Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(24)

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 fa?ade that was usually friendly, interested, but that fa?ade 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?”

“I think we’re done here. I need to get my wife home,” Abrams said, standing, giving a politician’s smile, one that said several things at once. The most obvious was that he was too important to deal with the kind of questioning suffered by the hoi polloi and that he had been far more patient than he had to be. “I can come in tomorrow to give a statement. My wife will be writing hers and sending it in by e-mail. I have your card. If there are problems with that arrangement you can certainly speak with my attorney.”

“Of course, Senator. Thank you for staying and talking to us. If we have further questions we’ll be in touch, but I can’t imagine that will be necessary,” Crowley said smoothly. “Stevens, see them safely to their Secret Service escorts and then to their car, please. Make sure they get away safely. And see Justin Tolliver and his wife in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” a suit said and opened the door. “This way, Senator, Mrs. Tolliver.”

“My brother and his wife had to leave,” Abrams Tolliver said. “Babysitter complications. He said to call and he’d come to you at your convenience.” Abrams held out a hand to Crowley. “Our cards with office and private contact information.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, though it was clear she was peeved that someone had left her interrogation site.

When they were gone, Crowley turned off the mic and looked around the room. “Comments?”

“One,” I said. “He had a crust of mud on his shoe. It was a dress shoe. Fancy. He was in the city. Why mud?”

“Anything particularly odd about the mud?” she asked, as if humoring me.