by J. D. Robb
“Yes,” he agreed, “and that would sit better.”
“Probably with both of us. But this agreement keeps HSO’s involvement minimal. It keeps me in charge. They could have moved in, tried to muscle away the whole shot. And while we were playing tug-of-war …” Her eyes went to the boards again.
He said nothing for a moment, only drank some coffee. Then frowned at the mug. “Why won’t you stock your regular in this thing? It’s not as if you don’t have an unlimited supply of bloody coffee. Word is you married me for it.”
And with that, she understood the crisis had been averted. “I don’t want to spoil my men.”
“You’d rather burn all our stomach linings away.”
“Cops’ guts are tougher than that.” She smiled. “Civilians’ may be more delicate.”
He stepped to her, flicked a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Then you’ll perfectly understand why I’ve ordered food in for the briefing.”
“You—”
“Have you eaten since breakfast? I thought not,” he said when she only frowned at him. “I’ll drink your deplorable cop coffee, you’ll eat my food. And we’ll get on.”
“We’ll get on if it’s pizza.”
“I know my cop.”
Yes, he did, she thought. “I talked to Mira.”
He took her hand now, held it.
“I don’t like the way you maneuvered me into it, even if you were right.”
He laughed at that, kissed the hand he held. “I love you, Eve. Every contrary inch.”
“I’m working it out, and I don’t want you to worry. I feel … lighter,” she decided. “I can’t talk about it now.”
“No need. Feeling lighter is enough.”
“I just want you to know, I’m getting a grip on it. I’ve got to put it away, get back to this.” She took a breath. “And I’m going to keep doing that. Putting it away, where it belongs, and getting on with who I am, what I am, what we are. You need to do the same.”
“I’m with you, Lieutenant.”
“Then I’ll bring Peabody back.” She reached for her comm just as the knock sounded on the door.
“That’s probably the food. I’ll take care of it.” Roarke walked to the door.
When it came to food, she thought, cops had noses like blood-hounds. She put her comm away, watched Peabody trot in behind the delivery team.
Then Jenkinson, Baxter, Reineke.
“Let them set it up, for Christ’s sake, before you swarm it like locusts. And leave some for the rest. Peabody.”
Looking mildly concerned she might qualify as “the rest,” and miss out, Peabody hurried over. “Most of us missed lunch.”
“I’m aware. We have an addition to the team,” Eve began, and laid it out.
Peabody’s face settled into stubborn lines that slid into a sulk. “I don’t like her.”
“You haven’t laid eyes on her.”
“I don’t care, and Teasdale’s a pussy name. A prissy pussy name.”
“Really? And Peabody’s a name that makes bad guys shiver in fear?”
“If they know what’s good for them. Besides, she’s HSO, and that makes her a prissy pussy in a bad black suit.”
Well, Eve thought, her partner had the suit right. “Deal with it, and her. Now grab a slice, then finish the board.”
She started to grab one herself but moved off when someone called her away. Instead, she found a reasonably quiet corner and began her run on Jeni Curve.
She saw Teasdale come in, take her time crossing the room. The HSO agent would have to weather the flat, suspicious looks.
“Agent Teasdale. You’re welcome to fight for a slice of the pie.”
“Thank you. I’ve eaten.”
“Suit yourself. Have a seat.”
When Whitney and Tibble came in, the noise level dropped by half.
“We’ll start in a few minutes, Chief, Commander. Most of the team didn’t manage lunch today.”
“I didn’t manage it myself,” Tibble told her. “It smells good.”
“Please, help yourselves.”
As they did just that, Eve turned and nearly walked into Teasdale. The woman moved like a cat, one with considerably less bulk than Galahad.
“Problem?” Eve asked her.
“No. I wondered if your AutoChef is stocked with tea, and if so, if I might impose.”
“There’s some herbal crap in there. Dr. Mira prefers it.”
“Doctor Charlotte Mira.” Interest kindled on Teasdale’s face. “I’ve studied much of her work. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“She’ll be here. And Teasdale?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“If you’re working in the room, whatever’s in the AC’s up for grabs. You don’t have to ask.”
“Thank you.”
Teasdale moved away. The cops in the room evaded and avoided, aimed suspicious stares at her back.
“It seems I’m not the only one who has an issue with HSO.”
Roarke was another who moved like a cat. Eve merely shrugged. “They’ll suck it up.”
When Strong from Illegals stepped in, Eve crossed to her. “It’s good to see you, Detective.”
“I appreciate the assignment. I’ve been on light duty long enough.”
“You still favor the leg,” Eve pointed out.
“Some, but it holds.”
She’d lost weight as well since her injuries. A header down a glide while being chased by a fellow cop who planned to kill you tended to screw up the appetite. “Your new LT working out?”
“He’s good. Anything’s an improvement over Oberman, may she rot in her cage for the rest of her miserable life. But he’s good. Solid. The squad feels like a squad now that we swept the dirt out.”
“Grab some pizza and a chair. We’ll get started.”
She waited until she had the full team in the room, noted that Teasdale introduced herself to Mira, and took a seat beside the doctor. And that, as was his habit, Roarke opted to lean against the wall rather than sit.
“As you’ve been informed,” Eve began, “we have a consultant from HSO. Agent Teasdale will be given access to all case files, reports, and data, and will share any data she acquires during the course of her consult.
“Between twelve-fifty-five and thirteen hundred this afternoon the occupants of Café West were exposed to the same chemical substance identified at On the Rocks. The ME and lab have confirmed. There are forty-four additional dead. The smaller venue, and the quick response by patrol officers resulted in more survivors. Jenkinson, Reineke.”
“We talked to some survivors and wits on scene,” Jenkinson began. “The uniforms stunned anybody who advanced, and that kept them breathing. Most of them were dazed, not yet lucid. Some of the injuries were severe, and we lost a couple more as a result.”
“We talked to some of the injured at the hospital.” Reineke picked up the report. “The ones who were able to remember mentioned the onset of a headache followed by hallucinations, anger, fear. It’s a resplay, LT.”
“We got Lydia McMeara examined, as ordered,” Jenkinson told her. “She’s got mild inflammation, nose and throat. They ran her blood. She’s got some trace of the chemical. She was jittery, Dallas, but it’s hard to tell if that’s the chemical or shock. One of the women she was with, Brenda Deitz, is in the morgue. The other’s in the hospital, in critical.”
“We got two survivors …” Reineke gestured to the board, got Eve’s nod. He rose, walked to the board with IDs of survivors.
“Patricia Beckel and Zack Phips. Each stated they’d known someone who was killed yesterday. On further questioning, Beckel identified her neighbor Allison Nighly, and Phips a coworker, Macie Snyder. We pursued with five more survivors. Three of those knew a total of seven of the dead or injured from the bar. The remaining four survivors were in surgery or unable to be questioned. We’ll follow that up.”
“So out of the eight survivors you were able to question
on this point, five had a connection to one or more victims from the first incident.”
“Yeah, that’s more’n half, Loo. I call bullshit on coincidence.”
“I second that bullshit. Keep on it. Following that theme. Baxter?”
“We’ve been doing the cross, employment, relations, residence. Survivors, vics, wits, persons of interest. Our boy Trueheart made a graph.”
“It’s more of a spreadsheet.” Trueheart, young and built in his uniform, flushed a little. “There’s a lot of cross, Lieutenant, like you figured. I programmed it so it’s easier to see. Peabody loaded it if you want it on screen.”
“I do. Peabody.”
When it flashed on, Eve rocked back on her heels as she scanned. “Run the numbers, Trueheart.”
“Sir?”
“Run it through. Explain.”
He looked a little ill, but he rose, took the laser pointer she handed him. “We’ve grouped them by type—DB, wit, survivor, POI. We cross that with places of employment and residence. An additional cross with relations. We highlighted areas of connection—blue for employment, green for residence, yellow for relationships.”
“It’s colorful,” Eve commented.
“Yes, sir. We anticipated considerable employment connections as both scenes catered to the offices in that area. And as you suggested, there’s also additional matches with residences. The numbers drop off with relationships, but as you can see there are crosses there, too. The highest percentage of connections involve Stevenson and Reede for place of business, excluding the crime scenes themselves, sir. For residence, the highest percentage of connection ranges along this block of Franklin. A probability scan has a sixty-eight-point-three the target or targets and/or perpetrator or perpetrators work or worked in, um, the highlighted triangulation.”
He cleared his throat. “With more time, I think I can eliminate some of the connections and refine the results.”
“Do that.” Geography, she thought again. Geography and relationships. “Give Feeney a copy. I want this transferred to a board we can work on. That’s good work, Trueheart, Baxter. Feeney, will you run the EDD report?”
She stepped away, pulled out her ’link when it signaled, then slipped out of the room.
When she came back, Feeney had several ID shots on screen.
“We don’t need all of them,” she told him. “Just her. Just Jeni Curve.”
Feeney’s eyes narrowed. “You got something.”
“She’s the source. I asked Morris to do a secondary exam on her and the others you’ve got up there. Curve’s tox levels were significantly higher than the other vics, the inflammation more pronounced. At this time forensics is testing her clothing, and the minute pieces of glass recovered from her jacket pocket.
“Morris has also determined that Macie Snyder, a vic from the first incident, exhibits those same elevated levels. Her clothing is also being examined at this time. She was the source on the first.
“Peabody, bring up Trueheart’s chart again.”
“Yes, sir. There’s no connection between them,” Peabody said when the data was on screen.
“Yeah, there is. It’s just not highlighted yet. We’ll use red for the killer. It fits. Replay Curve’s security image. Walking into work. Stops, smiles, waves, calls out what lip-reading program makes out as No prob. I’ll put it in for you. He gave her the substance—a vial, a little bottle. Or slipped it into her pocket without her noticing. Either way, she didn’t have a clue. Maybe he asks her to order him a sandwich, a bowl of soup, whatever. Has to run next door or across the street for a minute. She knows him, she’s served his lunch plenty of times. No prob. I’ll put it in for you.”
“But CiCi Way, the friend who survived the first attack, didn’t say anything about Snyder being approached,” Peabody began. “Wait. Bumped into someone at the bar. She said Macie bumped into somebody at the bar.”
“Crowded, talking, bump—easy to drop it into her pocket. He’s ballsy,” Eve observed. “He’s plenty ballsy. Unseal or open the container, drop it into a pocket, walk away. The couple minutes he’s exposed in the bar—if that long—doesn’t worry him.”
She lifted her eyebrows when Teasdale raised her hand. “Agent?”
“I would like to know the nature of the substance. Has your lab fully identified it, or—”
“We have it. Peabody, put up the lab report.”
When it came up—all those long, strange scientific names, all the odd symbols, Teasdale folded her hands in her lap, studied and nodded.
“I see. Concentrated, and with the synthetic … But it would require … Hmm. Yes, I believe I see. I’d like to have a copy of this formula, and any data pertaining to it. I assume you’ve verified my security clearance.”
“You assume correctly. Peabody, copy the nerd file for Agent Teasdale. No offense.”
Again, that slight smile. “Absolutely none taken. As you appear to be both efficient and thorough, I assume you know the genesis of this formula.”
“Revelation, Six,” Eve said coolly. “So HSO is aware.”
“I can’t verify this formula is in HSO’s files, but can verify a substance containing much of these elements, and some which were not identified at the time it was discovered, has been documented. I’ve studied what was available to me.”
“Care to share with the rest of the class?”
“Red Horse. Hard data on the cult, and the man suspected of using this substance has been classified. Above my clearance. I am, however, well versed in the history and culture of the cult. To believe the use in these two incidents of the same formula used in the name of Red Horse during the Urban Wars is coincidence would be, as Detective Reineke succinctly put, bullshit. Therefore, there must be a connection between these incidents and those. Though the details are buried, and most—again to my knowledge—were destroyed before the end of the war.”
“We agree on the bullshit.”
“I can and will request authorization to access more data.”
“Do that. Meanwhile, Detective Callendar’s been looking for that connection.”
“I’ve got names,” Callendar reported. “Names of people known to be or suspected to be members or associated with Red Horse. Names of children reported abducted. Names of those recovered, and those unrecovered. I’m working on crossing those names with our vics, wits, and those connections. It’s not finding the needle in the haystack, Lieutenant, it’s finding the right sliver of hay in the stack.”
“Here I could help,” Teasdale stated. “Authorization will take time, even with Director Hurtz’s backing. But on this I can be useful now. If Detective Callendar is agreeable.”
Callendar glanced at Dallas, got the nod. “Yeah, sure.”
“What about chatter?”
“We’re monitoring that,” Callendar told Eve. “We’ve got some excitement from the sickos, but nothing that mentions Red Horse, nothing that claims credit.”
“Keep at it. Detective Strong, progress?”
“It’s the mix,” Strong began. “The peyote, the mushrooms. They’re natural substances and easy to come by. And they’re old school so not a lot of dealers bother with them. In the mix, it’s the LSD and the Zeus that have the better potential to track. I’m tugging some lines, poked at a couple of my weasels. A significant buy of LSD would pop. It’s not a popular illegal. None of my sources know anything about a major buy. I think he’s cooking it.”
“If so,” Teasdale commented, “he’d need equipment; a safe, private area, preferably a lab, and a strong knowledge of chemistry. It’s a dangerous recipe.”
“If he got his hands on the formula, he doesn’t have to know much chemistry,” Strong argued. “No more than your average chem cook. But the ingredients mean he needs funding and contacts. He’d need ergotamine tartrate—according to my research. That would flag, too—unless he sourced it outside the U.S. Belize is a popular source, and one of the lines I’m tugging.”
“He’d require reagents, sol
vents, hydrazine—”
“Tugging those lines,” Strong repeated. “Maybe he’s a chemist, or works in a lab. But if the recipe for the substance was passed on, the recipe for LSD could have been passed on, too.”
“Could you make it?” Eve asked Teasdale.
“Yes, but I have an advanced degree in organic chemistry.”
“Degree or not, he’s got motivation. We’ll cross-check our names with chemistry degrees, or education. Doctor Mira, do you have anything to add to the profile?”
“I find it interesting that in both cases the killer chose a woman as delivery vessel. If, as seems most probable, neither woman knew his intentions, he used women as both dupe and weapon. She’s the means, and as first exposed, the first infected. It would follow she’d be the first to attack.”
“Probability would be high,” Eve added, “she’d be one of the first to die.”
“Logically, yes. He enjoys using women. If he’s in a relationship she would be subservient to him, the one assigned to do the menial chores. It’s unlikely he’s abusive physically. His violence is internal, even intellectual. In his work, he would resent women who are in positions of authority. He connives rather than confronts.”
“And treats females under him as tools?” Eve suggested. “Hey, honey, would you mind getting me some coffee? I didn’t get to the dry cleaner. Take an extra ten for lunch and pick up my suits.”
“Yes. Jeni Curve smiled at him—a genuine, easy smile. He coats his demands with charm. He may reward with little gifts, large tips. I’d look for someone whose mother or mother figure was quiescent, a professional mother with no outside career, or a low-level job. Whose father or father figure was dominant, ambitious, very likely ruthless in his career. There’s no political, social, or religious agenda here, or he—or the group he represents—would have issued a statement. This is a personal mission.”
She spread her hands. “His connection to Red Horse may be through family. A parent or grandparent in the military, or who belonged to the cult at one time.”