“They don’t know. He took a turn through an alley and vanished. The alley has access to buildings on either side, to their roofs, to a parking lot, and to three streets front and back. Two minutes after he vanished, a black SUV pulled into traffic. Then a Mercedes and a beat-up truck like Nell’s. Two motorcycles, probably Yamahas, sped past traffic cams. And a bicycle. They’re clearing the buildings and the parking lot, but my personal opinion is, they lost him.”
•••
The next hour ticked by slowly, sharing the space behind the planter with Occam while the SWAT officers in tactical gear and the uniformed officers cleared every single building up and down the street. It was almost pleasant, even though the brick was cold and I was freezing. And I was thirsty. And I had to go to the bathroom. And Occam was lying so close. Not that he did anything untoward or unpleasant, but... I had never been so close to a man for so long. Not even when I was married. Marital relations between John and me had been fast and mostly unpleasant and most nights I had then slept elsewhere.
“I wish we had coffee,” he muttered after an unconscionable amount of time.
“And some of that cold pizza on the ‘All’ shelf of the refrigerator in the break room,” I fantasized.
“Who brought Elidios’ pizza in? It’s all the way out on Callahan and Central Avenue Pike.”
“I’d guess Rick. He doesn’t sleep much,” I added, “except on the new moon.”
Occam swiveled his head to watch me in the darkness. “And you know that how, Nell, sugar?”
I shrugged. It was part of the claiming/healing. I just knew things about Rick sometimes, and when there was no moon, he slept hard and deep.
Occam let it slide. “You never ate at Elidios’ Pizza?” When I shook my head no, he said, “The unit should go there for supper one night.”
I made a noncommittal sound and Occam turned his attention back to the streets and the wait that was both boring and too full of turmoil. When the city police had determined that the immediate area was safe enough to move, I crawled to my feet, left Occam lying there, and entered the closest restaurant, begging the use of the bathroom and something to eat. Anything they had left over. The restaurant manager, two cooks, and three waitpersons had been hiding in the kitchen, and they opened the place up just for the emergency responders, offering sandwiches and reheated soup, food that they claimed would be thrown out anyway. It was pretty good eatin’, according to the officers who came in for something warm. But to a girl raised in the church, where women knew how to cook, the bread was slightly stale and the soup needed bay, thyme, and black pepper. I didn’t say that, though. I knew about gift horses and minding my manners and I was hungry enough to eat that gift horse.
Once I had used the facilities and stuffed soup and a sandwich in my mouth, and Occam had eaten three hoagies with double meat, we went our separate ways, Occam to take Rick some food and work with him on perimeter and rooftop examination, as well as the pattern of physical evidence. Crime scene techs showed up and began the collating and collection process. I traced up and down the street with thepsy-meter 2.0, catching small spikes on level four again. So the readings hadn’t been erroneous. Our shooter creature, whatever he was, had a definite pattern. It suddenly hit me. I read a low-level four. But... I didn’t spike. So this thing wasn’t a whatever-I-was. Relief, and maybe a little regret, moved through me like a slow tide.
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. Thiswill 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.”
