Decker said, “Here’s a partial list of the dead. I’ll bring you the completed list as soon as I can.”
Both of them stalled for a moment; then they went their separate ways.
Though bandaged tightly, the arm was still leaking blood. But the waitress refused to budge, watching over her brood of eight teenage girls with hawkish eyes. Her face was damp with blood, dirt, sweat, and fury. “I am not leaving them until they’re safe and sound with their parents.”
Marge said, “That may take a while, Ms. Anger. You really need to take care of that arm.”
The man sitting with them was the kitchen’s assistant chef—Olaf Anderson. He was pale, but his eyes were steady and his manner stoic. “You don’t do any good if you make yourself sick, Carol.”
“I am fine, Olaf!”
One of the girls—dressed up in a pink mock-Chanel suit—spoke up. She had long permed hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. Her mascara had streaked down her cheeks. “We’ll be okay, ma’am. You should get fixed up.”
Immediately, the girl collapsed into tears.
The waitress hugged her with her good arm, looked up at Marge. “When can they leave? It’s inhuman to keep them here. Right now, everyone’s too hysterical to help you out.”
“It’s true,” said the Chanel girl. “No one was paying attention, we were just like … ducking, you know. And screaming. Everyone was screaming.”
“And praying,” added another.
“You’re …” Marge looked at the pink-suited girl, then down at the list. “Amy Silver?”
The girl nodded.
“You just ducked under the table when the shooting started.”
Again, she nodded. “And screamed. I must have screamed a lot. My throat hurts.”
“Everything hurts,” added another teen.
This one wore a navy suit. Marge consulted her list. Navy suit was named Courtney. “Do you need medical attention, honey?”
Courtney shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We just heard like these pops. Then everybody like started to scream. Then we like ducked under the table and like hugged each other. And cried … but like quietly. We were real scared.”
“Too scared to look at anything,” Amy said. “Except that awful green jacket … moving like a blip on a radar.”
“I didn’t see a thing,” Courtney said. “I had like my eyes squeezed shut and was praying real hard—Please, please, just let this be over.” Her eyes overflowed with water. “I’d like to call my mom if I could.”
“When can we see our parents?” Amy asked.
“Soon—”
“How soon?” Carol demanded. “At least let her call her mother?”
“I’m sure she’s outside.”
“So tell her that her daughter’s okay, for godsakes! And when can I call my mother? She must be worried sick about me. She’s not in the best of health.”
“Please, Carol,” Olaf said. “The woman is just trying to do her job—”
“I know that, Olaf. We are all trying to do our job!”
“You must have patience—”
“I’ve been plenty patient,” Carol shot back. “Now I want some action!”
Marge said, “Let me consult with my boss. You all stay put—”
“Well, we can’t exactly go anywhere with the Nazis blocking the doors.”
Marge kept her expression neutral. “I’m so, so sorry. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is cause anyone additional pain. I’ll be right back.”
Carol’s face was still irate, but she held her tongue.
Marge tried out a smile, but Carol responded by rolling her eyes. Before Marge made it to the door, Oliver flagged her down. “You’re going to see Decker?”
“Yeah, we’ve got to start letting some of the people out of here. It’s not fair—”
“I’ll go with you,” Oliver said.
They both stepped into the cool night air, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the headlights. Marge quickly counted fifteen vehicles—police cars, press vans, ambulances, and several meat wagons. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows as she made out a group of people inside the tape barrier, off to the left. They’d been sidelined. She could hear their anger stabbing through the mist.
The family members.
The gawkers, along with the press, had been penned outside the yellow tape perimeter, at least fifty yards away.
Marge spotted Decker. His complexion had turned pasty, his big hands had been tightened into white-knuckled fists. She shouted his name. He stopped walking, turned, and came toward them.
Decker said, “You have the finalized list of the dead?”
Oliver showed him the ominous white sheet. “Give it to the captain?”
“Please. I’ve already delivered my allotment of bad news.”
Marge said, “I’ve got a group of teenage girls—”
Decker said, “Go tell their parents. See some tears of joy instead of tears of agony.”
Marge felt her throat tighten. “You all right? What a stupid question.”
“I’m lousy,” Decker said. “Not a fraction as shitty as the group I just left.”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked upward. A starless foggy night, a crescent of moon floating in an endless gray sea. “I’ve got to deal with the press.” He turned to his detectives. “Anyone tell you anything useful?”
Oliver said. “Everyone ducked as soon as the shooting and screaming started.”
Marge added, “Lots of screaming, lots of praying.”
“Bullets flying around the room from all directions.”
“From all directions?” Decker asked.
“I think they were using hyperbole,” Marge said.
“Most of them were too busy ducking,” Oliver said.
“Shooter say anything?”
Marge shook her head. “People I spoke to said someone just opened fire. No warning, no nothing.”
“Ditto.”
“So that seems to eliminate robbery as a motive.” Decker rubbed his eyes, told them to go and bring some good cheer.
As he watched them approach the anxious relatives, he tried to collect his thoughts … rid himself of the shrieking and sobbing he had just heard from the unlucky family members. Slowly, he let his fingers uncurl, realized his hands were shaking. He wiped wet palms on his pants, tucked them into his pockets.
He needed something.
He needed a smoke.
As he neared the press corps, he bummed a pack of cigarettes