44 Delusion in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “I’ll be sure not to sit in one of the chairs. Just in case.”

  “Yeah. You wander. I’ll start on this ’link and comp.”

  Roarke moved into the master bedroom where Reineke and Jenkinson were already systematically going through the closet, the bureau.

  Callaway chose gray here, Roarke thought. Every shade of gray from palest smoke to deepest slate. He supposed Callaway read gray soothed, and was this season’s hot color choice, when in reality, in this unrelieved palette, it depressed.

  Might as well kill somebody, Roarke mused.

  “Must be like sleeping in a fog bank,” Reineke commented. “Can’t see a guy getting lucky in here.”

  “I’d say being fashionable is more important to him than getting laid,” Roarke suggested.

  Reineke just shook his head. “Sick fuck.”

  Amused, Roarke moved toward the closet and Jenkinson.

  “Got plenty of clothes. Shoes never been worn. Everything all nice and tidy.”

  “Mmm.” Roarke studied the space, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Then moved out again to roam into the master bath.

  White here, oyster, snow, cream, ecru, ivory. A huge white urn of flowers in autumn shades added some color and texture, but like the rest, the room felt done. Coldly done.

  As a boy, he remembered, in his B&E days, he’d enjoyed this part of the job. The wandering, the getting a sense of who lived in the space, how they lived. He’d learned a bit about how the wealthy lived—what they ate, drank, wore.

  For a street rat with nothing, it had been a world of wonders over and above the take.

  He learned how Callaway lived as he went, and wasn’t surprised when Reineke announced, “No sex toys or enhancements, no skin mag discs, no porn.”

  “Sex isn’t one of his interests.”

  “Like I said, sick fuck.”

  The bedroom was for sleeping, Roarke determined. For dressing, undressing. Not for entertaining, not for work. For sleep and show should he have guests. Rarely guests here, Roarke mused as he moved out, and into the office.

  “Here now,” he murmured.

  This was the hub. Energetic colors to stimulate the senses. Too many, and the hues too harsh, but here was a feel of movement, of activity, of living.

  An important desk of glossy black facing the privacy-screened windows, an important chair of bold orange leather mated to it.

  The first-rate D&C center—yes, he’d have a look at that. The long, deep sofa in hard green, deep blue tabletops, a dizzying pattern on the rug, art in those same colors, splashed and streaked and framed in black.

  Except for one, he noted. A moody and rather lovely painting of Rome. The Spanish Steps on a sun-washed afternoon.

  As he found it the only really tasteful item he’d seen thus far, he walked over, examined it, looked behind it, checked the frame, the backing.

  Finding nothing, he put it back on the wall.

  Comfortable enough, Roarke decided. A mini AC and Friggie. He could settle in here, have what he needed.

  He opened a double-doored closet, smiled. Shelves of office supplies, extra discs, even a small unit for washing dishes.

  “A bit shallow, aren’t you, and a fairly recent addition here?”

  He crouched, studied the underside of the shelves, the sides, then patiently removed some of the supplies. Gave the back wall a few knocks.

  “Ah. Yes.”

  He imagined Callaway considered himself cagey and clever to have installed the false wall, the shelves. And they might have fooled a casual observer, a cleaning crew or a very sloppy search. It took him under three minutes to find and access the mechanism. Released, the shelves pivoted out, opening the small room beyond.

  And here, Roarke thought, here, he’d brewed up death.

  Mushrooms sealed in jars, seeds, chemicals, powders, liquids—all meticulously labeled. While tiny, the lab appeared carefully laid out and supplied. For one purpose, Roarke thought. Burners, petri dishes, mixers, a microscope, and a small, powerful computer—all fairly new, he saw, all top of the line.

  He found the old journal, its cover cracked and faded, paged through it. Crouched again, he opened the lid of a storage box, nudged through photos, more journals, clippings, a tattered Bible, and what he recognized as a manifesto—handwritten, and signed by Menzini.

  He stepped out, walked across the hall. “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.”

  He got out of their way, went back into the living area.

  “Nothing on this unit,” Feeney said. “Bastard barely used it.”

  “This area’s for show. There’s a small laboratory behind a false wall in the office closet.”

  As Roarke spoke, Feeney’s head came up like a wolf scenting a bloodied sheep. “If I remember the formula correctly, all the necessaries are there, as well as journals, the formula itself clearly written in one, and what appear to be more recent, handmade notes. There are photographs, and Menzini’s personal manifesto. And a computer which will likely prove more interesting than that one.”

  “Got the fucker.”

  “It seems so. I’ll call the lieutenant, let her know.”

  “Tell her we’ll bring everything in. She can start wrapping him up.” He started toward the office. “When we close this down, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” Roarke took out his ’link, waited for Eve to come on screen.

  “Give me something good.”

  “Would a small, secret lab with the ingredients contained in the substance, the formula for said substance, Menzini’s journal, and a computer that likely holds pertinent data be something good?”

  “Jesus. Jesus, you’re going to get so much sex.”

  “Jenkinson says: ‘Hoo-haw!’”

  “For Christ’s—”

  “I’m winding you up, darling. I’m quite alone at the moment, and will happily take you up on so much sex. Do you have him in the house?”

  “In restraints. He slipped up enough I’ve charged him, and I’m about to head in to work a confession out of him, with details. You just nailed it shut.”

  “Feeney said we’ll bring everything in.”

  “Give me some details so I can use them to cook him some.”

  “The lab’s behind a false wall, lined with shelves, in his office. The journal with the formula has a leather binding—it’s faded brown leather and cracked with age, and there are notes that appear more recent and in another handwriting with the formula. There’s a storage box holding more journals, an old Bible, and a manifesto hand-written by Menzini. It’s titled End of Days.”

  “That’ll do it. Mira’s messing with him now. I’ll fill in Teasdale and Peabody, and we’ll tie it up.”

  “I’ll see you soon then.”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong? There’s a thing.”

  “Nothing, really. This place. It’s depressing. It’s a good building, has character. It’s a nice space, really, but it’s lifeless and cold. The only place I think he’s ever felt happy, perhaps ever felt normal—that is, felt himself—was that office, and that lab.”

  “He had every chance, every choice. Don’t feel sorry for him.”

  “Not at all. But I can see him here, finding himself at last in the blood and death. It’s depressing.”

  “Get the goods, get out. We can get a little drunk before the so much sex.”

  “Well now, that sounds promising. Soon, Lieutenant.” He clicked off, grinned at Reineke as the detective cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to catch that.”

  “No problem. Now you know I’m not a sick fuck.”

  Reineke snorted out a laugh. “Never figured it. So, Feeney thought you’d want to take a look at the comp. Says the data’s encrypted.”

  “Excellent. That should liven things up.”

  “Ah, maybe you don’t have to mention to the LT I happened to hear her say that business. The sex business.”

  “I think we’ll all b
e happier that way.”

  19

  Moving fast, Eve headed for Observation, contacting Whitney on the fly. “Put me through to the commander,” she snapped when she reached his admin. “Priority.”

  “One moment, Lieutenant.”

  She pushed through the doors where Peabody and Teasdale watched Mira work Callaway. “We got him.” She held up a finger as Peabody started to speak. “Commander, Callaway is currently in Interview with Mira, charged with the murders. The search team found his hole. They’re bringing in his electronics, and journals, and chemicals. They got it all.”

  “Wrap it up,” Whitney ordered. “I’m on my way.”

  “Interview A, sir,” she told him as Peabody punched her fists into the air, and Teasdale yanked out her own ’link. “I’m about to go in, finish it. I’ll contact the PA, get someone in here.”

  “Hold until I get there. Coming now.”

  “Yes, sir.” She clicked off, shot a finger up in the air again, then contacted Reo.

  “Cher Reo.”

  “We’ve got Callaway, Interview A, and enough evidence to bury him on its way in.”

  She watched the petite blonde scramble for her suit jacket. “The boss is in court. I’ll tag him now, head to you. Give me some details.”

  “We tied him to Menzini. He has the formula, the chemicals, the works in his apartment. You want more, get here fast.”

  She clicked off. “Has he said anything I can use?” she demanded.

  “He’s claiming he’s not related to Menzini, keeps asking to be allowed to contact his parents. How they’ll worry about him. Mira’s playing it soft, so he’s trying to wheedle.” Peabody took a breath. “Holy shit, Dallas. He really had everything in his apartment?”

  “With some precautions. He never believed we’d make the connection. He wasn’t worried.”

  “I’ve contacted my superior.” Teasdale replaced her ’link. “HSO will be filing federal charges. In addition to the murder charges, Lieutenant,” she added quickly. “Not in lieu of.”

  “Fine. I don’t care which cage he lives out his miserable life in.

  Here’s how it’s going to work.”

  She broke off as Whitney stepped in. “Commander.”

  He nodded, turned to study Callaway through the glass. “He looks ordinary, doesn’t he? An ordinary man in a well-cut suit.”

  “That’s his problem. He couldn’t tolerate being ordinary. That’s why he’s in there, and that’s why he’ll confess.”

  “If the formula and the items required to create the substance were in his possession,” Teasdale said, “in addition to the statements of his parents, on record, the biological connection to Menzini, a confession may be superfluous.”

  “Not for me. He’s going to say what he did. He’s going to look me in the eye and tell me what he did. Peabody, I want you to go in. Hard eye him, but don’t talk to him, don’t respond if he talks to you. Whisper to Mira we’ve got the evidence, and I’m coming in. She should keep going until I do. Go in now, stand against the wall, and look tough. It’ll add some sweat.”

  “Looking tough.” Peabody tightened her jaw, hardened her eyes as she went out.

  “I’d like a shot at him myself,” Whitney stated.

  “Commander, I’d like to keep the room unbalanced. All women, and him.”

  “Understood.”

  “I want to circle him awhile,” she said to Teasdale. “He’ll expect the direct hit, and he’s prepared for that. I’m going to dribble out what we have on him, keep hacking at his ego. Follow me?”

  “I do.”

  “Commander, if you could direct APA Reo to come in as soon as she arrives? Another woman’s going to piss him off. Ready?” she asked Teasdale.

  “Very ready.”

  Eve walked in first. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Teasdale, Agent Miyu, entering Interview. Excuse me, Doctor Mira, we’re going to have to cut you off. You’re welcome to stay, of course.”

  “This is bullshit.” Callaway jabbed a finger into the table. “As I’ve been telling Doctor Mira, you’ve obviously got me confused with someone else. I’ve never heard of this Menzini person. My maternal grandfather was a decorated military officer, Captain Edward Gregory Hubbard. I can verify that. I demand to contact my parents. It’s my right to have communication.”

  “Not once you’re charged with terrorism.” Eve shrugged as she sat. “We can hold you for forty-eight hours without communication or representation. It sucks, but that’s how it plays.”

  “If there’s been a mistake”—Mira lifted her hands—“it would save time, and any additional stress to Mr. Callaway if you arranged for his parents to come here. If you spoke with them to verify his parentage.”

  “I won’t have my family subjected to interrogation by incompetent police and witch-hunting government agents.” Callaway folded his arms. “I’ll wait. I have nothing to say for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Okay. You can just listen. We can and will run DNA tests to prove Menzini’s your grandfather.”

  “Go ahead! I welcome it.”

  “And once we do that, you’re not just cooked, you’re served up with tasty side dishes. How did you know about Red Horse?”

  Like a child, he turned his head away, stared at the wall.

  “Because it’s interesting you’d bring up Red Horse in connection with the killings as Menzini headed one of the sects during the Urbans. Menzini was a chemist, more self-taught than educated. And completely bat-shit. He created a substance that caused violent delusions, extreme paranoia. The same substance you used at On the Rocks and Café West.”

  She let it hang, said nothing. Silence ticked, ticked, ticked as she kept her gaze steady and cool on his averted face.

  He shifted in his chair. “I’m not a damn chemist. I can’t make something like that even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  “How did you know about Red Horse?”

  “My grandfather served during the Urbans. I’ve heard stories.”

  “He died before you were born.”

  “They’ve been passed down. And I’ve familiarized myself with some of the battles he was in. He fought this Red Horse cult. When you mentioned religious fanatics, that came to mind. It’s that simple.”

  “But Menzini was never mentioned in this family history?”

  “I’ve never heard the name before today.”

  “That’s pretty strange, Lew, seeing as he’s your mother’s biological father.”

  “That’s utter nonsense. If you had any brain at all, you’d have checked her birth records.”

  “Oh, I had enough brain to do that. With enough left over to ask her face-to-face.”

  Now his head came around, fast. “What did you say?”

  “It’s really more what she said. I get you didn’t want us to speak to her or your father, but, hey, I’m just bullheaded that way.”

  “Obviously you frightened and intimidated her. She’s not a strong woman. She’s frail, emotionally. You coerced her.”

  “That would be your method. Here’s the thing—the break I’m going to give you right here and now. You can keep denying knowledge, figuring when the truth comes out, you stick to being unaware. Nobody ever told you.”

  She waited a beat, gave him time to calculate. “That’s one way. Or you can admit you found out, discovered the documents your mother told me about. The shock of that sent you into a tailspin. Why, your family lied to you, and your grandfather, rather than being a decorated war hero turns out to be some homicidal lunatic mass murderer and child abductor. A religious looney on top of it. He might get mentally impaired out of that line, right, Doctor Mira?”

  “The shock alone …” Shaking her head, Mira trailed off.

  “It could work to your advantage.”

  “I want to speak with my mother.”

  “Not going to happen, Lew.”

  “A mother testifying against a son,” Teasdale said quietly. “The weight of that testimony wi
ll be great.”

  His jaw set. Eve imagined she heard his teeth grinding.

  “She’ll never agree to it.”

  “She won’t have a choice. And when we bring Menzini in—”

  “He’s dead!”

  Eve angled her head. “What makes you think that?”

  “I—I assumed.”

  Smiling, she wagged her finger. “You shouldn’t assume. He’ll tell the whole story, about your biological grandmother, the abduction of your mother, her recovery. It’s the sort of thing that might play for you, if you admit you knew—you found out and it screwed you up. APA’s on the way. I want to wrap this up, get home, have a drink. The prosecutor’s office wouldn’t like me giving you this wiggle room, however slim. Make a choice, Lew. And fast.”

  “I want to speak to someone in charge.”

  “You are. Oh, you mean a man. That’s not going to happen either. Make a choice. I know you found the box of documents. I know you learned Menzini was your grandfather. You found the formula. You’ve got a chance to come clean on that, help yourself. Or you can keep lying, and go down that way.”

  “They did lie to me.” He turned—a deliberate move—to Mira. “All my life. I could never understand why they couldn’t love me, couldn’t give me the affection a child needs. My father … He’s a violent man. The secrets in that house … I can’t speak of it.”

  All sympathy, Mira leaned toward him. “Your father abused you, physically.”

  Callaway turned his head away, managed to nod. “And in every way. She never stopped him, never tried to. My mother. But she couldn’t help it. She’s weak, and afraid.”

  “He abused her as well.”

  “She’s terrified of him,” Callaway whispered. “Of everything. We moved constantly when I was growing up. I never knew what it was to have a real home, friends, roots. Then I found that damn box, and knew why she’d never protected me. I was a constant reminder to her of what her mother had suffered—her real mother. I even look like him a little. The coloring, the build. I stepped into a nightmare.”