Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

The smell of death was everywhere, lives snuffed out in an instant.

“Eighteen people now, but it’s not about racking up the body count. If that interested them, they’d have waited and had Denby strapped up tonight when the place was full of art lovers.”

She looked at the charred remains. “It’s not about people at all. It’s about profit. Nothing else. Peabody, let’s talk to the witnesses. Carmichael, Santiago, stick for Salazar.”

They spoke to the assistant first, who shook and wept and added little. Peabody arranged for her to tag her roommate and to be transported home.

Eve stepped into the back office for the next round. “If I could speak to you next, Ms. Aceti.”

“I’m not leaving Joe.” She sat beside him, the hand of her uninjured arm clutching his. Her broken arm splinted with a temporary cast and resting in a sling. “I won’t.”

“All right. We’ll talk right here, all of us.” She sat across from them. The woman had some facial nicks, a few tears and scorch marks on her shirt and trousers. She’d tied her hair—long enough to hit her waist with copper streaks through inky black—back from a face ivory pale with shock. Her deep-set brown eyes blazed against it.

Her partner sat, slumped, dazed, eyes swollen from weeping. His skin, nearly the color of the woman’s streaks, made Eve think of Leonardo. He wore his hair in dozens of intricate braids.

His black turtleneck and silver-studded black jeans smelled of smoke.

“I know this is a difficult time, and again, I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve glanced over briefly as Peabody came in, sat. “We have to ask questions.”

“I have questions,” Aceti said with an edge of fury. “I have questions, too. And I’m telling you right now, Wayne would never, never do this unless . . . We’ve all known each other since college. We loved each other, do you understand?”

“I do. We—”

“It’s like what happened at Quantum. It’s all over the screen about somebody hurting that man’s family, threatening them until he—did what he did. It’s the same! I need to know about Zelda and Evan. I won’t tell you a goddamn thing until you tell us about Zelda and Evan. She’s pregnant.”

Aceti’s lips trembled. “She’s pregnant.”

“And she’s stable. The MTs treated her, and she’s been taken to the hospital.”

“The baby?”

“As far as I know she and the baby are stable.”

“Evan. He’s only five.”

“He wasn’t hurt. Scared, but not hurt. You need to talk to me, both of you.”

“They were supposed to leave yesterday morning. They were supposed to be away until later today. We had everything under control here for tonight. And they were taking Evan to Disney for an overnight treat, and to tell him he was going to have a baby brother or sister. They didn’t know which yet. They hadn’t told anyone else but me and Joe, and their parents. They wanted to tell Evan first. We thought they were away, having fun, and all the time, they must have . . .”

She leaned toward Eve, aggressive, fierce. “It’s not Wayne’s fault.”

“No, it’s not. You may be able to help us find the people who are at fault.”

“Wayne’s dead.” The aggression died as she sat back. “We were the Best People at his wedding, Joe and I. We started this place together. We made it into something.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t expect him for a couple more hours. We had everything in place. Just a matter of loading in. We’d already diagramed where we were placing the paintings, the sketches. I was in the front with Cista, and we were going over where we’d set up the bar, the refreshments. Angelo, the artist, was in the gallery left—with Trent and Dustin. They’d removed the art we’d had displayed there, had begun placing Angelo’s work. Joe was in the office.”

“Were you open to the public?”

“The Salon’s closed on Wednesdays. We try to schedule openings for Wednesday nights so we can do the loading in. The show would run for four weeks, but the opening’s when you draw the biggest crowd, and the media, the art critics. We’re—we’re known for our Wednesday night openings. Wayne came in.”

Her voice began to shake. “He came in, and he looked pale, sick. I started to say something, and he snapped at me. He never snapped, but he did. “‘Stay out here. You and Cista stay out here.’”

She blew out a breath. “I just stood there, so stunned because he had snapped and looked sick. Angry, too. Then I got a little angry myself. What the hell was this? And I started across the room. The explosion—it was terrible. It was like being picked up and thrown by some huge, hot wave. I just flew, then I felt this awful pain. My arm. And Cista was on the floor, too. I could see fire, smell it. I was so scared. I yelled at her to get out, to call for help, and I started to run back for Joe.

“He came running out. The sprinklers didn’t come on. Joe said, ‘We have to put the fire out,’ and he ran back. We have an emergency fire suppression tank in the back. He put out the fire. He walked right through the arch and put out the fire. But . . .”