J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“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.”

“And how did Joe get along with the rest of you, the others in the office?”

“Joe? He was a go-to guy. If you needed an answer, an opinion, a little help, you could count on him.”

“No problem with you coming in, snagging a corner office?”

“Joe wasn’t like that.” He spread his hands. His wrist unit—platinum, she’d bet her ass—winked. “Listen, some people might think I got a leg up, but the fact is I’m good at what I do. I’ve proven myself.” He leaned forward now, exuding sincerity. “I don’t flaunt my connection with the top. I don’t have to.”

“This major campaign, no problems with you taking point? Making the presentation solo.”

“Like I said, I brought in the client. I don’t look for special treatment, but I don’t step back when I’ve earned something. I don’t understand what this has to do with what happened to Joe.”

“Just getting a feel for the dynamics around here,” she said easily. “You’d understand that, getting a feel for how people work—alone and together. What they look for, what they want, how they work to get it.”

His smile came back. “I’m in the wrong business if I don’t. It’s competitive, that’s the nature of the beast and what keeps things vital and fresh. But we know how to work together to create the best tools for the client.”

“No friction?”

“There’s always a certain amount of friction. It’s part of being competitive.” He glanced toward Roarke. “We’re one of the top marketing firms in New York for a reason. I’m sure Roarke would agree that a certain amount of friction brings the fire needed to create and satisfy.”

Roarke spared Vann the briefest glance, said, “Hmmm.”

“Were you and Joe friendly outside work?”

“We didn’t really travel in the same circles, but we got along well. Our boys are about the same age, so we had that in common. His kid …” He trailed off a moment, looked away. “He’s got good kids. A nice place in Brooklyn. I took my son, Chase, to a cookout there last summer. The boys hit it off. God.”

“And Carly Fisher?”

“Nancy’s girl.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t really know her. To speak to, of course, but she’d just been promoted, and we hadn’t worked together yet. Nancy’s just sick about what happened to her.”

“Anyone else you’re friendly with here—outside the office?”

“If you mean romantically, that’s sticky. I try to avoid tangling work with relationships.”

“Okay.” Eve got to her feet. “We’ll finish up in the conference room.”

“I hope I was helpful. I want to help—anything. All of us want to help.”

Eve kept her eyes level with his. “I’m sure you do.”

Weaver and Callaway had their heads together when Eve walked back in. They each gave a quick, guilty start, then shifted in their chairs.

“Don’t get up.” Eve flicked a hand, then chose a seat at their end of the table. “A couple of questions. Was it Joseph Cattery’s habit to stay later at the bar, alone?”

“I … Not that I know of,” Weaver began, glanced to Callaway.

“We grabbed after-work drinks there now and then,” Callaway stated. “Sometimes he stayed on, sometimes we left together. He was friendly with some of the regulars, so he might stay, hang with someone else.”

“You left last, Mr. Callaway. Was he with anyone else, or talking to anyone else?”

“The bartender. They always got into sports. But I didn’t notice him ‘with’ anyone, if that’s what you mean. We blew off some steam. I left. I was beat. I think I told you yesterday, he wanted another drink, made some noises about going for food, but I just wanted to get home and crash. I wish I’d taken him up on the dinner idea. We wouldn’t be here now.”

“There was nothing odd in his behavior when you left him?”

“No.” He shook his head, picked up a glass of water but didn’t drink. “I’ve thought and thought about those last few minutes, trying to remember all the little details. It was just usual, just another day. It was all small talk and shop talk. He was tired, too, but he just wasn’t ready to go home.”

She reached in her file bag, pulled out Macie Snyder’s photo.

“Did you see this woman at the bar?”

“I don’t …” His brows knitted together. “I’m not sure. She looks familiar.”

“I saw her.” Weaver took the photo. “I’ve seen her in the bar a few times. I’m sure I saw her in there yesterday.”

“Must be why she looks familiar.”

Vann angled his head. “Oh yeah. She was at a table with another woman and a couple of guys. Lots of laughing and flirting going on.”

“Okay. How about this woman?”

She offered the photo of Jeni Curve.

“Jeni,” Nancy said immediately. “She delivers for Café West. She’s up here nearly every day for someone. Was she—”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“God.” Breath hitching, Weaver squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear God.”

“Do both of you know her as well?” Eve asked the men.

“Everybody knows Jeni,” Callaway said. “She’s a sweetheart, always ready to take the extra step, always cheerful. Steve had the flirt on with her.”

“She’s dead,” Vann murmured staring at the photo. “We just got lunch from her a couple days ago. Locked in on the campaign, and she brought in our lunch order. Extra soy fries because she knows I like them. She’s dead.”

He rose, walked over, poured water. “Sorry. It just hits. I got take-out from there one night last week, walked out just as she did—off her shift. I walked her home before I caught a cab. I walked her home, and I thought about talking my way up to her place. I think she’d have been open to it. But I had to work, so I let it go. She’s dead.”

“You were interested in her?”

“She’s beautiful and bright. Was. Yeah, I thought about it that night. Long day, take-out food because it’s going to be a long night of work. And here’s this bright, beautiful woman giving me all the right signals. I thought, well, why not. An impulse thing,” he said. “But the campaign.”