Jerry Irwin shut his office door in an effort to drown out his receptionist’s hysterical wailing.
He had done the decent thing and broken the news of Warner’s death to his employees in person. It had made the papers, so he’d figured he might as well. He took the opportunity to suggest that he’d been in contact with the police and they’d hinted that Warner’s murder may have been a gay lovers’ quarrel gone bad.
That was partly true. The D.C. police had called him, but he was the one who’d implied that Warner had a boyfriend with a violent streak. He imagined chasing down that false lead would keep them busy for awhile.
Now, his employees, who hadn’t seemed particularly attached to Warner when he was alive, were wandering around his office, keening like they were bereft.
He squeezed his fingers against his temples to stave off a growing headache.
One of the cell phones was ringing, cutting through the high-pitched sobs still emanating from Lilliana.
He dug it out of his pocket. Pittsburgh was calling.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Do you have your files back?” No niceties this morning.
“I should have them soon. My guys in Pittsburgh haven’t checked in yet.”
“For the sake of argument, what’s in them?”
“The files?”
“Yes, Jerry. The files.” His partner was irritated.
“The name of Calvaruso’s replacement and his travel arrangements for Friday.” Irwin saw no reason to sugarcoat it.
“So, if the lawyer gets those files, she’ll know which plane is in play?”
“If she gets the files. Which she won’t. At least not long enough to do anything with them. Don’t worry.”