Текст книги "14"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

ated a few months back opened on the screen. 14

89

There she was. Taylor Jackson. Charlotte stared at the picture, the JPEG file sharp and clear. Tawny-blond hair past her shoulders, gray eyes, a full mouth, a slightly crooked yet elegant nose—stunning, but Charlotte knew she could compete.

She gave a mental review of her own attributes. Her hair had often been described as the color of a young pinot noir. Porcelain skin, amber eyes, striking cheekbones, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her bottom lip was just a touch fuller than Jackson’s. She had to admit, the girl was attractive. Good to know Baldwin continued to have excellent taste. The flashing green eyes of her former boss flooded her memory. She forced all thoughts of him away reluctantly. She could get bogged down for hours in the memories of their brief time together. And they would only lead back to this little bitch, the woman who’d stolen him right out of Charlotte’s hands.

She lingered for a moment longer, touching a forefin

ger to the screen, tracing the outline of Jackson’s heart

shaped face. She touched the finger to her lips, then forced herself to close the window and brought up the previous screen.

Jackson was forgotten. The new DNA profiles were enough to make her lick her lips in anticipation. She loved a challenge. What to do? What to do? The match in CODIS was highly unexpected, and unfortunately, couldn’t be held back. She’d have to share this informa

tion, others would see it soon enough.

She opened the latest crime-scene photos submitted by the Nashville Police Department overnight. The fresh kill. The photo named the victim as Giselle St. Claire. What a delicate name, she thought. Poor girl. Giselle was 90

J.T. Ellison

naked, blue from the cold. She showed signs of exsangui

nation; the gaping wound in her neck gave that away easily. A second smile. The blood was pooled below her head, framing the scene in a macabre ruby border. Charlotte clicked on another file. Naked bodies tumbled across her computer screen.

The media had christened the killer well. Every time she saw these photos, the first thing that popped into Char

lotte’s mind was Snow White. Delicate beauty, alabaster skin, red lips, jet-black hair. All that was missing was a red cape and a grouping of dwarves.

If she were rushing, at first glance all the photos could have been of the same dead girl. Only a detailed examina

tion showed the subtle differences: height, weight, hair length. The similarities between the victims were down

right eerie. She opened two more windows and speculated for a moment. The physical victimology was so similar from girl to girl—it took time and effort to pick out women who looked so alike. She’d had a case a few years back where the killer had bought identical wigs to place on his victims prior to their death. But in these cases, the hair was real, ebony as a raven’s wing, long and thick. Definitely not a wig.

With a sigh, she went back to the CODIS cold hits, printed out the cover sheet from each murder, started a new file, marked it Snow White DNA/CODIS, then walked the long hallway to her boss’s office. She was the lead profiler on the murders; she needed to present her findings. This case was hers. Her future. Her success. Stuart Evanson had taken over the BSU when Baldwin left. He reported to Garrett Woods, the top dog in the Critical Incidence Response Group. Evanson had power 14

91

and clout, but not as much as he’d like. Woods was the real star, mentor to the great profiler John Baldwin. Woods was reputed to be a smart, seasoned agent who might be running the whole Bureau if he wasn’t careful. Charlotte disliked him immensely; he’d passed her over in favor of Evanson after Baldwin split. Made it about the relationship she and Baldwin had engaged in, though Charlotte knew Baldwin had made it clear to Woods that she shouldn’t be running the show. She didn’t know which burned her worse, their breakup, or the fact that he’d shanghaied her career in the process.

Evanson had replaced Baldwin only a few months before. She remembered that storied morning vividly. Baldwin had announced he was quitting the BSU, the FBI and all that he knew to play house in Nashville with a homicide detective he’d met on a case. Charlotte had been shocked to hear that. Of course, Baldwin hadn’t been in the game for a while before that had happened; he’d been on extended leave after a shooting incident with a suspect that got three agents killed. She’d been with him then. But he hadn’t turned to her for solace. He’d hightailed it out of town, gone home to Nashville and tried to drink himself to death. Then he’d met Taylor Jackson, pulled out of his funk, solved a huge case and returned to the BSU triumphant, the golden boy yet again. Charlotte had been forgotten in the mix. Baldwin’s plans to retire had been usurped. The Bureau wasn’t willing to let a talent like him leave for good. He was given a special dispensation—his own shop, free from the prying eyes of Quantico. But still a division of the FBI. Doing the work of the BSU without the constraints shoveled upon them by the government. He worked out of the Tennessee field office now.

92

J.T. Ellison

Stuart Evanson had been placed in charge, and instead of gracefully appointing Charlotte second in command, he’d moved her to Training, making her conduct the sym

posiums that the BSU often gave to law enforcement. Like he didn’t care that she had a Ph.D. from Georgetown and had worked tirelessly in the BSU for five years, moving up every review period. He wanted her to be the

“spokeswoman” for their unit. Fuck that. She wanted to work cases, not train wannabe profilers from Sheboygan. Evanson was a power-hungry prick, and like most pricks she’d known, was desperate for a piece of Charlotte pie. Charlotte made it very clear what she’d be willing to do if he gave her the deputy posting, her rightful spot. Trying to engender good will from her, he’d “promoted”

her within weeks, making her the number two in the BSU. Deputy chief. Head profiler, that’s what she was. She should have been the chief, but she would take this for now. Dangling the slightest whiff of opportunity in Evanson’s face from time to time was an easy price to pay. Hearing her boss’s voice raised in anger and frustration on the other side of the door didn’t bother her in the least. She had a knack, a touch, for defusing even the most egregiously charged situation. Glancing at her watch, she gave him thirty more seconds to scream, touched a hand to her deep auburn hair and knocked once, hard. She opened the door and stepped into the director’s personal space.

“I don’t give a damn what the President says. This is the way it’s going to be.” He hung up the phone with a bang and took in Charlotte, standing calmly in his doorway. He’d fire any other agent for simply daring to knock on his door while he was talking to the White 14

93

House. He was a blustery soul, prone to fits of pique. But Charlotte was a different story, and she knew it. Stepping into the room, she handed him the file folder, coded with a red sticker that read Priority—High.

“We have an anomaly.”

“Charlotte, could you say hello first? Maybe ask me how my day is going?”

Stuart Evanson leaned back in his chair, crumpling the corners of his pin-striped suit. Why he never took the jacket off was a mystery to her. Perhaps he thought it made him look more professional being fully dressed at all times, but she suspected that he was hiding sweat stains, and was thankful that he chose to. Nothing dis

gusted her more.

“Sir, from what I can tell, your day isn’t going very well.”

“Impertinence will get you nowhere, my dear.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m not trying to get anywhere right now. I’m just bringing a significant anomaly to your atten

tion.”

“Which is?”

“If you’d look at the file, sir, I believe it will make itself quite apparent.”

Evanson gave her an unfathomable look and flipped open the file. Charlotte watched as his bushy eyebrows grew crampons and hiked into his hairline. Told you, she thought.

“Is this certain?” Evanson asked.

“Yes. The Nashville police don’t have this informa

tion.”

Evanson was obviously in a seriously bad mood. He dismissed Charlotte without pretense, already had his 94

J.T. Ellison

hand on the phone. “Get on it, then. Report back to me as soon as you have more. Fill in the field teams immedi

ately.”

“Yes, sir. Will Dr.…?” She stopped, certain of the answer. It wouldn’t do to look too anxious. Word had already come down that John Baldwin was helping the Nashville police work the Snow White killings, his field office running behind the scenes. In a peripheral way, he’d always had this case. She’d be required to work with him directly, exactly as she wanted.

“Never mind, sir. I’ll get back to you on this.” Evanson grunted, he had already tuned her out. Charlotte turned and left the inner sanctum. Damn it all to hell, what was she thinking? It was that kind of carelessness that would get her hurt. Again.

Back at her desk, she brought up the Nashville file. As Charlotte started to work, she had a deep, satisfy

ing knowledge that she was about to be a very happy woman. Call it instinct, premonition, whatever. She hadn’t planned for things to go this way, but maybe it was for the best. This was big enough for her to capture the undivided attention of Dr. John Baldwin, all right. Pull him away from that little lioness he’d attached himself to. If she played her cards right, he would come back to her. She debated with herself for a few moments. Decided she would have to get there sooner or later. She dialed the 615 area code, tapped out the rest of the numbers and chewed lightly on her pen. Her moment had arrived. Eight

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday, December 16

8:00 p.m.

Taylor nestled Martin Kimball’s boxes in back of the 4Runner and closed the door with a slam. She’d gone through the files briefly after she and Fitz returned to the office, but quickly realized that a physical search through the evidence still in storage was necessary. The paperwork and the murder books had been moved into their conference room, but the actual material evidence had to be kept in the warehouse—

checking out the individual pieces was too much of a hassle. Fitz had volunteered to go, and she’d accepted his offer. He promised to call and she decided to head home. She turned the heat on and tried to ignore the strains of Christmas carols spilling out of her speakers. As soon as her hands warmed up, she turned off the radio, but “Silent Night” had wormed its way into her mind, and she repeated the words absently in a nonreligious mantra as she drove out of downtown.

96

J.T. Ellison

“Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, all is bright.”

Yeah, she wished.

The fact that they might be missing information gnawed at her. That information could be nothing or ev

erything.

Knowing Baldwin would be hungry, she stopped at City Limits, a great New York-style deli close to home, and bought chicken Caesar salads and warm, freshly baked ba

guettes.

Once she got home, she opened a nice sangiovese, a simple inexpensive bottle they drank all the time, wondered briefly where Baldwin was, stashed the salads in the fridge and took the files and her wine to the living room. She opened the first box, set the lid on the floor and breathed in the scent she’d been nostalgic about earlier. Pipe smoke and dust. Why the aroma made her smile, she wasn’t quite sure.

She riffed through each file. Nothing new there. It was filled with the typical cold-case material—the murder book, which was really multiple binders, ten of them, one for each murder; folders of photos; copies of the evidence sheets. She went through those with care, searching for a mention of the signet ring. She found it, on murder number ten, Ellie Walpole. It was just as Kimball had said. In his neat handwriting, a detailed description of a gold signet ring.

She cross-referenced it with her file. The page was not there. It didn’t mean anything—something like that could go missing easily. One piece of paper among five thousand. It had happened before.

After an exceptionally close reading of the autopsy reports, she found references to the bald patches on the 14

97

back of the women’s heads. It hadn’t been deemed very im

portant.

Taylor knew it was probably Snow White’s souvenir. Many killers take a token with them—a license, panties, something symbolic to treasure, to remind them of their kills. To help them relive the actual crime. There hadn’t been anything reported missing from Snow White’s victims. But a lock of hair from each kill would make a grand prize indeed.

Taylor stood, impatient, circling the couch with the wineglass in her hand, pacing, thinking. She glanced at her watch, wondering when Fitz would call. The evidence warehouse could be a time/space vortex if one wasn’t careful. Looking for something as small as a signet ring might be completely unfeasible. If the ring was actually gone, not simply misplaced, then they had a problem. She looked out the front window, took a lap around the downstairs, poured another glass of wine, then sat back on the couch. She continued going through the files, matching hers to the originals. There were a few other pieces missing, but for the most part, it was all there. The one thing that was in Kimball’s files that wasn’t in the main files was his notes. Sheet after sheet filled with his neat hand, speculation, ideas, drawings and doodles. Every ounce of paper that he’d generated over the course of eight years was included. Taylor read through them. She admired his thoroughness but found nothing else of note. All the rest was consistent with the files she had. The phone rang, and she jumped up to answer it. Fitz grumbled in her ear. “I’m covered in dust. There’s no ring.”

“Are you sure?”

98

J.T. Ellison

“Absolutely positive. There’s no ring in any of these boxes. Trust me, I went through one hundred and fortythree of them.”

“That’s what I was worried about. The page that would show it isn’t in the official files, either. Damn it, Fitz, why?”

“Little girl, it may be something as simple as one of the evidence jockeys took a shine to it, and figured after all these years, why let such a pretty thing go to waste. It’s happened before, you know that.”

“Why do I get the feeling that isn’t the case? This ring has something that can lead us back to the killer, I can just feel it.”

She heard the garage door go up. “Hey, Baldwin’s home. Let’s talk about this in the morning, okay? Fitz, thank you for doing that. I appreciate you spending your evening in dust.”

“Yeah, you owe me a beer. Tell the fed I said hi.”

“See you.” She hung up the phone, went to meet Baldwin in the kitchen. He was shrugging out of his shoulder holster, balancing a Starbucks cup and his brief

case in one hand and a bundle of roses in the other. He jumped when she entered the room.

“Hey, turn your back. I’ve got something you aren’t supposed to see yet.”

“I already saw them. You got me flowers? Aren’t you the sweetest man alive?”

“Oh, trust me, I’m sweeter.” He handed her the roses, white and red, intertwined with brick-colored gerbera daisies. She took them with her left, used her right to help him unhook from the leather harness.

“Special occasion?”

14

99

“Do I need a special occasion to bring flowers to my almost wife?”

“No, of course not.” She dropped the holster on the counter and buried her nose in the flowers. “Mmm, they smell great. I better get them in some water. Where’d you find gerberas this time of year?”

“A man must protect his secrets.”

She rolled her eyes at him, eliciting a laugh. It was all so comfortable, it didn’t feel right. She got the flowers into water, set them thoughtfully on the kitchen table. Baldwin watched her; she felt his eyes on the back of her neck. Jesus, what was wrong with her?

“How was your day?”

“Other than the fact that we’re missing a piece of evidence from the Snow White case? The old cases, I should say.”

“What kind of evidence?” He opened the refrigerator.

“Oh, good, you got dinner.”

“Like I’d let you starve.”

They bustled around the kitchen, getting their salads on plates, buttering bread, pouring wine, and Taylor told Baldwin about her afternoon. He listened with sympathy until she asked about his day. They sat on the floor in the living room, their plates on the coffee table, their backs propped with pillows, and talked while they ate. When they were settled and Taylor was a few bites into her salad, Baldwin answered her question.

“Well, it was interesting, I’ll say that. Tomorrow might be a little crazy.”

She just raised an eyebrow. As if anything could be crazier in this case, in their lives.

“Charlotte Douglas is coming to town.”

100

J.T. Ellison

“And she would be…?”

“FBI Special Agent Charlotte Douglas. She’s a profiler. Deputy chief of the unit.”

“Well, that’s not unexpected. Are you going to be able to run interference?”

“She’s coming to see you, actually. And bringing one of her forensics team. They have the DNA results.”

Taylor let her fork rest in the romaine, shaking her head at that statement.

“Why the hell haven’t they called and given us the in

formation? Or faxed the report over, at the very least. What’s the big deal? It’s either Snow White or it’s someone else.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the problem with Charlotte. She’s a bit of a…how do I put this nicely? She’s a drama queen. She wants to swoop in and break the case. She wouldn’t give me the information, either. I told her how unprofes

sional she was being, but she told me to go to hell.”

“Why am I getting the feeling that there’s more to this?”

“Because you’re a very astute, brilliant, beautiful woman who’s made the incredibly intelligent choice to marry me on Saturday.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

Baldwin shifted. Taylor leaned away from him, plunged her fork into a piece of chicken and fed it into her mouth, watching him struggle with an answer as she chewed.

“So you slept with her. When?”

Baldwin tried for a chagrined smile. “Long before you, I’ll tell you that. Taylor, you have to understand, she means nothing to me. It was a thing, a heat-of-the-moment kind 14

101

of situation. She’s a viper. A true bitch. I hate her, if that makes you feel better.”

“Why do I get the sense that Miss Charlotte doesn’t hate you?”

“Fair enough. There may be some tension with this. I’m sorry. She’s a piece of work, and the minute you meet her, you’ll understand why I’m with you and not with her. Will you trust me on that?”

“Of course. It’s not like I expected you to come to our marriage bed a virgin.”

She got up, picked up her plate and went into the kitchen. Baldwin followed.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Taylor set her dish down on the counter, carefully con

sidering that question. Of course she was okay. My God, they were adults. It wasn’t like Baldwin was her first. But leaning against the counter, watching him watch her, it struck her how little she really knew about him. He was a compli

cated man, layer upon layer of self-containment. They’d just never delved too deeply into “Who have you fucked?”

She pushed away from the granite, gave him a half smile. “I’m fine. It’s funny, actually. I never saw myself as the jealous type.”

“I like it. Makes me feel wanted.” Baldwin put a hand lightly on her chest and pushed her back to the ledge. He nuzzled in close, insinuating his legs between hers. She reacted, slipping back onto the counter, wrapping her legs around his lean hips and accepting his kiss.

“It’s late,” she murmured when they came up for air.

“So it is.” He picked her up, walked her backward into the living room, set her on the couch and followed her body down. “So it is.”

102

J.T. Ellison

* * *

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang, jarring them out of a cramped sleep on the couch. Taylor fumbled the phone to her ear.

“Taylor Jackson? This is Frank Richardson. Late of the Tennessean. ”

“I don’t have any comment…. Oh, wait. You’re the reporter from the old Snow White cases. Sorry. I didn’t think you were back until tomorrow.”

“I’m not, really. I had a layover scheduled in New York so I could visit a friend, but he’s come down with the flu and I’m stuck at JFK. It’s 7:00 a.m. my body time—I’ve been in France for the past few weeks. Am I calling too late?”

It’s never too late for murder, she thought.

“No, no. Just give me a moment, okay?”

She set the phone down, disentangled herself from Baldwin, who sleepily opened his eyes and happily closed them when she shook her head, telling him he wasn’t needed immediately. More and more, the late-night phone calls were strictly for Taylor’s benefit. She slipped her sweater on, dragged the afghan off the back of the couch. It trailed behind her like a security blanket as she moved into the kitchen with the phone. She sat at the table, pulled the afghan around her legs. It had grown chilly; the fire in the hearth was nearly out.

“Sorry, Mr. Richardson. Caught me off guard.”

“No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Didn’t know you cop types ever slept.”

“Yeah, we’re regular vampires.”

He laughed. “Seriously, I figured you’d want to talk to 14

103

me as soon as you could. I can’t believe this has come up again. And call me Frank.”

“You and me both, Frank.” She reached over the back of her chair and pulled a yellow notepad from the phone desk, set it on the table in front of her. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

“I’m ready. Shoot.”

She racked the balls, taking shot after shot, trying to sort through the hour’s worth of information Frank Rich

ardson had given her.

He’d known about the signet ring.

He’d known about the hunks of hair ripped from the victims’ heads.

He had theories about the killer, about why he’d stopped, that were incredibly sound, very credible. He had his own speculations about who the killer might be. Most were similar in scope to the theories postulated by the homicide team. They ranged from a teacher at one of the girls’ schools to a sexual predator who’d been killed in jail. All had been explored and ruled out. But it was a word he’d used, an offhand remark, that kept coming back to Taylor. The moment she heard the term, she knew she wouldn’t sleep again that night. Frank wasn’t even talking about the case, he was recounting a moment in Caprese, the hometown of the painter and sculptor Michelangelo Buonarroti. Frank and his wife were touring the tightly winding streets and their guide spoke of a Florentine painter named Domenico Ghirlan

daio, who worked with the young Michelangelo before he turned to sculpture and the eventual patronage of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Michelangelo went on to greatness, but, for a 104

J.T. Ellison

time, he was a novice, learning the ropes, his natural talent shaped by the great men around him.

He was an apprentice.

Nine

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday, December 16

10:30 p.m.

“Can I get you another Corona, Jane?”

Jane Macias looked at the clear bottle, the lime shoved through the neck. Maybe another sip left. “Yes, please, Jerry.”

“Sure thing, kid.”

The bartender moved toward the cooler situated to his right, plunged his hand into the ice and pulled another beer free. He snapped the lid off and placed the bottle in front of Jane, then slipped a thinly cut lime wedge into the neck for her.

“Voilà.”

“Who knew you were so worldly, Jerry? Thanks.” She smiled warmly at the older man. He’d been nice to her, not prying, not hitting on her, just serving her beer and leaving her alone, which was what she wanted. Jane went back to her book. There was something hor

106

J.T. Ellison

rifying about sitting alone in a bar reading, but she needed the break and the beer was half price tonight. Her roommate’s gargantuan linebacker boyfriend had come over—a benchwarmer for the Tennessee Titans, and Jane knew there would be no rest in their cramped apartment tonight. So she’d grabbed a novel off the bookshelf and headed down here, two blocks and a lifetime away from her normal haunts.

She’d been slipping into the bar next door to the VIBE

strip club more and more often lately. Called Control, it was quiet, usually empty, and there was something homey in the atmosphere. Granted, next door the music throbbed and the lights flashed while not-so-beautiful women slid up and down the stage in five-inch Lucite platforms, but hey, it could be worse. She could be the one up on the stage. Instead, Jane sat in the semidarkness of the anony

mous R-rated bar next door, feeling warm and fuzzy as she sipped cool beer and forced the noise from her mind. The clientele was good for the mental novel she was writing, anyway—she needed a fictional population and she cer

tainly was exposed to it here.

Control gave her the added advantage of anonymity. People from work and from her apartment building wouldn’t be likely to frequent this place. It was nice to know she could be alone. Though Jerry knew her first name, the place turned over so many times during the course of an evening that there were rarely faces present for an entire night. People peeked in after leaving VIBE

next door to see if anything was hopping, but not a lot decided it was worth their time to stay. She should have found a nice coffee shop to hang out in; there was a Starbucks right around the corner, but Skip would find her 14

107

there. He’d never in a million years venture anywhere near this bar, housed in the same building as the sin factory.

Skip Barber. Poor sap. A struggling songwriter, he followed Jane around Nashville thinking she was going to make it big time. When she professed the desire to just go to work, not land a recording contract, Skip thought she was kidding.

He’d seen her in a weak moment, down at Tootsie’s, tipsy and singing karaoke like her life depended on it. Jane’s voice was sweet and true, built for the microphone. She’d been told several times since she made her way to Nashville that she should pay her dues and become the next Julie Roberts or Faith Hill. Jane just smiled and nodded. She didn’t want to be a singer, she wanted to be a writer. She had no desire to be on the stage, was more than content to have her words on the page, read by others. A singer? Hell, no. She was a writer. She aspired to a Pulitzer. She wanted to win a George Polk. She wanted to turn the world upside down with her insights. She didn’t care that the printed word was supposed to be dead. That the Internet had blown traditional journal

ism, that people went to their computers for news instead of the paper. That didn’t matter. She could always find a way to present a story.

That’s why she’d taken the job at the Tennessean. It used to be one of the last bastions of pure investigative journalism. Tennessean reporters Nat Caldwell and Gene Graham had won a Pulitzer, taking on the United Mine Workers. David Halberstram and Tom Wicker had worked there. John Seigenthaler had been the publisher for many years. They were great men to emulate.

108

J.T. Ellison

But Skip, well, he wanted her to go for it, become a re

cording artist. Like hell she would. She kept telling him to go home, to leave her and his dreams for her alone, but Skip was still convinced he could change her mind. He’d write the words and she’d sing them. They’d go on to glory and fame. As if.

Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the LED

display. God, it was him. Would he never take the hint?

She ignored the call, not in the mood to deal with the man. She just wanted to read quietly, just for a couple more hours.

She’d just gotten lost in her book when a group of women blew into the joint, all smiles and flash. Bachel

orette party from next door, Jane thought. On a Tuesday night, too. When did it become au courant for women to go to a strip club for a bachelorette party? Eyeing the room, the leader of the group, a tall, well-shaped brunette, spied three chairs free near Jane’s hideout. Well, crap. The three tipsy celebrants made their way over, weaving a bit. Obviously not their first stop of the evening. They fumbled to the stools and clambered in, shouting and whooping like they’d never been allowed out of doors before. The leader called for Jerry.

“’Scuse me, bartender? We need some drinks down here.”

She turned and eyed Jane, her dark eyes cool. Jane could see the thought process. Competition? Nope. Jane was dismissed after a moment without a second glance. Good.

But they were loud and drunk, and Jane couldn’t help but hear the conversation going on.

The middle woman, the bride, it looked like, was 14

109

drunker than her friends. When Jerry attended the group, she leaned over the bar, fake tiara sliding off her straw

berry-blond curls, and brayed, “Hey. Din’t you used to be on Gilligan’s Island? ”

Her cadre cracked up, and Jerry, who was a bit of a ringer for Bob Denver, rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“What can I get you ladies?”

The bridesmaid on the left, an anorexic bottle-blonde with roots showing, announced they would be having cosmopolitans.