Nowhere to Run. Nancy Bush

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ