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Dance was tempted to suggest cocoa but that smacked of condescension; Trish wasn't a child. She picked a compromise. "I'm doing cappuccino."
"Sure."
"Cinnamon?"
"Sure."
"Anything to eat?"
"No. Not hungry." As if she'd never be again.
Dance placed the order and returned. Sat down. Automatically reaching for the plastic holster that held her Glock, which usually needed adjusting upon sitting. Her hand went to nothing and she remembered.
Then she was concentrating on the girl. Trish wore jeans and scuffed but expensive brown boots. Dance, a lover of footwear, guessed Italian. A black, scoop-neck sweater. A stocking cap, beige, pulled down over her hair. The sleeves of the sweater met her knuckles.
"Thanks for calling me. I appreciate it. I know what you're going through."
"Totally." Her keen eyes stabbed at Dance's. "You have any idea who it is? Who killed my mother and those other people?"
And nearly you, Dance thought.
"Not much. It's not like any case I've ever seen."
"He's a fucking sadist, whoever he is."
Not technically but that would do.
Dance opened a small grocery store notebook.
"Your father doesn't know you're here?"
"He's not so bad. This, like, freaked him out too. He's just being protective of me. You know."
"I understand."
"But I don't have much time. He's packing up stuff at his house now. He'll be back at Mom's soon."
"Then let me get right to the questions."
The drinks came, cardboard cups. They both sipped.
"Can you tell me what you remember?" Dance asked.
"The band had just start
ed. I don't know, maybe the second or third song. And then..." After a deep breath she gave much the same story as the other witnesses. The smell of smoke, though not seeing much. Then, almost as if somebody had flipped a switch, everyone in the audience rose, knocking over tables, scattering drinks, pushing others aside and rushing for the exits.
Her expression mystified, she repeated, "But there was no fire and still, you know, everybody went crazy. Five seconds, ten, from the first person who stood up. That was all it took." She sighed. "I think it was Mom. The first. She panicked. Then this bright light came on, pointed at the exit doors, you know, to show everybody where they were. I guess that was good but it made some of us panic more. They were so bright."
She sipped a little from her cup, stared at the foam. Then: "I got surrounded by this one bunch of people and my mother by another one. She was screaming for me and I was screaming for her but we were going in different directions. There was no way to stop." Her voice went low. "I've never seen anything like that. It was like I was totally... I don't know, not even me. I was part of this thing. Nobody was listening to anybody else. We were just out of control."
"And your mother?"
"She was going toward the fire doors. I could see her fight, trying to get back to me. I was going the opposite way--toward the kitchen, the group I was in. There wasn't an exit sign there but somebody said there was a door we could get out of."
"And you escaped that way?"
"Eventually. But not at first. That's why it was so bad." She teared, then wiped her eyes.
