Chapter Fourteen

D ULCE SAT INSIDE the NYPD command van in their one interview room, not really paying attention to the outside world. She eyed her NYPD liaison, a pudgy, balding, white dude with the kind of face that stayed perpetually red. He sported a bulky mustache and an exceedingly rumpled suit. It looked like one of the ones you can get from the "Buy 1 Get 4 Free" sales on the dingy upper floors of the fashion district.

On the other side of the interview table was a beautiful black man, perhaps 40, the leasing manager for the Pump House, one Peter Randall.

Randall was sweating profusely even though they'd only just gone over the first and most basic questions.

"So," Frank, the NYPD liaison, started, forgetting his promise that he'd let Dulce handle the questions, "you're the leasing manger."

"Yes," Peter Randall replied.

"Who, you know, in general, rents this place out?" Frank asked, tapping a pen on a notepad.

"Lots of people, uh—"

"Last night, though," Dulce said, interrupting, "Who was it?"

"Uh," Peter said, "just, uh, one second." He fiddled with his phone until he found whatever he was looking for. "It's a group, uh, The Noble Mystery. I can tell you the person I met with, and I went to their offices once, and, I mean, they seemed to be nice people."

"Nice people?" Dulce asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied, "it was, I mean, it was a non-profit that wanted to, uh, I mean, I read their mission statement and I didn't see anything about the, uh, I mean, whatever they did wasn't in their mission statement."

"I would guess not."

"The Noble Mystery?" Frank asked. "That's their fucking name? The hell is The Noble Mystery?"

"If I had my folders, I could take a look at—"

Frank snatched the phone from Peter and started pawing at the screen.

"Anything unusual in your dealings with them?" Dulce asked.

"I mean, no. Not really. I don't even, I mean — what happened last night?"

"Ritual suicide," Dulce said.

Frank frowned at her. "I thought we were calling it an industrial accident."

"We are," Dulce said. "But I think Peter here needed to know the truth."

"Are you kidding?" Peter asked, mouth agape. "In my theater?"

"Yes."

"Oh no! But, my staff?"

"How many of your staff were present?"

"I'd have to check—"

"You don't know?"

"Not off the top — I mean, at least three."

"Likely, they're dead."

"I—" Peter started to say something, but quickly lost control and started sobbing.

Frank leaned in to Dulce. "Not exactly a people person are you?"

A phone rang.

Frank and Peter stared at Dulce.

"Oh," Dulce said. "Think that's me."

She grabbed her phone from her pocket and checked the number. Control.

"Sorry, but I have to take this," she said, and strode out of the room.

She answered as soon as she got outside, frowning a little because her ambulance was missing.

"Agent—"

"Hello!" Robert piped out.

"Robert," Dulce said, hoping he could hear her disdain.

"So, my lord and master—"

"Joseph?"

"That's the one. He would like me to help you."

"Lovely. This is not a secure line."

"I know."

"So—"

"Got anything?"

Dulce took a deep sigh and wished her life was different. Then, she came back to reality, swallowing her bitter pill.

"There's a group you can look into," Dulce said. "The Noble Mystery."

"No-ble Mys-ter-y," Robert repeated, likely writing it down.

"I'll call you from a secure line when I get downtown. I've got some more that can only be transmitted that way."

"Lovely, I—"

Dulce hung up, and walked back inside to continue the interview.