Free Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush Page B

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.”
    â€œTo the hospital . . . ?”
    â€œTo 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.
    â€œCoroner’s that way,” one of the techs said, inclining his head.
    â€œWho’s this?” Gretchen asked, gesturing to the body at her feet.
    â€œName’s Paul de Fore. He was some kind of security.”
    â€œFat 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.
    â€œAaron Dirkus, the owner’s son,” the coroner, Joe Journey, known to all and sundry as J.J., said. “His father was conscious. Kurt Upjohn. He’s on his way to the hospital.”
    â€œHow bad are his injuries?” September asked.
    â€œThis one’s dead.”
    â€œI meant Upjohn.”
    Journey stood up, giving September a long look. He was heavyset and jowly with muttonchops that appeared to be his pride and joy. “They each took three bullets. If you can talk to Upjohn, I’d do it soon.”
    Gretchen appeared. “Two dead, two on their way to Laurelton General. A whole group upstairs who heard popping sounds, or didn’t, depending on whether they were wearing headsets apparently. Nobody up there knew anything was even wrong until we showed up, or so they say. Doesn’t look like the killer even attempted to break in.”
    â€œWho put the call into 911?” September asked.
    She spread her hands. “Mystery guest, or maybe the missing employee.”
    â€œWho’s missing?”
    She inclined her head toward the undisturbed desk area. “Bookkeeper behind the partition. Know-nothings upstairs say her name is Liv something.”
    â€œWe should get to the hospital and check with Upjohn,” September suggested.
    Gretchen lifted her brows, threw a glance to the coroner, then gave September an assessing look. “Why is your nickname Nine, again? Did you tell me?”
    â€œNo.” So there it was. The first person to ask. Not that it was a huge issue, but she was trying to avoid any reason for her coworkers to tease her. “Month I was born.”
    â€œI thought it had something to do with you being almost a ten.”
    September wasn’t quite certain how to take that. Was it a compliment, or a put-down? She knew she was pretty enough—auburn hair and blue eyes,