Chapter 3 - The Lockdown at the Conservatory
Back at the glass conservatory in Westchester, the music was still playing when the first three patrol cruisers rolled past the wrought-iron gates, sirens cutting through the autumn night.
Guests were wandering through the manicured gardens with flutes of champagne, completely unaware that twenty miles south, toxicology reports were printing out on police blotters. Inside the ballroom, Evan Mercer was arguing with the catering director over the timing of the prime rib service while Fallon touched up her lip gloss in the bridal mirror.
"We need Sloan back for the final dance," Fallon was saying into her compact mirror, her voice carried over the wireless microphone she hadn't bothered to turn off. "Evan, call her again. If she doesn’t show up for the emotional reconciliation speech, the narrative arc is completely flat."
"I'm calling, I'm calling," Evan grunted, swiping through his screen. "Her phone goes straight to voicemail. And Greer blocked me."
"Tell Mom to handle it. Sloan always folds when Mom—"
The grand double doors of the conservatory didn’t open quietly. They banged against the stone walls with enough force to shatter the brass latches.
Detective Marcus Miller of the Westchester County Police Department stepped into the reception hall, flanked by four uniformed officers. Two more units moved swiftly around the perimeter, securing the exits.
The room went dead silent. The string quartet stopped playing mid-measure.
"Can I help you, officers?" Evan asked, forcing an easy, media-trained chuckle as he stepped forward, adjusting his tuxedo jacket. "If this is about the fireworks permit, we cleared that with the county three weeks ago."
"Mr. Evan Mercer?" Detective Miller asked, unbuttoning his coat to reveal his gold shield and duty holster.
"Yes. And this is my wife, Fallon Ward-Mercer. We're in the middle of our wedding reception."
"Not anymore," Miller said flatly. "Officer Torres, shut down the soundboard. Nobody leaves the floor."
A murmur of shock rippled through the two hundred guests. Sybil Ward pushed her way through the crowd, her mother-of-the-bride chiffon dress fluttering as she raised a manicured finger.
"Officer, this is an exclusive private event," Sybil said in her sharpest country-club voice. "You have no right to barge in here and intimidate our family. My late husband was a senior partner at—"
"Ma'am, step back," Miller said without blinking. "At 9:42 p.m., St. Jude’s Medical Center admitted Sloan Ward with severe chemical burns caused by a caustic agent thrown directly into her face. The hospital has officially reported a felony aggravated assault."
Fallon dropped her compact. It shattered against the parquet floor.
"A chemical?" Fallon stammered, her voice suddenly climbing an octave. "No. No, that’s crazy! It was a joke! It was just punch! Pink lemonade and tonic water!"
"Then why," Detective Miller asked, pointing to the crystal glass still sitting on the high table where the venue manager had carefully quarantined it, "did the venue manager secure this glass under our direct instructions? And why did the chemical vapors strip the varnish off the banquet table underneath it?"
Gasps erupted around the room. Several bridesmaids backed away from the head table as if it were rigged with explosives.
"We have search warrants en route for all production equipment, digital media storage, and personal vehicle trunks," Miller announced to the room. "Until crime scene technicians arrive, this venue is an active crime scene. Nobody touches their phones. Nobody leaves this room."
Evan’s face went entirely white. He instinctively reached for his coat pocket, but an officer grabbed his arm immediately.
"Hands where I can see them, sir," the officer barked.
"Evan..." Fallon whispered, her eyes wide, darting toward the production crew in the corner who were frantically trying to disconnect their hard drives. "Evan, tell them."
May you like
Evan didn't answer her. He pulled his arm away from Fallon's grasp and stared straight at the floor.
***
