“The owner?” The woman frowned. She repeated the word as if it were in a new language. “I’m not sure who that would be.”

“Okay, darling. Your top cheese. Whatever his or her title is.”

“Yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

Holland grinned. “No, sweetheart. We don’t make appointments. It’s about a murder.”

The woman on the screen blinked and shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say murder?”

“That’s right. Homicide investigation. We have a few questions. Quick chat, and we’re out of your hair.” Holland turned toward the glass door. “Through here?”

The woman jumped up. “Sir, sir. You can’t go inside without an escort. Please wait for Monica.” She looked down and tapped at a computer tablet. “You’ll be meeting in…Nebraska.”

Holland looked back at the screen. “Sorry. What?”

“Nebraska. Third room on your right. Monica will show you.”

Thirty seconds later, a woman in jeans and oxford shirt arrived on the other side of the glass and lifted a plastic card from a lanyard around her neck. The door emitted a metallic buzz and swung open.

“All right if we bring these?” Holland held up his coffee. “Won’t contaminate anything?”

Monica giggled and led Holland and Rivas through the company’s workspace. The room was filled with conversation and ringing phones. The interior walls were painted in bright primary colors. Redbrick pillars rose to a fifteen-foot ceiling featuring exposed ventilation ducts and electrical conduits. Farther inside, they came to a row of glass-walled conference rooms, labeled Illinois, Michigan, and Nebraska. Monica gestured toward the open door of the last room. “Enjoy,” she said and walked briskly away.

Inside the meeting room, Holland and Rivas took seats at a polished oak table. The cheery musical notes sounded from another TV screen on the wall, and the curly-haired woman appeared again. “Ms. Palmer and Mr. Keegan will join you shortly.” The screen went blank.

Holland drank his coffee and looked around the room. “You suppose they can hear us?”

Rivas shrugged. “How can they? We’re in Nebraska.”

A minute later, a man in a flannel shirt and cargo pants led an attractive woman into the conference room. “Josh Keegan,” the man said, “VP for Operations, and this is April Palmer, in-house counsel.” He put business cards in front of the detectives while the two of them sat on the opposite side of the table. Keegan’s short, black hair was moussed into peaks like cake frosting. Palmer sat stiffly in a trim, dark suit.

Rivas saw Keegan take in Holland’s wool cap.

“Sorry for the delay,” Keegan said. “Major launch coming up. All-hands teleconference in”—he consulted his cell phone—“exactly twelve minutes.”

Rivas took a folder from his lap and laid it on the table. “We’ll make it quick.”

Keegan nodded, reading something on his phone.

“We’re investigating the murder of Elise Durand last Monday night in Santa Rosa.”