Chapter 21

The campaign office was on the third floor of a downtown building. When McGee and Hannah walked in, it was quiet.

Not the quiet of a lunch break. The quiet of something over.

A few desks were occupied — staffers staring at screens, or at nothing. Campaign posters still on the walls: Langley's smiling face, LEADERSHIP YOU CAN TRUST. Boxes half-packed in the corner. A wilting bouquet of flowers sat on the reception desk, the card still attached.

The campaign manager met them in a conference room. Mid-forties, tie loosened, eyes red. He didn't offer his hand.

"I wasn't there," he said before they even sat down. "The fundraiser. I was here, at the office. I didn't go to all the events — I handle logistics, not handshakes."

"What's your name?" Hannah asked gently.

"Peter. Peter Cole." He sat down heavily. "I've been with the senator for six years. Six years."

McGee and Hannah exchanged a look.

"Peter," Hannah said, "who was there from the campaign? That night?"

He rubbed his face with both hands. "I don't — I'd have to check the roster. The event staff, some volunteers. The senator's personal aide, probably. Marcus."

"Probably?" McGee said.

"I wasn't there." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I keep saying that. I wasn't there."

He wasn't just unhelpful. He was broken.

"If I'd gone —" He stopped. Stared at the table. "I usually go. To the big ones. But I had payroll to finish, so I stayed here. Payroll." He laughed — a short, ugly sound. "I stayed to do payroll while they —"

His hands were shaking. He clasped them together to stop it.

"Dave was there. And Priya. They ran the sign-in table." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Dave has two kids. Priya just got engaged." He looked up at McGee, eyes wet. "They're gone. If I'd been there, I'd —"

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

"Peter," McGee said quietly. "I'm sorry. I really am."

He nodded. Didn't look at her.

Hannah leaned forward. "Peter, I know this is hard. But we need to ask — was there anything, in the days before the fundraiser, that seemed off? Any threats? Anyone new? Anything that didn't feel right?"

Peter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Thought for a long moment.

"No threats. Not that I know of." He sniffed. "The senator got the usual crank mail — you know, 'you're a crook,' 'I hope you die,' that kind of thing. But nothing specific. Nothing real."

"The event itself?" McGee said. "The planning? Anything unusual?"

"It was normal." He shook his head slowly. "Same venue we've used three times before. Same caterer — Bellamy's, they do all our big dinners. The guest list was standard donors, the usual crowd. Nothing —"

He stopped. Something flickered across his face.

"What?" Hannah said.

"There was a new guy on the AV team. Sound and lighting." Peter frowned, trying to remember. "Hired through the venue, not us. I never met him — I just saw the name on the vendor sheet and thought, huh, that's new."

McGee felt the familiar prickle at the back of her neck. She and Hannah locked eyes.

"Do you remember the name?" McGee asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Peter shook his head. "The venue would have it. I can get you the contact — the events coordinator."

"Please," Hannah said. "That would help a lot."

Peter nodded. He stood up on unsteady legs, braced himself on the table for a moment.

"Give me a minute," he said, and walked out.

The door clicked shut. McGee looked at Hannah.

"AV guy," McGee said quietly.

"AV guy," Hannah agreed. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"He was in the room. Setting up." McGee stared at the wall — at Langley's smiling face. "He had hours. Nobody would look twice."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Hannah said, but her voice didn't sound convinced.

Peter came back with a sticky note. A name, a number.

"Thank you, Peter," McGee said, taking it. "And — take care of yourself, okay?"

Peter just nodded. He was already looking past them, at nothing.

---

The venue was a big event space downtown — high ceilings, chandeliers, the kind of place that hosted weddings and corporate dinners and, last week, a fundraiser where sixty-three people died.

The events coordinator met them in the lobby. A woman in her thirties, dark circles under her eyes, a clipboard clutched like a shield.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "We've already talked to the police twice. I don't know what else —"

"We're following up on the vendor list," Hannah said, showing her badge. "Specifically the AV crew."

The coordinator's shoulders dropped a fraction. "Okay. Okay, let me pull it up."

She led them to a small office off the lobby. A computer, a filing cabinet, a dying plant. She typed, clicked, scrolled.

"AV was handled by Meridian Event Services," she said, turning the screen toward them. "We use them for all our big events. Good company, reliable."

"Was there anyone new on their crew that night?" McGee asked.

The coordinator scrolled further. Frowned.

"There was a last-minute addition." She pointed at the screen. "See? Four names from Meridian, and then this fifth one — added the morning of the event. The company called and said they were sending an extra tech, short-staffed."

"Do you remember him?" Hannah said. "Did you see him?"

The coordinator shook her head. "I was running around with the florist and the seating chart. I never —" She stopped. "God. He was here. In this building. And I never even looked at him."

"Can you print the company's info?" McGee asked. "Address, phone, everything."

The coordinator printed it with shaking hands. McGee folded the paper and put it in her pocket.

"Thank you," Hannah said.

They walked out through the lobby — past the empty ballroom doors, past the spot where the sign-in table would have been. McGee didn't look.

"Let's go," she said.

---

Meridian Event Services was a warehouse on the industrial side of town. A faded sign over a roll-up door. Inside: speakers stacked to the ceiling, cables coiled on the walls, the smell of dust and electronics and old coffee.

The owner came out of a back office wiping his hands on a rag. Big man, fifties, hands like catcher's mitts. Latex gloves tucked in his back pocket.

"Help you?" he said.

McGee showed her badge. Hannah showed hers. The man's face went carefully neutral.

"We're asking about the Langley fundraiser," McGee said. "Your crew worked that event."

"Yeah." He crossed his arms. "Terrible thing. Just terrible."

She handed him the paper with the fifth name on it. "This person was listed as an extra tech from your company that night. Can you tell us about him?"

The owner read the name. Read it again. His brow furrowed.

He shook his head. "We never sent anyone extra that night."

The room went very still.

"What do you mean?" Hannah said.

"I mean my crew was four guys. Danny, Marcus, Eddie, and Sal. I didn't send a fifth." He looked at the paper again, then at McGee. "I don't know this name. He's not one of mine. He's never been one of mine."

McGee felt the familiar cold spread through her stomach.

"So someone showed up," she said slowly, "said he was from Meridian, and just — joined your crew?"

The owner nodded, his face pale. "Happens more than you'd think. Big events, everyone's busy, nobody's checking IDs at the loading dock. Guy in black with a toolbox looks like he belongs. My guys probably just assumed —"

"Jesus," Hannah breathed.

"He was there," McGee said quietly. "He was in the room, setting up speakers, and nobody knew."

The owner looked sick. He sat down heavily on a speaker cabinet.

"Sixty-three people." His voice was hollow. "And he just walked in. Using my company's name." He looked up at McGee. "Am I — are we in trouble?"

"Not unless you knew," Hannah said. "Did you?"

"No! Christ, no." He stood up again, agitated. "Let me get my guys. The ones who were there. Maybe they remember something."

He disappeared into the warehouse. Came back with two men in work shirts — one young, one older, both looking nervous.

"This is Detective Summers and Agent Ray," the owner said. "Tell them about the extra guy."

The two crew members looked at each other. The younger one spoke first.

"He wore a hat," he said. "And a jumpsuit. Like ours."

"Did you get a good look at his face?" McGee asked.

"Not really." The younger guy shifted his weight. "He kept the hat low. Kind of stayed to himself."

"What about you?" Hannah asked the older one.

He thought for a moment, scratching his chin. "Middle-aged, I guess. Medium build. Darker hair, maybe? I didn't — we were busy, you know? He was just carrying speakers, running cable. Didn't talk much."

"Did he say anything at all?" McGee pressed. "Anything you remember? Accent? A name?"

They both shook their heads.

"He just —" The younger one searched for the words. "He just looked like a guy. You know? Like any guy. I didn't think twice about it."

"Do you remember when he left?" Hannah asked.

The older crew member frowned. "He was gone before we finished teardown. I figured he just — left early. Didn't think about it."

McGee wrote it all down anyway. Hat. Jumpsuit. Middle-aged, medium build, darker hair. Kept to himself. Left before teardown.

It was nothing. It was a description of half the men in the city.

But it was something. He was there. He was real. He'd stood in that ballroom, carried speakers, run cable — and planned the deaths of sixty-three people.

"Thank you," McGee said. "Both of you."

The owner walked them to the door. "Detective — if there's anything else —"

"We'll be in touch," Hannah said.

They walked back to the car in silence. McGee got in the passenger seat and stared at her notebook.

*Hat. Jumpsuit. Medium everything.*

"He was right there," she said quietly. "In the room. And nobody saw him."

Hannah started the engine. "He wanted it that way."

McGee looked out the window at the warehouse shrinking behind them.

"Yeah," she said. "He always does."