It’s you they’re after. You! Always you
, the paranoid voice in her head warned.
Go home. Get your own gun. And RUN.
“Nine!” Detective George Thompkins bellowed from his swivel chair at the far end of the squad room.
Detective September “Nine” Rafferty, named and nicknamed for the month she was born, jumped as if goosed. She’d been filling out some paperwork but the tone of George’s voice drove her instantly to her feet. She was a newly minted detective and so she stood ramrod straight. “Yes?”
“Just talked to D’Annibal. He’s on his way in.” George cast a glance to the darkened glass cubicle that was their superior’s, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal’s, office. D’Annibal was on the last hours of his vacation and that left George in charge, a dubious honor for a dubious commander. George liked to squeak his heft in his swivel chair and remain at his desk and that was about it. Now he swiveled around and said, “Jesus Christ. There’s been a shooting at Zuma Software. Patrol’s on the way. Get over there and see what’s what. D’Annibal’s orders.”
“And me?” Detective Gretchen Sandler demanded in her nasal tone. She was slim, dark-haired and dark-skinned, a gift from her Brazilian heritage, with almond-shaped blue eyes that raked over September as if looking for flaws. She was also September’s partner, a fact Gretchen didn’t like much at all. But then she hadn’t liked her previous partner much, either. Gretchen and George had also tried to work together and that had not worked out. Gretchen’s stormy resentment and George’s deep, long-suffering looks had forced Lieutenant D’Annibal to prudently break them apart and that was how September had become Gretchen’s partner. As soon as they heard her nickname, to a one, the detectives and Lieutenant D’Annibal of the Laurelton Police Department called her Nine. None of them knew the nickname’s origin; they’d just taken it on.
“Of course, and you,” George growled at Gretchen, then swatted at them both as if they were gnats buzzing around his head. “Get outta here.”
September dropped everything except the wallet she kept in her back pocket that held her identification. She wore gray slacks and a matching gray shirt, buttoned to her neck. Gretchen had on a pair of denim jeans and a black sleeveless sweater with a matching cardigan that she snatched from the back of her chair and threw over her arm as they headed toward the front of the building. Gretchen walked ahead of September and ignored her as they passed by the front desk and outside into the shimmering heat. “You gotta dress for the weather,” Gretchen told her as September felt sweat gather along her hairline and the back of her neck.
“This is cotton,” she answered, gesturing to the gray shirt as they climbed into an unmarked black Ford Escape.
“Nobody wants to see you sweat.” Gretchen threw the SUV in reverse and wheeled them around, then slammed the vehicle into gear and they lurched forward.
Realizing the gray material was light enough to show moisture, September filed that away for future reference. She’d just moved to homicide from property crimes and it was a whole different ball game. She’d followed her brother into law enforcement but he was currently working with a gang task force in conjunction with the Portland PD and hadn’t been around to congratulate September about joining the Laurelton PD—the same police department he was also based out of—and still wasn’t.
She glanced back as they headed onto the street. The Laurelton Police Department was on the northern edge of the city, a squat, rectangular brick building that the idiots from the Laurelton City Council had demanded they paint white because it was in the original specs. Now, years later, that white paint had turned a dirty, yellowish beige. So much for city planning. Farsightedness was not their forte.
The walkie-talkie buzzed and Gretchen grabbed it. September heard squawking and Gretchen snarled back, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be there in ten.” She switched off and added, “Four people shot. All on the first floor. Shooter didn’t go upstairs, or if they did, the steel door was locked.”
“What were they after?” September asked before recalling that Gretchen hated rhetorical questions.
Gretchen shot her a cold look and said, as if Nine hadn’t even spoken, “One’s dead. Three on their way.”
“To the hospital . . . ?”
“To the Pearly Gates, is my guess,” she said dryly.
After that September kept her mouth shut until they reached Zuma Software, which was a two-story building of modern design in glass, wood and metal with two ambulances parked in front. A woman was being carried out on a gurney and loaded into the first one. A man was being carried toward the other. Both ambulances turned on their lights and started screaming out of the lot, past Gretchen and September, at the same time.
September had to race-walk to keep in step with Gretchen as they headed to the front door, a monstrous piece of mahogany stained almost black surrounded by floor-to-ceiling translucent windows. Gretchen pushed on the partially opened door and it slowly swung inward to an atrium and the office floor beyond. September stepped carefully after Gretchen and saw that the tech team was already at work on a man who was clearly a corpse.
“Coroner’s that way,” one of the techs said, inclining his head.
“Who’s this?” Gretchen asked, gesturing to the body at her feet.
“Name’s Paul de Fore. He was some kind of security.”
“Fat lot of good it did him,” she remarked.
September scanned the room, her pulse running fast. Her head felt light and she clamped down on emotions that had no place here. Gretchen could see through her too easily and she needed to keep a cool head. Easing around the dead man, she walked past a desk and chair covered in blood. Ahead was a partition and she peeked over it gingerly, but the workstation was unstained. Then she walked toward the office the tech had indicated and saw another man on the floor, his chest and neck sporting two or three bullet holes. His shaggy hair was thick with blood. His eyes were open but as she watched, the coroner closed them with thumb and index finger.
“Aaron Dirkus, the owner’s son,” the coroner, Joe Journey, known to all and sundry as J.J., said. “His father was conscious. Kurt Upjohn. He’s on his way to the hospital.”
“How bad are his injuries?” September asked.
“This one’s dead.”
“I meant Upjohn.”
Journey stood up, giving September a long look. He was heavyset and jowly with muttonchops that appeared to be his pride and joy. “They each took three bullets. If you can talk to Upjohn, I’d do it soon.”
Gretchen appeared. “Two dead, two on their way to Laurelton General. A whole group upstairs who heard popping sounds, or didn’t, depending on whether they were wearing headsets apparently. Nobody up there knew anything was even wrong until we showed up, or so they say. Doesn’t look like the killer even attempted to break in.”
“Who put the call into 911?” September asked.
She spread her hands. “Mystery guest, or maybe the missing employee.”
“Who’s missing?”
She inclined her head toward the undisturbed desk area. “Bookkeeper behind the partition. Know-nothings upstairs say her name is Liv something.”
“We should get to the hospital and check with Upjohn,” September suggested.
Gretchen lifted her brows, threw a glance to the coroner, then gave September an assessing look. “Why is your nickname Nine, again? Did you tell me?”
“No.” So there it was. The first person to ask. Not that it was a huge issue, but she was trying to avoid any reason for her coworkers to tease her. “Month I was born.”
“I thought it had something to do with you being almost a ten.”
September wasn’t quite certain how to take that. Was it a compliment, or a put-down? She knew she was pretty enough—auburn hair and blue eyes, slim, almost boyish, but still with enough curves to catch sideways glances—but Gretchen wasn’t known for courtesy and compliments. She decided she didn’t care what Gretchen meant and ignored the comment entirely.
Gretchen nodded her head, as if coming to a conclusion. “We’re going to head to the hospital. We’ll come back later and go through things. Make sure nothing’s disturbed.”
“That’s our line,” the coroner said and he looked damn serious. September understood. The techs and coroner’s office were constantly screaming about how the police first responders always screwed up the evidence. But the officers on this one had gone upstairs to interview the other employees—the know nothings, according to Gretchen—as soon as the tech team had arrived so there wasn’t anything to complain about, as far as September could see.
As if her thoughts had willed them, she heard footsteps on the stairs and one of the employees, a young man with long, floppy red hair, most of which was tied back in a rubber band apart from two hanks beside his white face, was walking on rubbery legs down the last steps. The officer with him was someone September didn’t know, a young guy with an equally white face. She understood completely. The gory scene around them was like something out of an art director’s vision, except this one was real.
“I—I—I heard it. The pops. I—I—thought it was the game. Kinda. But it couldn’t be. I looked around but everyone was on their screens and nobody moved. And then Officer . . .” He gazed vaguely toward the young policeman.
“Lomax.”
“Officer Lomax was just there. And I asked what the hell he was doing upstairs. Mr. Upjohn doesn’t let people just walk upstairs. We’re careful, y’know? Piracy, and all that . . .” He looked from September to Gretchen and back. “Where is Mr. Upjohn?”
“The rest of the employees still upstairs?” Gretchen asked Lomax. The officer nodded. “How many?” she asked.
He looked to the red-haired man, who said, “Um . . . twelve? And Mr. Berelli. Phillip Berelli. The accountant.”
“Berelli came downstairs,” one of the techs said. “He’s puking in the bathroom.”
Gretchen looked to September, who said, “I’ll go check on him.”
As she walked away, Gretchen asked the redhead what his name was and he responded, “Ted,” and then started hyperventilating. September glanced back as he collapsed on the floor. She caught Gretchen’s eye.
“Security tapes?” she asked, and Gretchen asked Ted, “You got any cameras on this building?”
“Oh, sure. I—I—yeah. Piracy. Gotta worry about that. . . .”
Gretchen said, “Who’s in charge of security?” and Ted looked at the body nearest him and pointed with a shaking finger at the facedown man near the front door, blood pooling under his head.
September left them in search of the accountant, circling Kurt Upjohn’s office and finally discovering the door to the unisex bathroom in the short hallway behind it. Rapping her knuckles on the panel, she then tried the handle when there was no answer. The door was unlocked and she pushed it in slowly and carefully. “Mr. Berelli? I’m Detective Rafferty. Are you all right?”
“Yes . . .” he quavered.
“Is it all right if I come in?”
“Yes . . .”
She stuck her head inside and found him propping himself up at the counter, his head drooping on his neck, his forearms taut and shaking with the effort.
“You might want to sit down,” she suggested.
“I didn’t know. I was up there. I heard the noise but I thought somebody’s computer volume got switched up. It was like a
blam.
And then
blam.
And then . . . after a little bit,
blam, blam, blam, blam, blam!
A lot of ’em. Too many! I walked into the control room—that’s where it all happens at Zuma, y’know—and the guys were all working on their computers. Most of ’em had headsets on so they didn’t know, and it was weird, but I . . .” He exhaled hard. “He said they were shot . . . the officer . . . was it . . .
all of them?
”
“I don’t have any answers for you yet,” September said. “We’re sorting through it. Can you come out and talk about it with my partner?”
“The whole first floor?” he asked, looking panicky. “Jessica and Liv, too? The women?”
“What are their names?”
“Jessica Maltona and Liv Dugan.”
“Which one’s which?” September asked as they walked slowly back to the main room. Phillip Berelli looked like he could fall over at any time.
“Jessica’s the receptionist. Dark-haired and has the big chest. Liv’s pretty . . . younger . . . brown-haired, too. She’s the bookkeeper. Is she okay? She and Aaron are friends. . . .” They were passing Upjohn’s office and he looked inside, an automatic reaction. The coroner and another tech were zipping Aaron Dirkus’s corpse into a body bag. He stopped and goggled. “I saw Paul and Aaron and Kurt. . . . They’re all dead, aren’t they?”
“Mr. Upjohn is on his way to the hospital.”
Liv Dugan had gotten lucky somehow
, September thought.
Gretchen crossed the room toward them. “Mr. Berelli?”
He gazed at her with horror-stretched eyes.
“Who should I ask about the security cameras?”
“Paul . . .” His eyes turned toward the man’s bloody remains.