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Bidot?”
    “Oh, I figured you’d know all the stuff. The guy who handles the bar business for Roarke.”
    “I thought that was you.”
    “I’m the manager. He’s the one I report to. You don’t just tag Roarke every time you need to clear something, you know? A man like him has a lot of balls in the air, right?”
    “Sure.”
    “You got a pecking order. I report to Bidot, Bidot reports to Roarke if Roarke needs to know. Like that.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay.” Devon let out a whistle of breath, as if relieved to have that point cleared up. “He said, Bidot said, the cops were on it, and it was bad. Really bad. Like maybe—” He paused, swallowed audibly. “Maybe eighty people, maybe even more. Dead. In my place. My crew. He couldn’t tell me about my crew. I came in because I’ve got to know about my crew. I can’t get anybody who was on shift on the ’link. I need to know about my crew, and what—Jesus, lady, what the fuck?”

    He was babbling, she thought, but had to give him credit for getting the information out. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Dallas. You were off tonight. Is it your usual night off?”
    “Yeah. I make the schedule, two weeks running. I like to be flexible, in case somebody’s got something going, wants to change a shift. We run a good, smooth place, and I’ve got a damn good crew. D.B. was on the stick tonight. He’s the assistant manager. I can’t get ahold of him. I went by there first, by the bar, but it’s sealed up, and there’s cops on the door. They wouldn’t tell me jack even when I said it was my place. I mean—”
    “I get it. There was an incident in On the Rocks this evening that resulted in the deaths of eighty-three people.”
    “Mother of God.” The bleached burlap face went lightly, sickly green. “Mary, Mother of God. Was there a bomb? Or a—”
    “We’re investigating, Mr. Lester.”
    “My crew. I got all the names right there. D. B. Graham, on the stick; Evie Hydelburg, that’s our cook; Marylee Birkston, head waitress—”
    “I have the names. Ms. Birkston was in surgery the last I checked. Andrew Johnson—”
    “Drew. He goes by Drew. He’s a busboy.”
    “He’s in a coma. They’re both at Tribeca Health Center.”
    Lester waited a beat, then two. “The others? What about the rest? I had nine people on that shift.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Lester, those are the only members of your crew who survived.”
    “Okay, that’s a mistake.” He lifted his fingers, heels of his hands firmly planted on the table as if he needed the anchor. And his voice was all reason. “That’s a mistake. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Ms. Roarke, but—”

    “Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “Whatever.” Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, temper fired his eyes, and behind it crawled fear. “Seven of my people didn’t die. That doesn’t happen.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Lester, and I understand this is hard to accept.”
    “Well, I don’t accept it.” He surged to his feet. “Get that? It’s not acceptable. I want to speak to your superior.”
    Eve rose as well. “I’ve just completed a briefing with my commander, and the task force assigned to this investigation. Which I’m heading. I’m telling you seven of your people are dead. Two are in the hospital, and you don’t hope any harder than I do that they survive.”
    “This is bullshit.”
    At the knock on the door, she pulled it open a bare inch. It didn’t surprise her to see Roarke.
    “I can help here,” he said before she could speak.
    She kept her mouth shut, though it took considerable effort, and stepped back. The instant Roarke entered the room, she saw he’d been right.
    The heat in Lester’s eyes died instantly, and the fear rolled away into grief. “No. No.”
    “Sit down, Devon. Sit down now.”
    He obeyed, Eve decided, more because his legs just gave way.
    “Just Marylee and Drew? All the others, all ? They’re gone?”
    “Yes. I need you to help the lieutenant, Devon.