to jump from behind the partition. She was quaking so much she could scarcely stand. From around the corner that led to the executive offices, she saw the outstretched hand of a man wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt: Kurt Upjohn.
Liv staggered toward him, peeking reluctantly around the corner. Upjohn was lying half-in, half-out of his office. Beyond lay Aaron’s body. Both of them were riddled with gunshot wounds.
Kill you. Kill you!
Backing away, she threw a glance toward the stairway and the geeks upstairs and Phil. That door was always locked. Shivering as from ague, her brain unable to process, she staggered back to Jessica’s desk and hit the main phone line, punching out 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s—been a shooting,” she said in a stranger’s voice. She gave the address, then the receiver clattered from her hand as the operator begged her, “Don’t hang up. Don’t hang up,” and she didn’t. She simply let the receiver drop to the ground just like she had in her kitchen a few nights before.
She stood frozen for the space of five rapid heartbeats.
Then with a cry she ran back out the front door, her thoughts pinging around in her head as she considered how close she’d come to being gunned down as well.
It’s you they’re after. You! Always you, the paranoid voice in her head warned. Go home. Get your own gun. And RUN.
“Nine!” Detective George Thompkins bellowed from his swivel chair at the far end of the squad room.
Detective September “Nine” Rafferty, named and nicknamed for the month she was born, jumped as if goosed. She’d been filling out some paperwork but the tone of George’s voice drove her instantly to her feet. She was a newly minted detective and so she stood ramrod straight. “Yes?”
“Just talked to D’Annibal. He’s on his way in.” George cast a glance to the darkened glass cubicle that was their superior’s, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal’s, office. D’Annibal was on the last hours of his vacation and that left George in charge, a dubious honor for a dubious commander. George liked to squeak his heft in his swivel chair and remain at his desk and that was about it. Now he swiveled around and said, “Jesus Christ. There’s been a shooting at Zuma Software. Patrol’s on the way. Get over there and see what’s what. D’Annibal’s orders.”
“And me?” Detective Gretchen Sandler demanded in her nasal tone. She was slim, dark-haired and dark-skinned, a gift from her Brazilian heritage, with almond-shaped blue eyes that raked over September as if looking for flaws. She was also September’s partner, a fact Gretchen didn’t like much at all. But then she hadn’t liked her previous partner much, either. Gretchen and George had also tried to work together and that had not worked out. Gretchen’s stormy resentment and George’s deep, long-suffering looks had forced Lieutenant D’Annibal to prudently break them apart and that was how September had become Gretchen’s partner. As soon as they heard her nickname, to a one, the detectives and Lieutenant D’Annibal of the Laurelton Police Department called her Nine. None of them knew the nickname’s origin; they’d just taken it on.
“Of course, and you,” George growled at Gretchen, then swatted at them both as if they were gnats buzzing around his head. “Get outta here.”
September dropped everything except the wallet she kept in her back pocket that held her identification. She wore gray slacks and a matching gray shirt, buttoned to her neck. Gretchen had on a pair of denim jeans and a black sleeveless sweater with a matching cardigan that she snatched from the back of her chair and threw over her arm as they headed toward the front of the building. Gretchen walked ahead of September and ignored her as they passed by the front desk and outside into the shimmering heat. “You gotta dress for the weather,” Gretchen told her as September felt sweat gather along her hairline and the back of her neck.
“This is cotton,” she answered, gesturing to the gray shirt as they climbed into an unmarked black Ford Escape.
“Nobody wants to see you sweat.” Gretchen threw the SUV in reverse and wheeled them around, then slammed the vehicle into gear and they lurched forward.
Realizing the gray material was light enough to show moisture, September filed that away for future reference. She’d just moved to homicide from property crimes and it was a whole different ball game. She’d followed her brother into law enforcement but he was currently working with a gang task force in conjunction with the Portland PD and hadn’t been around to congratulate September about joining the Laurelton PD—the same police department he was also based out of—and still wasn’t.
She glanced back as they headed onto the street. The Laurelton Police Department was on the northern edge of the city, a squat, rectangular brick building that the idiots from the Laurelton City Council had demanded they paint white because it was in the original specs. Now, years later, that white paint had turned a dirty, yellowish beige. So much for city planning. Farsightedness was not their forte.
The walkie-talkie buzzed and Gretchen grabbed it. September heard squawking and Gretchen snarled back, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be there in ten.” She switched off and added, “Four people shot. All on the first floor. Shooter didn’t go upstairs, or if they did, the steel door was locked.”
“What were they after?” September asked before recalling that Gretchen hated rhetorical questions.
Gretchen shot her a cold look and said, as if Nine hadn’t even spoken, “One’s dead. Three on their way.”
“To the hospital . . . ?”
“To the Pearly Gates, is my guess,” she said dryly.
After that September kept her mouth shut until they reached Zuma Software, which was a two-story building of modern design in glass, wood and metal with two ambulances parked in front. A woman was being carried out on a gurney and loaded into the first one. A man was being carried toward the other. Both ambulances turned on their lights and started screaming out of the lot, past Gretchen and September, at the same time.
September had to race-walk to keep in step with Gretchen as they headed to the front door, a monstrous piece of mahogany stained almost black surrounded by floor-to-ceiling translucent windows. Gretchen pushed on the partially opened door and it slowly swung inward to an atrium and the office floor beyond. September stepped carefully after Gretchen and saw that the tech team was already at work on a man who was clearly a corpse.
“Coroner’s that way,” one of the techs said, inclining his head.
“Who’s this?” Gretchen asked, gesturing to the body at her feet.
“Name’s Paul de Fore. He was some kind of security.”
“Fat lot of good it did him,” she remarked.
September scanned the room, her pulse running fast. Her head felt light and she clamped down on emotions that had no place here. Gretchen could see through her too easily and she needed to keep a cool head. Easing around the dead man, she walked past a desk and chair covered in blood. Ahead was a partition and she peeked over it gingerly, but the workstation was unstained. Then she walked toward the office the tech had indicated and saw another man on the floor, his chest and neck sporting two or three bullet holes. His shaggy hair was thick with blood. His eyes were open but as she watched, the coroner closed them with thumb and index finger.
“Aaron Dirkus, the
