Delusion in Death edahr-44

by J. D. Robb

“Who,” he murmured. “It’s who I saw. I saw Jeni.”

  Eve sat back, once again leveled a stare at Teasdale. “You saw Jeni Curve. Where?”

  “Across the street, maybe a half a block—less, I think, from the café. But I’m used to seeing her around. I didn’t think about it, didn’t even retain it—or so I thought.”

  “What was she doing?”

  He closed his eyes, balled his fists. “She was talking to someone. A man. His back’s to me. I don’t see his face. He’s taller than she is. Yes, taller, broader, and wearing a black coat. He—does he give her something? I think yes, yes, she puts what he gives her in her coat pocket.”

  “What next? Think!”

  “I—I hardly paid attention. He kissed her—lightly, on both cheeks. Like a salute. He walks away, and she walks toward the café. This doesn’t seem real.”

  “Did you see him with anyone else?” Eve demanded. “Did you see where he went?”

  “I only know he walked in the same direction I was, but across the street, ahead of me. I stopped to look in a shop window, just to stall going back to the office. I didn’t see him again, or Jeni. Or any of them.”

  “Lew, I want you to think and think hard. Did you ever see Jeni Curve with CiCi Way?”

  She set both of their photos on the conference table. “Do you ever remember seeing these women together?”

  “I can’t be sure. I’d see Jeni so often—in the offices when she made deliveries, or in the café when she picked something up. Even around the neighborhood. I can’t be sure if I saw her with this other woman.”

  “You can’t link the two of them together,” Teasdale pointed out. “You’ve got Curve walking into the place she worked, and Way at the bar—with friends. You’ve got nothing that ties them to this.”

  “We push on Way again. We can take Lew in, let her see him, shake her up. Would you be willing to do that?” Eve asked him.

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Let’s go back to Curve for a minute. You saw her talking to someone just before she went in. You said you’d see her around the neighborhood. Did you ever see her with someone? With this man?”

  “I think … I think I may have. I wish I could be sure.”

  “What about when she delivered to the office? Did she spend more time with certain people than with others?”

  “Well, Steve flirted with her. He told you that himself. And she’d talk to Carly from time to time. They were close to the same age, I suppose.”

  “Not with you, particularly.”

  “No. She was just the delivery girl.”

  “Yeah, just the delivery girl.”

  “Do you think that’s why this person—this leader—used her?” Callaway widened his eyes. “She was young, susceptible. No one in particular, if you know what I mean. I imagine manipulating her, and this other woman, this CiCi, would have been easy for someone like him.”

  “Like him?”

  “As you said.” He turned to Mira. “He’s highly intelligent, organized, charismatic.”

  “We could be talking about you,” Eve said.

  He laughed, did the same wave away. “That’s flattering, but I don’t think I qualify.”

  “That’s just the tip of the profile, isn’t it, Doctor Mira?”

  “Yes. I’ve also determined that he’s a loner by nature with sociopathic tendencies. His violence is internal, rigidly suppressed. He uses others to carry out the violence.”

  “He doesn’t want to get his hands bloody,” Eve added. “He’s a coward, without the balls to kill face-to-face.”

  “I don’t want to tell you your business.” Though his face had gone stony, Callaway spread his hands, all affability. “But it seems to me by staying above the fray, he’s only demonstrating that intelligence. How will you find him if he doesn’t actively participate in the murders, if he keeps himself removed from the actual killings?”

  “He’ll make a mistake. They always do. And look at how much more you’ve been able to tell us. We know more about him.”

  “You can’t tell a civilian details like that,” Teasdale began.

  “Don’t tell me what I can do,” Eve snapped back. “We know his type, his needs. He lives alone. He has no genuine social circle and has never been able to develop or maintain a lasting relationship. He may be, likely is, impotent sexually.”

  She tossed that one in, for icing, watched a dull color stain Callaway’s cheeks.

  “He works and lives in the area he’s targeted. See, that’s a mistake right there. He should’ve spread out, but he took the easy route, targeting places and people he knew.”

  Eve rose now, wandering to the board, thumbs hooked in her front pockets. “No one particularly likes him, and the ones who pay attention see him as a fake, as a user with an inflated sense of entitlement.”

  “You said he was charismatic.”

  “That may be an overstatement. He adapts, morphs, blends, but he’s weak on social skills. It’s why he hasn’t climbed as high as he feels he deserves in his career. You know the type I’m talking about, Lew. You work with people like that. Then there’s people like your pal Joe. He had the social skills, and a willingness to go the extra mile, so he was making that climb. Slow, but steady. Or Carly Fisher. Bright, young, ambitious—more fast-tracking her way. But this guy? He’s plateaued. He isn’t moving up, getting the credit or the perks he wants. He’s been brooding about it for a long time.”

  “Again, this is your area, but I think you’re underestimating him.”

  “He’d think that. But the fact is, he’s intelligent, sure. He’s got a good brain, but he uses it more to manipulate and undermine than to produce. He’s lazy. He didn’t even come up with this plan, this agenda. Somebody else had already done all the hard work, already done it. He’s just coattailing.”

  Callaway turned aside, but not before Eve saw his jaw twitch, his mouth thin to a scissor blade. “I’m surprised to hear you describe the person who accomplished this as lazy or weak. I’m not sure how you’d describe yourselves as he’s outwitted you.”

  “Outwit, hell. This guy’s more of a lucky half-wit. He’s the stupid using the vulnerable, and that’s always full of pitfalls.”

  On the broody train, Eve thought as Callaway turned his sulky face back to hers. “How so?”

  “Sooner or later, somebody figures out they’re being used, and they turn. And you can count on the fact this guy’s going to bite off more than he can swallow.”

  “Chew,” Teasdale corrected automatically.

  “You need to swallow after you chew, right?” Eve shrugged it off.

  “The asshole’s got delusions of power and glory, but he’s nothing. He’s nobody. Just a cheap copycat.”

  “Nobody? The media’s made him a star. No one’s talking about anything or anyone else.”

  “For now. That’s how it works. Somebody else’ll come along—probably smarter and more newsworthy, and—” She snapped her fingers. “He’s over.”

  “You’re wrong. People will never forget.”

  “Come on, Lew. Once they know he’s just some lunatic, worse some religious fanatic lunatic who stumbled onto a formula cooked up by another religious fanatic lunatic, they’ll laugh.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll be laughing at you when you try to tie these accomplishments with some doomsday group like Red Horse.”

  Eve smiled. “I guess we’ll find out. But it bears out what I said. Outside of this room, I’d bet eight out of ten people never heard of, or have barely heard of Red Horse—and less than that have heard of Guiseppi Menzini. Sure, we have, but it’s our business to dig up arcane data like that. It’s interesting that you know, Lew.”

  “Know what?”

  “About Red Horse.”

  “I don’t, not really. When you brought it up as being tied to this, I remembered hearing the name.”

  “But I never mentioned Red Horse.” She sat on the edge of the table, still smiling at him. “We can p
lay the record back if you want.”

  “I simply assumed you meant that particular cult.”

  “That’s a big assumption, but it’s logical you’d make it.”

  “I simply put two and two together, but I fail to see any religious overtones in this.”

  “You’re right. There aren’t any. That was your grandfather’s deal. It’s not yours.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’ve given you all the time I can spare for now.”

  “If you try walking out that door, Lew,” Eve said mildly when he turned, “I’m going to stop you. You won’t like it.”

  “I came here to do you a favor. I’m done.”

  She laughed, not just because she wanted to, but to see that angry color deepen at the sound. “You came here because you’re an idiot. Now you’re under arrest for first-degree murder, a hundred and twenty-seven counts thereof. Agent Teasdale will also charge you with domestic terrorism, but I get first crack. You can take a seat, and we’ll talk this through, or I can cuff you and drag your ass into an interview box. You choose.”

  His voice went cold, but the heat burned in his face. “I can only conclude the pressure’s gotten to you, and you’ve lost control of yourself. You can’t arrest me. You’ve got no evidence.”

  “You’d be surprised what I have. It’s all about choices, Lew. Your next one is to sit down or try for the door. Personally, I hope you try for the door.”

  “I’ll be contacting my attorney, and your superiors. You can count on it.”

  “Please,” Teasdale added as he started for the door again.

  “Allow me.”

  “You’re the guest.”

  Teasdale sprang up, fast and quiet. When Callaway tried to push her back, she slid in, fluid as water, used a foot to tangle his, bent her body like a flower on a delicate stalk to turn his own body weight to her advantage. In a kind of pretty, flowing dance she had him on the ground, her knee against his spine, his wrists clamped in her hands.

  “Nice moves,” Eve commented.

  “Thank you, and thank you for the opportunity.”

  “No problem. Peabody, why don’t you assist Agent Teasdale and secure the prisoner in Interview A?”

  “I’ll ruin you for this! Every one of you useless bitches.”

  “Oh-oh, strong language. Golly, now I’m scared. Haul him out, Peabody. Let’s give him a little time to cool off.”

  “You’re finished!” he shouted at Eve as Teasdale and Peabody perp-walked him out. “You have no idea what I can do.”

  “Yeah,” Eve murmured, turning back to the victim board, “I do.”

  “You did well,” Mira told her.

  “I’ll have to do better yet to get it to stick. I’m counting on the search team finding something we can hang on him. Right now, I have to use his own ego and cowardice to get him to confess.”

  “You infuriated him. Switching from talking about him as intelligent, to weak, from being bogged down in the investigation to being confident. It confused him, but more it infuriated and insulted. He could control the violence he felt, but not the resentment. He couldn’t stand there and allow you to insult him, again and again.”

  “I’m not sure a replay of that will work in Interview. I’m going to push him with Menzini, the backstory.”

  “My sense is he finds the religious overtones absurd, even a little embarrassing.”

  “Yeah. I can push there. His grandfather was a fuckhead. Maybe you should take him first. Tell him you convinced me he should have the opportunity to get in touch with his insane brat of an inner child or whatever. String him out awhile—can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “It’ll give the search team more time.” She checked her wrist unit, calculated. “I’d like to trip him up with the parents, then kick him when he’s off balance with something they’ve found. He’s smart, smart enough to know when I lay it out I’ve got enough to cage him. He may want to wrangle a deal.”

  “The PA will never deal on something like this, and HSO will come at him once you’re done.”

  “Yeah, but even some guy sliding off a cliff hopes he’ll snag a handhold. Give them a couple minutes to settle him in. I want to put my boards back.”

  “One thing I found particularly telling,” Mira said. “He called two mass murders ‘accomplishments.’”

  “Yeah, I got that. Can you use it?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Me, too.”

  While Eve put her boards back in order, the search team combed through Callaway’s apartment.

  Roarke found it too trendy, far too studied, and utterly impersonal. Black, white, and silver dominated the open living area and kitchen. Occasional blots or streaks of some bold color—a purple cushion, a red tabletop, only served to accent the starkness.

  Sharp lines, he thought, cold lighting, and an array of stylish gadgets. It struck him like a photo of decor rather than a place to live.

  “Do you want to start on the electronics out here?” Feeney asked him.

  “Do you mind if I wander about a bit first, get a feel?”

  “I got a feel.” Rumpled, Feeney looked around. “Feels like a showroom display put together by somebody who’s never taken a couch nap or watched a ballgame on screen.”

  “But it doesn’t feel like somewhere you plot mass murder.”

  “What else you gonna do? Sit on one of those damn chairs for five minutes, your ass’ll be numb for a week.” Feeney sniffed at them. “Might as well kill somebody.”

  “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 h
ave 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.”