to speak to me after they arrived.
I picked up my purse from the floor, walked over to the associate art director’s station, and plunked down in his chair. Attached to his bulletin board was a huge tabloid headline that read, NAKED SAMURAI SLASHER, and the desk was scattered with magazines, books, packs of gum, and a set of chattering teeth. I’d barely expelled my breath when four guys—two more patrol cops and what I assumed were two detectives—came charging down the aisle. They glanced over at me but made a beeline toward the patrol cop and the crime scene. Seconds later two of the EMS workers headed out with Mona on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over her face. They were moving fast, one guy holding an IV line. Mona no longer appeared to be twitching uncontrollably.
Moments later another stretcher was wheeled by, this one with Katya on it. She was twisting her head back and forth, and I saw one of the EMS crew lean closer and say something in her ear, perhaps to comfort her.
For the next five or ten minutes I waited, keeping my eye on the police activity and trying in my mind to make sense of what had happened tonight. Who could have possibly done this to Mona, and
why
? There was a chance, I supposed, that some sort of maniac or druggie had slipped into the offices and come prowling around looking for money. He may have popped into her office not expecting to find anyone and been startled when he discovered her. Perhaps she screamed or threatened to call security and he struck her on the head to silence her. As he was about to flee, he heard the cleaning lady come down the hall with her cart. He hid behind the door. As she pushed it open, he struck her, too.
But there was extra security in the building tonight, and the roving druggie theory didn’t make nearly as much sense as another explanation: that someone Mona knew had done this to her. Someone who had learned that she was going to be in her office late on Tuesday—a rare occurrence—and had come by looking for her. Perhaps he’d had no intention of hurting her, but they’d had a confrontation and things had escalated. And there was an excellent chance that the person was someone who worked at
Buzz.
I glanced across the area to the row of windows. There were already paparazzi down below, and before long there would be even more press. This was a big fat juicy story, and everyone would be covering it.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of activity at the far end of the floor. A man I recognized as Mona’s husband, Carl, came barreling down the aisle along the pod, a wigged-out expression on his face and the tail of his jacket flapping like a flag. On his heels was a patrol cop I hadn’t seen before. Before Carl reached Mona’s office, one of the detectives stepped around from the vestibule and stood in his path. The detective spoke to him, and I heard him say the words St. Luke’s—the name of a hospital in midtown where they must have taken Mona. A second later, Mona’s husband turned on his heels and left with the cop in tow. He was obviously now heading to the hospital. I assumed the officer had been told to take him there.
Only a few minutes later the two detectives strode over toward me, along with the female patrol cop. She told them my name and then retreated as they pulled out desk chairs and sat down.
The alpha male appeared to be the taller and bigger of the two, a six-foot-two guy, probably mid-forties, with receding pale brown hair, thick cheeks, and those glasses they make now without any frames so that sometimes you can’t even tell they’re there. His partner was short and chubby, maybe a little older, with a silver streak like a racing stripe along the side of his black brown hair.
“Miss Weggins?” the alpha male said, half question, half statement, as he glanced at a page of his notebook.
“Yes.”
“We appreciate your sticking around. I’m Detective Randy Tate, and this is Detective McCarthy.”
I nodded. I felt nervous,
I picked up my purse from the floor, walked over to the associate art director’s station, and plunked down in his chair. Attached to his bulletin board was a huge tabloid headline that read, NAKED SAMURAI SLASHER, and the desk was scattered with magazines, books, packs of gum, and a set of chattering teeth. I’d barely expelled my breath when four guys—two more patrol cops and what I assumed were two detectives—came charging down the aisle. They glanced over at me but made a beeline toward the patrol cop and the crime scene. Seconds later two of the EMS workers headed out with Mona on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over her face. They were moving fast, one guy holding an IV line. Mona no longer appeared to be twitching uncontrollably.
Moments later another stretcher was wheeled by, this one with Katya on it. She was twisting her head back and forth, and I saw one of the EMS crew lean closer and say something in her ear, perhaps to comfort her.
For the next five or ten minutes I waited, keeping my eye on the police activity and trying in my mind to make sense of what had happened tonight. Who could have possibly done this to Mona, and
why
? There was a chance, I supposed, that some sort of maniac or druggie had slipped into the offices and come prowling around looking for money. He may have popped into her office not expecting to find anyone and been startled when he discovered her. Perhaps she screamed or threatened to call security and he struck her on the head to silence her. As he was about to flee, he heard the cleaning lady come down the hall with her cart. He hid behind the door. As she pushed it open, he struck her, too.
But there was extra security in the building tonight, and the roving druggie theory didn’t make nearly as much sense as another explanation: that someone Mona knew had done this to her. Someone who had learned that she was going to be in her office late on Tuesday—a rare occurrence—and had come by looking for her. Perhaps he’d had no intention of hurting her, but they’d had a confrontation and things had escalated. And there was an excellent chance that the person was someone who worked at
Buzz.
I glanced across the area to the row of windows. There were already paparazzi down below, and before long there would be even more press. This was a big fat juicy story, and everyone would be covering it.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of activity at the far end of the floor. A man I recognized as Mona’s husband, Carl, came barreling down the aisle along the pod, a wigged-out expression on his face and the tail of his jacket flapping like a flag. On his heels was a patrol cop I hadn’t seen before. Before Carl reached Mona’s office, one of the detectives stepped around from the vestibule and stood in his path. The detective spoke to him, and I heard him say the words St. Luke’s—the name of a hospital in midtown where they must have taken Mona. A second later, Mona’s husband turned on his heels and left with the cop in tow. He was obviously now heading to the hospital. I assumed the officer had been told to take him there.
Only a few minutes later the two detectives strode over toward me, along with the female patrol cop. She told them my name and then retreated as they pulled out desk chairs and sat down.
The alpha male appeared to be the taller and bigger of the two, a six-foot-two guy, probably mid-forties, with receding pale brown hair, thick cheeks, and those glasses they make now without any frames so that sometimes you can’t even tell they’re there. His partner was short and chubby, maybe a little older, with a silver streak like a racing stripe along the side of his black brown hair.
“Miss Weggins?” the alpha male said, half question, half statement, as he glanced at a page of his notebook.
“Yes.”
“We appreciate your sticking around. I’m Detective Randy Tate, and this is Detective McCarthy.”
I nodded. I felt nervous,
Similar Books
