Chapter 6 - The Guest Who Paid for the Table
They brought him in through the side door of the security office so the bar crowd wouldn't see. I heard his loafers first on the tile, then his voice, already performing.
It was the man in the navy blazer from the ballroom. Up close his hair was thinner, combed forward, and his blazer was expensive in a way that tried not to look expensive. Brass buttons. A foundation pin on the lapel, little gold letters I couldn't read. Dmitri had a hand light on his elbow, not grabbing, just guiding, and the man kept talking as if that made it voluntary.
"Look, I was at the bar the whole second half," he said to the room generally, not to anyone in particular. "I'm happy to help, of course, happy to help. I host this table every year."
Victor didn't answer right away. He was standing by the evidence box where the broken coupe was packed, his tattooed hand resting on the lid. He'd moved Lena's chair — my chair — closer to the corner, so I was out of the direct line between the door and the second interview room, but still inside. He hadn't told me I could leave. He hadn't told me I had to stay. I'd stayed.
The blazer guest finally looked at me and then quickly away. He pulled a folded receipt from his inside pocket like he'd been waiting to use it.
"I've got the receipt right here," he said, smoothing it on the edge of the desk for Victor to see. "Table twelve, hosted, six thousand. I'm a donor to the foundation. You can call Marjorie on the gala committee. She'll vouch. I never touched anyone's drinks. I don't even drink champagne."
His voice was even, rehearsed. Sweat wasn't. There was a damp shine along his upper lip and at his temple despite the cold AC in the security office. The kind of sweat that comes when you're still and the room is not hot.
Victor picked up the receipt between two fingers, glanced at it, set it back down.
"What business are you in," Victor said. It wasn't a question.
The man blinked. "Commercial real estate. Romano — Mr. Romano, I know your group. We moved in some adjacent circles. I'm sure we have mutual — "
"We don't," Victor said, quiet.
He didn't raise his voice. That was the thing. Everyone else filled space. Victor left it empty until you felt you had to fill it for him, and the blazer guest did.
"I was networking, that's all. After the speeches I went to talk to the Jensen folks by the bar. Ask the bartender. Ask anyone."
Victor's eyes dropped, not to the man's face but to his hands. The man had been gesturing, and now his left cuff had ridden up a half inch. The white shirt underneath had a faint, pale crust at the edge, almost invisible against the cotton, like dried salt or sugar.
I saw it the same second Victor did. It was the same pale gold as the spill on the marble table, dried to a dull film. My throat tightened because I'd wiped that spill. I knew the color when it dried.
Victor took a step closer. He didn't touch him.
"You've got something on your cuff," he said.
The man looked down fast, then yanked his sleeve down, laughing a little too loud.
"Oh, that's — that's nothing. I spilled something at the bar. Vodka soda. Seltzer, maybe."
Dmitri, by the doorway, didn't move, but his eyes flicked to Victor.
Victor looked at the cuff again, then at the man's face. The sweat was worse now, a bead sliding down the side of his neck into his collar.
"You're sweating," Victor said.
"It's warm in here," the man said. "These lights — "
"It's sixty-eight degrees in here," Victor said. He turned his head slightly toward Dmitri. "Get a swab kit."
The blazer guest took a half step back. "Wait, now, let's not — I'm a donor here. I paid for that table. I don't need to be swabbed like — like I'm on trial. I told you I didn't touch the glass. This is — you should be talking to the catering staff. No offense," he added, glancing at me.
I didn't say anything. My hands were in my lap, fingers laced so tight my knuckles had gone white. I could hear the AC humming and the faint tick of the wall clock over the monitor bank.
Dmitri was already opening the second interview room, the smaller one with no windows. He held the door.
Victor's attention stayed on the guest. His voice stayed low, controlled.
"You'll wait in there," he said. "You'll let my man swab your cuff. If it's seltzer, you're done in ten minutes."
"And if I don't?" The man tried for firm, but it came out thin.
"Then I'll call Marjorie myself," Victor said. "And the hotel manager. And after that, the police. And I'll tell each of them you refused a simple swab while you were sweating through your shirt."
The man swallowed. He looked at the open door, at Dmitri, at me again like I could help him. I couldn't.
"Fine," he said. "Fine, swab it. It's nothing. You're going to see it's nothing."
Dmitri guided him into the second room. The man went, stiff now, trying to keep his blazer straight. The door clicked shut. Dmitri stayed outside it.
Victor turned, picked up the desk phone, and pressed a button. Someone answered on the first ring — the runner from the lab.
"Prioritize the comparison," he said. "Residue from the glass against a cuff swab from the second room. I want it before anyone washes anything."
He hung up. He looked at me then, really looked, and for a second I felt seen instead of managed.
May you like
"You stay," he said, not unkind. "You're my witness. He doesn't leave until that comes back. Neither do you."
I nodded. The box with the broken coupe was still on the desk between us, sealed with tape, and through the thin wall I could hear the blazer guest breathing hard in the other room, asking Dmitri for water.
