Seven Ways to Die by William Diehl Page A

inquired from within.
    “Kate Winters to see Captain Cody,” she told the window.
    The door buzzed and was opened by a large man with his thumb holding his place in a tattered Even Hunter paperback, his blue uniform unadorned by any semblance of identification. She entered a miniscule box of a room with a chair, a reading lamp, a door to her left, and another facing her, both attended by a video camera. The big man pressed a button and said, “Kate Winters for the captain.” The door in front of her popped open to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the second floor.
    “Top of the stairs on the left,” the attendant said, sat down on his chair and returned to his reading. A sawed off shotgun was leaning on the wall beside him.
    “Thank you,” she said and climbed the stairs. The door on her left was labeled “Office.” The printing on the door to the right said simply “Keep Out.” Both had small one-way glass windows.
    She entered a bright, sprawling room that was as cheerful as the trip up was drab. It encompassed half the second floor. Flush ceiling lamps cast a bright, shadowless light over the room.
    No power naps in here, she thought.
    It was also unlike any precinct station house she had ever seen. Kate was a quick study. One sweeping glance around the room revealed a dozen metal u-shaped desks scattered about in no particular order. But, she also noticed, not quite as haphazardly as would appear. All of them had a clear view of the wall behind her.
    Seven men were at their desks. They looked up at her, smiled, gave her the once-over, and went back to what they were doing. They all were equipped with desk top computers and widescreen plasma viewers, DVD and video players, small desk lamps of every imaginable variety and shape, telephones that were jet black and accompanied by headsets, and a cup holder on every desk.
    Very smart, she thought. Prevents spilling.
    The desk chairs were as varied as the lamps; swing around chairs, stuffed chairs, straight back chairs, chairs with arms and chairs without arms, a tall movie director’s type canvas back with WOW printed on it, and a cocktail bar stool with a red leather seat and no back.
    Perfect, she thought. A room ruled over by a man who was all business but had a strong respect for individuality.
    “Hi,” said a young Asian about her height. He was thin, nicely buffed, had dark curly hair, and a smile that would melt a snowman. He took off the headset he was wearing and dropped it on the desk as he jumped up and stuck out his hand.
    “Vinnie Hue. We’ve met. The wicker chair case?”
    “Of course. You got more objections that day than any witness I ever had.”
    “Yeah,” he said proudly. “I drove that lawyer nuts.”
    “Yes, you did. And you drove me nuts objecting to his objections.”
    “Hey, it worked,” he said and winked. “We won.” Then he spread out his arms. “Welcome to The Loft. Cody extends his apologies. He’s on his way. He’ll do the introductions when he gets here.”
    “You call him Cody?”
    “You can call him Cody or Cap or even Captain. Micah he doesn’t like too much.”
    “Why not? It’s a lovely name.”
    “Morphs too easily into Mickey. C’mon,” he wiggled a finger leading her toward a table in the rear of the room where coffee, tea, sweet rolls, and bagels beckoned.
    She glanced at his cubicle as she followed him. It was a dazzling array of electronics: audio recorders, both digital and analog; another bank of six flat video screens with recorders attached; an audio/visual editing board; a keyboard interfacing the awesome display that was a remote controller’s nightmare. Buttons everywhere.
    “Just out of curiosity, does anybody else understand all this stuff?” she asked.
    “Si—that’s Larry Simon—can sit in for me. Sometimes we operate it together. The crew knows as much as they need to know. We have our own network. Like a mini CNN or ABC. Ten satellite dishes on the roof, wireless links