of the City of Knoxville?” Crowley asked.
T. Laine’s fingers jerked out in some kind of warning, but I couldn’t interpret the gesture.
“No, ma’am. Ming of Glass is Blood Master of Clan Glass, but there is no MOC. Knoxville falls under the territory of Leo Pellissier of New Orleans.”
I could see things taking place behind Crowley’s eyes, but I couldn’t interpret them either. “I see. And Ming of Glass. She was here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you let her leave?”
Oh dear. “Ummm . . .” Now I could interpret T. Laine’s finger wave. It was a Keep your mouth shut signal.
“We’ll talk after.” She pointed at the suit closest to the door. “Bring them in.”
They brought Senator Tolliver and his wife in, and I focused all my senses and abilities on them. The senator looked younger than his age, his face taut and firm, with minimal wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. A self-important, condescending man, hiding behind a façade that was usually friendly, interested, but that façade was cracked now, and arrogance was peeking through, making his eyes hard and dark. His nose was slightly hooked, nostrils a little too thin to be called handsome. The senator’s wife, Clarisse, was younger than he, her face pale, her mascara smudged, as if she had been crying. She wore her hair in a dark, short bob streaked blond, and had blue eyes. She held on to the senator’s hand under the table and he leaned to her, saying quietly, “It’s almost over. We’ll be home soon.”
She touched her mouth, an indication of nerves, and said, “I’m just worried about Devin.”
“The Secret Service are with him. He’s in good hands.” Her husband smiled. “He’s probably asleep. And if not, then he’s beating the pants off them at some video game.”
Clarisse laughed shakily and touched his shoulder. She seemed like a china doll woman, easily breakable or maybe already broken and glued back together so the porcelain face was what the public usually saw, and not the hurting, fractured woman beneath.
“You can do this,” he whispered.
Her face changed; she gave a practiced smile to her husband and then to Crowley, the perfect doll-face mask back in place. The senator studied her a moment, then nodded to proceed.
“Thank you for helping us with the timeline,” Crowley said. “It’s very important to the investigation and I appreciate the care and effort it must take after two such violent and horrifying situations.”
“I’ve never been in a firefight before,” Clarisse said. “It happened so fast.”
“What time did you arrive at the restaurant?” Crowley asked.
I listened with half an ear and turned my attention to other things, like the hallway just beyond us, where a stretcher, covered by a white sheet over a formless shape, was rolled past. I was glad Clarisse wasn’t looking.
“Who was your waiter?” Crowley asked.
“I don’t remember,” Clarisse said. “Do you, dear?”
“Mark? Luke? I remember it was one of the gospels. I’m usually better at names,” Abrams said, sounding self-deprecating, as if to indicate his bravery and confusion.
“Where were you seated?” Schultz asked. “Could you see out into the street?”
“No, we were seated side by side, facing the kitchen,” Abrams said. “The chef is supposed to be quite amazing. We had just placed our order and were talking small talk and business.”
“The waiter was bringing our soup. He had just stepped from the kitchen. The tray full of soup bowls exploded,” Clarisse said, her eyes growing wider, her fingers touching her mouth again. “Then the man across from me jerked.” Her fingers pressed hard against her lips and she spoke through them. “He was just getting ready to stand, leaning forward and up. His head went bloody and blood splattered all over the woman behind him. People started screaming. I started screaming.” Her eyes filled with tears and I realized that she was wearing colored contacts, the eyes beneath them gray and not the pretty blue she showed to the world. I remembered the contacts on the corpse’s eyes at the Holloways’ house. Was there a connection? With contact lenses? No. That was foolish. Clarisse wiped her eyes, smearing the mascara even more. “Can we please go?”