He picked his way across the damp floor and into his office and closed the door before he called Culligan. “What?” he snapped when the man answered.

“Barry. It’s about Lucy.”

“Oh, fuck.” He circled around his desk. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing. She’s dead.”

“Jesus.” He sat down hard in his chair. “Where?”

“The office. In the elevator. Gunshot to the head.”

“Oh, God.” Were there warning signs, people always asked, and Barrett tried to think. There were certainly signs that she was bent on destruction, but he’d thought it was the company she was out to destroy, not herself. I could burn this place down, she’d threatened, which left him no choice but to remind her what the consequences would be if she tried.

“Did she say anything?” he asked Culligan. “Before—?”

“No. By the time they were rescued, she was already dead.”

“Wait. They? Rescued from what?”

“She was trapped in the elevator with one of yours. Shay Lambert.”

Barrett stood up abruptly. “Can we get to her?”

“Too late. The cops have her sequestered. And she’s already made a statement.”

“Saying—?”

“Claustrophobia. Panic attack.”

“Okay.” He digested that. “Where are you getting this?”

“Night guard chatted up one of the beat cops. By the way, they left me a voicemail asking for access to search Lucy’s office. And Shay’s.”

Barrett thought for a moment. “Stall them. Get to Lucy’s office. Look for a note, anything on her computer, anything. I’ll go to her house and prep the husband. Send Lester to meet me there. We’ll need to search there, too.”

“Got it.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Did she give you any idea . . .”

“No. At least—no more than you.”

Barrett bristled. “I didn’t have a clue!”

“Then neither did I.”

He didn’t care for the CYA subtext in that remark, but now was not the time. “Report back after you’ve been through her office.”

He disconnected and got dressed in the middle-of-the-night-crisis clothes he kept hanging in his office closet for occasions like this. Not that there’d ever been an occasion like this. I could burn this place down, Lucy had threatened, and maybe now, through her death, she’d done it. If so, the flames wouldn’t stop with the company. They’d incinerate him, too.

He started for the garage, but before he reached the mudroom, he turned and went back to his study and opened the wall safe. Inside, under his passport and some cash and jewelry, was a single unopened pack of cigarettes. He’d quit nearly a year ago but kept the pack here as a test of his willpower. He was a man who liked to be in control at all times, even of himself. Especially of himself. But not tonight.

He slit the cellophane seal and tapped out a cigarette, then tapped out two, then put the whole pack in his pocket and closed the safe.

He lit up as soon as he reached the garage.

Chapter 3

I tried to calm myself. A woman was dead. Obviously the police would have questions, and as the only witness, I was the only one who could answer them. The reading of the Miranda warning was nothing more than a patrol officer being overly cautious until the detectives arrived. And even then he probably read it only because I was a lawyer. I was stupid to mention that. Cops always went on their guard when dealing with lawyers.