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“It’s enough for the first picture. Any sense of a thing between Callaway and Weaver?”
“Sexual or romantic? No.”
“I didn’t get one either, but he came when she called. Is that an obey the boss thing or a friend thing? We’ll see.”
She stopped outside Interview A. “Tell me about this guy.”
“Devon Lester, forty-three. Second marriage—same sex—no children. He’s been in food and beverage for more than twenty years. Worked bars, tables, climbed up the rungs to manager. He’s managed the bar for two years. Some minor criminal. Some Zoner busts in his late teens, early twenties. One assault charge, dropped when it was proven he’d attempted to break up a fight rather than start or participate in one. He makes his own brew, and in fact we carry it in the bar.”
“Some knowledge of mixing up a stew—so to speak.”
“You could say.”
“Let’s see what he has to stay. Observation for you.”
“As you like, Lieutenant.”
4
Devon Lester had what Eve thought of as leprechaun red hair, worn in nappy dreads. It foamed and frizzed around a face the color of bleached burlap, and the face sat round as a beach ball on a neck thick as a tree trunk.
Eyes the color of raisins bulged out of it.
He rat-ta-tatted his fingers on the table, kept some quick, inner beat with his feet on the floor. Eve might have assumed he was a junkie jonesing for a fix, but he went still when his gaze latched on hers.
“You’re Roarke’s cop.”
“I’m NYPSD’s cop.”
“I meant, anyway, so anyway, I’m the manager. Roarke tagged me, told me there’d been trouble at the bar. People were dead. I’ve got a copy of the full crew I gave him.” He pulled it out of his pocket, set it on the table, carefully smoothed it flat. “Maybe you don’t need it since you’re his woman.”
“I’m my own woman.”
“I meant—I’m not doing so well.” He rubbed big, wide hands over his beach ball face. “I can’t get my head around it, or my guts. He—Roarke—didn’t get real specific. Just the trouble, the dead people, and how I was to send him the names and contacts on all the crew, and who was on tonight, and who wasn’t. I figured there’d been a fight or something. We don’t usually have much trouble, it’s not that kind of place. But that’s what I figured until I started hearing the media reports. So I tagged Bidot.”
Eve sat down. “Who’s Bidot?”
“Oh, I figured you’d know all the stuff. The guy who handles the bar business for Roarke.”
“I thought that was you.”
“I’m the manager. He’s the one I report to. You don’t just tag Roarke every time you need to clear something, you know? A man like him has a lot of balls in the air, right?”
“Sure.”
“You got a pecking order. I report to Bidot, Bidot reports to Roarke if Roarke needs to know. Like that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Devon let out a whistle of breath, as if relieved to have that point cleared up. “He said, Bidot said, the cops were on it, and it was bad. Really bad. Like maybe—” He paused, swallowed audibly. “Maybe eighty people, maybe even more. Dead. In my place. My crew. He couldn’t tell me about my crew. I came in because I’ve got to know about my crew. I can’t get anybody who was on shift on the ’link. I need to know about my crew, and what—Jesus, lady, what the fuck?”
He was babbling, she thought, but had to give him credit for getting the information out. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Dallas. You were off tonight. Is it your usual night off?”
“Yeah. I make the schedule, two weeks running. I like to be flexible, in case somebody’s got something going, wants to change a shift. We run a good, smooth place, and I’ve got a damn good crew. D.B. was on the stick tonight. He’s the assistant manager. I can’t get ahold of him. I went by there first, by the bar, but it’s sealed up, and there’s cops on the door. They wouldn’t tell me jack even when I said it was my place. I mean—”
“I get it. There was an incident in On the Rocks this evening that resulted in the deaths of eighty-three people.”
“Mother of God.” The bleached burlap face went lightly, sickly green. “Mary, Mother of God. Was there a bomb? Or a—”
