Delusion in Death

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