She stood up, looking a little ill. “Did I mess up the investigation? Could you have saved them?”
“No, Ms. Macaby. The fact that you slipped out that night wouldn’t have changed the course of events. It was all set in motion so that everyone would be looking for Richard while he was being killed. What you did or didn’t do wouldn’t have changed anything. But you can help now.”
She nodded. “This way. And God forgive me!” she muttered.
She escorted him around the convention center main stage and past the side entrances. The greenroom was at the far end. Aidan asked Bari Macaby to wait for a moment as he searched it.
The room was set up with three mirrored stations, a counter, refrigerator and microwave. A sofa grouping was arranged around a coffee table that held all kinds of magazines. There was a workstation with computer access. Toward the rear was a small hallway. One side offered a men’s room and the other side a ladies’.
He went into the men’s room. There was one stall as well as two urinals and a counter with sinks and a mirror. He wasn’t sure why he paused there, but he decided that he’d come back with a Krewe member and try to figure out what it was about the greenroom that disturbed him.
There was only one entrance, which led out to the hall.
He rejoined Bari and she took him to the stage door. There was easy access to the stage just outside it. She pointed out that when an event was going on, velvet ropes prevented visitors or attendees from reaching this area; the doors to the actual auditorium, the seating for the performances or events, were closer to the main entrance.
“And here...well, just out here...is my little escape hatch,” Bari said.
It was another ten feet down from the entrance to the greenroom. A short hallway brought them to a door marked Emergency Exit Only.
“I key in the code so the alarm doesn’t go off,” Bari explained.
She did that and opened the door. They stepped outside.
Her smoking niche was dark, despite the brightness of the autumn sun. It was well hidden from the rear—where the deliveries were made—and the parking lot, which extended to the far left of the property. It was almost like a private foyer.
A person standing here could see what was going on at the back—and in the parking area.
Had Richard left this way? With or without someone else? Or had he been drugged inside the building—and then pulled or carried out? Possibly—and was this woman suspect? She definitely knew about this more-or-less hidden exit.
“Thank you, Ms. Macaby. Is there an event scheduled for tonight?”
“We’d had a rock star who was supposed to do a show tonight, but the police asked that we hold off for at least another three days. Of course, our employees and the venue are being hit hard, but, under the circumstances...”
“Thank you. I need to make arrangements to get in here later. I do that with you?”
“I’ll see that you have every access you need,” she promised him.
She took him back through the convention center and to her office, where she gave him keys and codes so that he and the Krewe could come in at night.
“Oh, Agent Mahoney?”
“Yes?”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Tell them what?” he asked.
She flushed again. “That I was smoking. I mean, it’s on my insurance forms that I don’t now, and...”
“I won’t say a word.” When he left, he observed the parking lot again. Suddenly anxious, he put through a call to Will, who told him the Krewe were assembled at the hotel. Taylor Branch and Jillian Durfey, now released on bail, had returned to their rooms. Taylor had assured the police—voluntarily—that they didn’t plan on leaving the city until the real murderer of Richard Highsmith was discovered. Richard’s death, he’d stated in a press interview, was more than just a murder, it was a crime against the people of the United States.
“It’s a regular love-fest here,” Will said dryly. “Logan’s gone up to speak with Branch. Logan is good at getting people to talk because he makes them feel he’s on their side. So, it looks like we’re hunkered down here for a while.”
“We’ll need some extra help tonight,” Aidan told him. “Keeping track of everything. I’d really like to get our Krewe to the convention center.”
“Van Camp and Voorhaven are at the vault, trying to put together what went on there. I’m sure they’ll arrange all the police help we need.”
“I’m on my way to see them,” Aidan said.
He ended the call and keyed the ignition of his car. He hesitated before driving off; instead, he dialed Mo Deauville’s number.
Her phone just rang. He felt a surge of unease.
But then, on the seventh ring, she picked up.
“Just checking in,” he said.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Did you get some sleep?” he asked.
“Several hours, actually. You?”