Page 83 of Dancing in the Dark

“Detectives, actually.” Archer takes out his badge. “Malone.” Then he lifts his chin in my direction. “Fletcher. We’ll start first with our condolences. We believe Ms. Waltham has been with your firm for almost three years now?”

“Has she?” He marches to the end of the table, snatches up the phone, and orders a barista-made cappuccino. Singular. Hanging up, he pulls out a chair and sits down. “I knew her, detectives, but I didn’t know her. Save your condolences for those who loved her. Personally, I’d rather you cut to the chase and tell me what you’ve come to say. I have a packed schedule.”

“Alright.” Wandering around to the side of the table that’ll put his back to the windows and his eyes on the lobby bustling with worker bees who can’t help but stare and whisper amongst themselves, Archer drags out a chair and sits. “Johanna Waltham worked for your firm, Mr. Slater. Now she’s dead. When these things happen, people usually want to help.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to her?” I move around the table, but instead of sitting, I simply press my back to the glass and hope it doesn’t give out. That would suck. “We need to build a timeline around Johanna’s death, which means we need to know where everyone was and what they were doing in the lead-up.”

“I don’t recall speaking with her directly at all this week. Our staff works in teams, and each team comes with its own operational leader. Operational leaders are a team unto themselves, and they have an operational leader who oversees them all.” He lifts his hand, as though to show us a level, and when he knows he has our attention, he lifts it a little higher. “Every well-functioning unit works within the bounds of a hierarchy, much like the one you exist within. Officers, detectives, supervisors, and beyond. My name being on the side of this building implies my position amongst the hierarchy is a few steps above that of Ms. Waltham’s, no?”

“I respect each corporation’s right to function however it sees fit. The sheer size of your building implies you’ve found success.” Archer drags a small notebook from his back pocket and slaps it onto the table. “Ms. Waltham’s operational leader’s name, if you don’t mind?”

“Tyler Salvestrin.” He picks up the phone, waits a moment, then rumbles, “Send Tyler in, please.”

“I believe your son works here, too. Is that correct?”

Slater drops the phone back into the cradle and hits me with a glare. “So?”

“Does he work on Ms. Waltham’s team?” Archer asks.

“No.”

“Does he interact with Ms. Waltham’s team?”

Pissed, the man’s nostrils twitch and flare. “Minimally.”

“But not too minimally, right? Since Carson turned twenty-five this week and hosted a black-tie shindig on your hundred-and-thirty-seven feet, five-cabin luxury yacht. The Palatial,” I murmur. “She’s very pretty.”

“Yes,” he grits out. “Carson had a birthday this week. What of it?”

“Was Ms. Waltham on the guest list?”

“I don’t know.” He glances across at the opening door and stares through the young woman—not Krystal—who sets a piping hot coffee down on the table. “Where’s Tyler?”

“Uh…” Not-Krystal straightens her back and glances around. “I’m not sure, Mr. Slater. But I’ll go find him for you.”

“Good. Go.” He wraps his hands around his coffee and looks back at us. “I stopped involving myself in my son’s social affairs a long time ago, detectives. I was neither at Carson’s party, nor was I privy to the guest list.”

“Well, that’s okay. We can confirm she was there.” Archer grabs his phone, unlocks the screen, and swipes across to Johanna’s social media page. The very last thing she posted was her “fit check” before stepping onto Slater’s yacht. “See?” He turns his phone. “We know she was there. Not paying attention to the social happenings on a boat you own can get tricky, Mr. Slater. Especially when someone dies on that boat.”

“Who says she died on my yacht?” he snarls. “The alarms would’ve been raised if that were the case. The news is saying her body was discovered the next morning, so as far as I’m concerned, her attending my son’s party in the evening, and then dying the next day, does not mean the two events are connected.”

“Which, I suppose, is precisely why we have this thing called an investigation,” Archer quips. “Ya know, to investigate the things that happened in those hours between.”

A dude who looks like he might be in his mid to late thirties approaches the glass door and inches it open. “Mr. Slater, sir. Stacey said you wished to speak with me?”

“Yes.” Slater takes a single sip of his coffee before setting it down again and pushing to his feet. Circling his chair, he gestures unenthusiastically our way. “Tyler Salvestrin, Johanna’s operations leader. These officers wish to speak with you.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.” He steps in and bops his way toward Slater’s chair. “Anything you need, I’m happy to help.”

“Detectives,” Archer repeats. “And Mr. Slater?” He draws the older man up short before he can escape out the door. “Is Carson in the office today? We’d like to speak with him before we’re done.”

“I’ll contact his assistant and have him sent over,” he grits out. Yanking the door wide, he blows through and leaves our new trio choking on the fumes of an angry man’s temper.

“Take a seat, Tyler.” I figure we’re gonna be here awhile, so I stroll the length of the table and select a coffee pod from the basket available. Placing it into the machine, a mug under the spout, and hitting the correct button, I turn back and search his eyes. “You worked directly with Johanna, correct?”

“Yes, Detective. For a little over a year now.”

“What did you think of her?”