Everyone nodded mutely.

“All right. Who saw Lightfoot with the iced tea?”

The one with the short-cropped hair raised her arm. Cecille. “Um, I was one of the first people to take a seat. Andrew wasn’t here yet, but the iced tea was already on the table, like he’d maybe just opened it, then went to get something. Or maybe he went to throw away the cap.”

“The cap!” D.D. agreed. She marched over to the trash can. Right on top, one white lid stamped Koala Iced Tea. D.D. snapped on gloves and fished it out. Metal, for sealing a glass bottle. Not the kind of container that could be easily tampered with-say, penetrated by a syringe. Nope. Cap came off. Poison went in.

Now, possibly, the product had been poisoned at the warehouse level, part of a massive terrorist act. Or possibly, Lightfoot’s barky little dog had plotted revenge and spiked her master’s tea on the home front.

But D.D. was willing to bet Lightfoot’s distinctive beverage took the hit while sitting exposed in the common area.

“How long was Lightfoot gone?” she asked Cecille.

The MC shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not long. A few minutes. Five minutes maybe. People were starting to gather. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

D.D. looked around the room. One by one, everyone dropped their gazes.

“I was with a kid,” Greg volunteered softly. He glanced at Danielle. “She was with me. We came late.”

Establishing alibis. D.D. liked it. And they thought the milieu of the unit had been compromised before.

“I don’t understand,” Karen spoke up. “Why would someone poison Andrew? I mean, this whole thing… This is crazy.”

“Good question.” D.D. considered it. “Maybe because you brought him here to fix the unit. Calm it down. Following that logic, maybe someone doesn’t want the unit calmed down. That person wants you all jumpy and edgy and chasing after exploding kids. Lightfoot’s poisoned. You’re all freaked-out as hell. Mission accomplished.”

Karen gaped at her. “That’s insane.”

“Twelve dead and one injured. All connected with this ward. You’re right-can’t get much more insane than that.”

“Stop it! We are not those kind of people-”

“What kind of people?” D.D. asked with interest.

“Murderers. Dr. Deaths or Angels of Doom.”

“Medical caretakers who convince themselves that their patients-i.e., their troubled young charges-would be better off dead?” D.D. volunteered helpfully.

Karen glared at her. “Myself, my staff, we are committed to healing children. Not hurting them.”

“People change.”

“No!” Karen blazed. “You don’t get it. This is a pediatric psych ward. We work as tightly together as any trauma team. And we succeed precisely because we know one another that well, we believe in one another that much. I’d trust anyone here to hand me a drink right now and I would down it without hesitation.”

D.D. waited to see if anyone would take Karen up on that offer. No one moved.

“Maybe that just proves you’re the guilty party,” D.D. said.

“I was the first to help him.”

“Maybe because you already knew something bad was going to happen.”

“How dare you! I’m a nurse-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” D.D. interrupted. “So you’ve said. Fact remains, someone drugged Lightfoot’s iced tea, and I’m guessing that someone is standing right here, unless you believe the unit’s negative energy suddenly grew a pair of hands.”

No one said a word, which D.D. took as a sign of agreement. She continued briskly: “Now, seems to me, problems here are growing bigger, not smaller. Meaning, it’s time for my team to take a crack at your team, and meaning no one’s allowed off this floor until personally cleared by a member of my squad. No trips to the cafeteria. No five-minute break to catch a smoke. Are we clear? Let’s get this party started. And candidate number one will be…” D.D. glanced around the common area, spotting her target of choice: “Gym Coach, follow me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Greg didn’t look happy. The big guy trailed down the hallway toward the BPD’s makeshift command center, his gaze glued to the carpet, his high-top sneakers dragging. It made D.D. feel warm and fuzzy all over. Always nice to know she wasn’t losing her touch.

Inside the classroom, Alex had set up the pizzas across one table. The scent of melted cheese, fresh-baked dough, and spicy pepperoni made D.D.’s stomach growl. There was probably something ironic about stuffing one’s face right after watching a grown man get poisoned, but D.D. was starving. Alex and several of the other guys had already dug in, munching away. They looked up with interest as D.D. closed the door behind her and Greg then headed straight for the pizza. She found the fully loaded pie and slid two cheesy slices onto a paper plate.

“Want some?” she asked Greg.

He shook his head.

“Soda, water, iced tea?”

He gave her a look. “No. Thank you.”

“I bet the food’s safer in here than out there,” she told him.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” he answered stiffly.

“Loyal to the Corps?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“’Course not. Cops. Hell, what could we possibly know about the importance of teamwork?”

The classroom door opened. Danielle walked in.

“Not your turn, chickadee,” D.D. informed her, through a mouthful of pizza. “Go back and play with your other friends.”

“Can’t,” Danielle said. “I’m on leave, right? Can’t stay out there, so Karen sent me in here.”

“Wanna talk? Fine. Alex will take you next door. Alex.” D.D. gestured to him, just as Danielle said:

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

D.D. frowned, set down her paper plate, and strode over to Danielle. She stood right in the nurse’s face. Heightwise, D.D. had only an inch on the woman, but she knew how to use it. “This is a private party. Out.”

“No.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

The nurse shifted edgily. “You. Him.” Danielle jerked her head toward Greg. “The whole fucking unit. You think you need answers? I need them even more. Meaning Greg has got to start talking.”

D.D. snapped around to glare at Greg. “Do you know what she means?”

He shook his head.

“Yes you do,” Danielle said, eyes still on D.D. “I heard you with the boy. You know Evan. From off the unit. How can that be, Greg? How do you know him, and why didn’t you tell us?”

“Danielle-”

“For God’s sake!” Danielle exploded. “Two families are dead, Greg. And Lucy. Plus, now Lightfoot’s hospitalized. How many more, Greg? Something’s terribly wrong. Someone’s hurting our kids. You need to start talking. How do you know Evan?”

D.D. stuck her hands on her hips. “Might as well confess now, buddy boy. Because none of us are letting you out of this room until you do.”

Greg remained standing there, lips thinned, face unreadable. He stared at Danielle. She stared back at him.

“I knew the families,” Greg said abruptly. “All of them. Outside of the unit. I’m the missing link.”

“I started respite work couple of years ago,” Greg was saying five minutes later. He was seated at the table, Danielle next to him, D.D. and Alex across from him. Despite his earlier refusal, he and Danielle were now both armed with cans of soda, which they had opened themselves and tasted carefully.

“At first, I worked for just one family. I’d met them here; their four-year-old daughter suffered from schizophrenia. They were talking about how hard it was to get a break, to have a date night, go for a walk, buy groceries. Neither of their families were equipped to handle Maria, and there was a waiting list for trained help. I felt bad, especially for the mom. You could tell she was losing it. So I offered to watch Maria while the parents had a night out.

“I didn’t accept money.” He said this more to Danielle than to D.D. and Alex. “I did it as a favor. It seemed like the right thing to do.”