Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(60)

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 could handle this better. I’m good in a crisis. I keep my head. But this … Can’t you tell us something?”

“I’ll tell you what I can once I’ve gotten Mr. Vann’s statement. Let’s take it to your office,” she decided. “Roarke? With me.”

She walked to the door, paused while the three exchanged looks.

“No problem.” Salesman smile back in place, Vann crossed to the door. “It’s just down the hall.”

As they walked, Roarke pulled out his PPC, gave it his attention. Rude, Eve thought. Just what she’d wanted.

Eve noted nameplates: Callaway’s office, Cattery’s, a large area of cubes and assistants’ desks, then Vann’s—a corner deal easily three times the size of hers at Central.

“I didn’t notice Ms. Weaver’s office,” Eve commented.

“Oh, she’s on the other side of the department. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“I’m good. Have a seat.” She gestured to one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk, gave Roarke a subtle signal.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Roarke asked even as he sat at Vann’s desk.

“No.” Obviously nonplussed, Vann spread his hands. “Help yourself.”

“I’ll be recording this, and I’m going to read you your rights.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s routine, and for your protection.” She rattled off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“It’s just standard procedure. Why don’t you tell me about yesterday, before you left for your shuttle?”

“I’m sure Nancy and Lew told you that we—and Joe—had been working on a major campaign for some weeks.”

“Your campaign. You were on point.”

“Yes. I actually pulled in the account, so I headed up the project. I was due to give the presentation first thing this morning, and traveled yesterday evening to have dinner with the client, talk it up. As I said, I was at dinner when Lew called to tell me about Joe.”

“You all went to the bar together.”

“That’s right. We knocked off a little early as we’d finished the project. We all wanted to celebrate, just have a drink—and talk it through again.”

“Whose idea was it to go have a drink, and at that particular bar?”

“I … I’m not sure. It was more or less a group decision. It’s the usual watering hole for the company. It’s so close, and it’s a nice spot. Joe may have suggested the drink, and we’d all just assumed that’s where. We left together, arrived together. Grabbed bar seats. Actually, it was already crowded, and I stood at the bar. I couldn’t stay long. I left a few minutes after five, took the car service to the transpo station.”

“You must have had your presentation, your overnight, briefcase.”

“In the car. I’d given all but my briefcase to the driver.”

“Did anything strike you as odd or unusual at the bar?”

“Nothing. It seemed like the typical happy hour crowd. I saw a few people from the office spread around.”

“You go there a lot?”

“Once or twice a week, yes. With coworkers, or with a client.”

“So you see a lot of the same faces.”

“Yeah. People you don’t know necessarily.”