Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(23)
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?”