“I’m Kathryn Dance, Bureau of Investigation.”

Cohen looked at, without focusing on, the ID card. She slipped it away. He said to no one, “I just called the hospital again. They’ve released three. The critical ones—there were four of those—are unchanged. One’s in a coma. They’ll probably live. But the hospitals, the doctors don’t tell you much. The nurses never do. Why’s that a rule? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Can I ask you a few questions, Mr. Cohen?”

“Bureau of Investigation? FBI?”

“California.”

“Oh. You said that. Is this…I mean, is it a crime?”

Holly said, “We’re still doing the preliminary, Sam.”

Dance said, “I’m not a criminal investigator. I’m in the Civil Division.”

Cohen looked around, breathing heavily. His shoulders sagged. “Everything,” he said in a whisper. Dance had no idea what he’d been about to say. She was looking at a face marred by indelible sorrow.

“Could you tell me what you recall about last night, sir?” Dance asked this automatically. Then remembering the fire marshal was in charge. “Okay with you, Bob?”

“You can help me out anytime you want, Kathryn.”

She wondered why she was even asking these questions. This wasn’t her job. But sometimes you just can’t leash yourself.

Cohen didn’t answer.

“Mr. Cohen?”

She repeated the question.

“Sorry.” Whispering. “I was at the front door, checking receipts. I heard the music start. I smelled smoke, pretty strong and I freaked out. The band seemed to stop in the middle of a tune. Just then I got a call. Somebody was in the parking lot and they said there was a fire in the kitchen. Or backstage. They weren’t sure. They must’ve seen the smoke and thought it was worse than it was. I didn’t check. I just thought: Get everybody out. So I made the announcement. Then I could hear voices. Swelling. The voices, I mean, getting louder and louder. Then a scream. I thought, No, no, not a fire. I was thinking of the Station in Rhode Island a few years ago. They had fireworks. Illegal ones. But in, like, six minutes, the entire club was engulfed. A hundred people died.”

Choking. Tears. “I went into the club itself. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was like they weren’t people at all; it was just one big creature, staggering around, squeezing toward the doors. But they weren’t opening. And there were no flames. Anywhere. Not even very thick smoke. Like in the fall, when I was growing up. People burning leaves. Where I grew up. New York.”

Dance had noted a security camera. “Was there video? Security video?”

“Nothing outside. Inside, yes, there’s a camera.”

“Could I see it please?”

This was her Crim-Div mind working.

Sometimes you can’t leash yourself…

Cohen cast a last look around the room. Then stepped into the lobby, clutching the box of survivors’ tokens he’d collected. He held it gingerly, as if a tight grip would mean bad luck for the hospitalized owners. She saw wallets, keys, shoes, a business card inside.