The coffee was still warm when they broke the door down.
That was the first thing Inspector Severin noted as he stepped into the office: the cup on the edge of the desk, a thin ribbon of steam rising from it. The man who had drunk half of that coffee was slumped back in his chair, head tipped up, and would not be drinking the rest.
Arkady Lvovich, editor-in-chief. The same man who, at yesterday's meeting, had promised to "fire half the floor by Friday" — and had smiled while saying it.
"The door was locked from the inside," the security guard said, not looking at the body. "I broke it myself. The key's still in the lock. On the inside."
Severin nodded without answering. The window — seventh floor, latched shut. One camera in the corridor, and it had, how convenient, "been down since lunch."
On the desk, beside the cup, lay a sheet of paper. A list of six names in the dead man's neat hand. The top one was struck through with a heavy line. The other five were waiting their turn.
Severin took out his notebook. According to the guard, six people had stayed in the building that night. Six names on the list. He had distrusted coincidences since his cadet days.
"Bring them in," he said. "One at a time. And nobody leaves the building."
He looked once more at the crossed-out line and added, quietly, almost to himself:
"One of you really didn't want to be on this list tonight."
