Free Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush Page A

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.
    “Coroner’s that way,” one of the techs said, inclining his head.
    “Who’s this?” Gretchen asked, gesturing to the body at her feet.
    “Name’s Paul de Fore. He was some kind of security.”
    “Fat 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.
    “Aaron 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.”
    “How bad are his injuries?” September asked.
    “This one’s dead.”
    “I 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.”
    “Who put the call into 911?” September asked.
    She spread her hands. “Mystery guest, or maybe the missing employee.”
    “Who’s missing?”
    She inclined her head toward the undisturbed desk area. “Bookkeeper behind the partition. Know-nothings upstairs say her name is Liv something.”
    “We 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?”
    “No.” 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.”
    “I 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, slim, almost boyish, but still with enough curves to catch sideways glances—but Gretchen wasn’t known for courtesy and compliments. She decided she didn’t care what Gretchen meant and ignored the comment entirely.
    Gretchen nodded her head, as if coming to a conclusion. “We’re going to head to the hospital. We’ll come back later and go through things. Make sure nothing’s disturbed.”
    “That’s our line,” the coroner said and he looked damn serious. September understood. The techs and coroner’s office were constantly screaming about how the police first responders always screwed up the evidence. But the officers on this one had gone upstairs to interview the other employees—the know nothings, according to Gretchen—as soon as the tech team had arrived so there wasn’t anything to complain about, as far as September could see.
    As if her thoughts had willed them, she heard footsteps on the stairs and one of the employees, a young man with long, floppy red hair, most of which was tied back in a rubber band apart from two hanks beside his white face, was walking