Delusion in Death

12

Weaver and Callaway had their heads together when Eve walked back in. They each gave a quick, guilty start, then shifted in their chairs.

“Don’t get up.” Eve flicked a hand, then chose a seat at their end of the table. “A couple of questions. Was it Joseph Cattery’s habit to stay later at the bar, alone?”

“I … Not that I know of,” Weaver began, glanced to Callaway.

“We grabbed after-work drinks there now and then,” Callaway stated. “Sometimes he stayed on, sometimes we left together. He was friendly with some of the regulars, so he might stay, hang with someone else.”

“You left last, Mr. Callaway. Was he with anyone else, or talking to anyone else?”

“The bartender. They always got into sports. But I didn’t notice him ‘with’ anyone, if that’s what you mean. We blew off some steam. I left. I was beat. I think I told you yesterday, he wanted another drink, made some noises about going for food, but I just wanted to get home and crash. I wish I’d taken him up on the dinner idea. We wouldn’t be here now.”

“There was nothing odd in his behavior when you left him?”

“No.” He shook his head, picked up a glass of water but didn’t drink. “I’ve thought and thought about those last few minutes, trying to remember all the little details. It was just usual, just another day. It was all small talk and shop talk. He was tired, too, but he just wasn’t ready to go home.”

She reached in her file bag, pulled out Macie Snyder’s photo.

“Did you see this woman at the bar?”

“I don’t …” His brows knitted together. “I’m not sure. She looks familiar.”

“I saw her.” Weaver took the photo. “I’ve seen her in the bar a few times. I’m sure I saw her in there yesterday.”

“Must be why she looks familiar.”

Vann angled his head. “Oh yeah. She was at a table with another woman and a couple of guys. Lots of laughing and flirting going on.”

“Okay. How about this woman?”

She offered the photo of Jeni Curve.

“Jeni,” Nancy said immediately. “She delivers for Café West. She’s up here nearly every day for someone. Was she—”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“God.” Breath hitching, Weaver squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear God.”

“Do both of you know her as well?” Eve asked the men.

“Everybody knows Jeni,” Callaway said. “She’s a sweetheart, always ready to take the extra step, always cheerful. Steve had the flirt on with her.”

“She’s dead,” Vann murmured staring at the photo. “We just got lunch from her a couple days ago. Locked in on the campaign, and she brought in our lunch order. Extra soy fries because she knows I like them. She’s dead.”

He rose, walked over, poured water. “Sorry. It just hits. I got take-out from there one night last week, walked out just as she did—off her shift. I walked her home before I caught a cab. I walked her home, and I thought about talking my way up to her place. I think she’d have been open to it. But I had to work, so I let it go. She’s dead.”

“You were interested in her?”

“She’s beautiful and bright. Was. Yeah, I thought about it that night. Long day, take-out food because it’s going to be a long night of work. And here’s this bright, beautiful woman giving me all the right signals. I thought, well, why not. An impulse thing,” he said. “But the campaign.”

“So the two of you never connected that way.”

“No. I figured, plenty of time if the mood strikes again. That’s what you think,” he said as his grieving eyes met Eve’s. “There’s always plenty of time. Time for bright, beautiful women, or for another drink with a friend from work. Plenty of time to get your boys together at the park one Saturday. Goddamn it.”

Saying nothing, Weaver rose, opened a glossy cabinet and took out a decanter. She poured two fingers of rich amber liquid, took it to Steve.

“Thanks. Thanks, Nancy. I’m sorry,” he said to Eve. “It’s just hitting me. It’s real. It happened.”

“No apology necessary. What about you, Mr. Callaway? How well did you know Jeni?”

“I liked her. Everybody did. I never hit on her, if that’s what you mean. She was the delivery girl, and I liked her, but that’s it.”

“Tell me about Carly Fisher.”

Callaway looked mildly surprised by the request. “Another bright girl. Nancy’s protégée. Creative, hardworking.”

“I’m going to have a drink, too.” Weaver went back to the decanter. “Anyone else?”

“On duty,” Eve said simply.

“Oh, right. Lew?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Would you say Carly was competitive?” Eve asked Lew.

“Sure. You can’t make it in this business without an edge. She had one. She wanted to move up.”

“Always eager to work,” Weaver added. “She’d take on anything. She liked to be busy. She pitched in with both of you.”

“Yeah.” Vann sipped his drink, stared out the window.

“And you?” Eve prompted Callaway.

“If you asked her to get something done, she got it done. Nancy trained her, so she had a strong work ethic and plenty of ambition.”

“She was going places,” Nancy said quietly. “I used to tell her she’d be running the department in ten years. Please, can’t you tell us the status? Isn’t there something you can tell us, or something we can do?”

“I can tell you we’re pursuing every angle, avenue, and lead. That this investigation is my priority, and the priority of the team of police officers under my command.”

“What leads?” Callaway demanded. “You’re asking us how well we knew the café’s delivery girl. Was she involved? And the other woman you showed us. Is she a suspect?”

“I can’t answer questions specific to the ongoing investigation.”

“We’re not just being nosy. We were at that bar, sitting with Joe. Sitting right there with … I left him there,” Callaway said, with a hint of bitterness. “I left him.”

“Oh, Lew.” Nancy reached out to lay a hand on his arm.

“I’ll never forget I left him there. Like you’ll never forget you asked Carly to get you a latte. We worked with people who died. Any one of us might have been in the café today. And what about tomorrow? I live in this neighborhood. I work here, eat here, shop here. It makes us a part of this.”

Callaway glanced at his coworkers for confirmation. “It puts us in a position where we might be able to help, if we just knew the questions that need answering.”

“I’ve asked you the questions I need answered at this time.”

“But you won’t answer ours,” Weaver pointed out. “It’s just as Lew said. You asked about Jeni, specifically. We all knew her, all interacted with her, often daily. If she was somehow involved … She moved freely through these offices. Does that mean something could happen here? Right here?”

“Jeni Curve died this afternoon,” Eve reminded her. “I will tell you security cameras verify she went into the café very shortly before the incident. Due to the timing, we’ll pursue a possible connection, and will thoroughly investigate.”

“Lieutenant.” Callaway, brows knit again, rubbed at the back of his neck. “I understand you have an excellent reputation within the NYPSD, and you have resources,” he added with a sidelong glance at Roarke. “But it feels as though you’re conducting this as if you’re dealing with a standard homicide.”

“There are no standard homicides.”

“I’m sorry.” Again, he spread his hands. “I don’t mean to make light of what you do. But this is obviously some kind of terrorism. Nancy and I were just discussing that while you were talking to Steve. She—that is we—wondered how much experience you have in that area.”

“You might ask those associated with the group formerly known as Cassandra.” Roarke spoke off-handedly, without looking up from his PPC.

Eve spared him an annoyed glance, shifted her attention back to Callaway. “I can assure you that I and my team are well trained, and with the assistance of the HSO—”

“The HSO is involved?” Nancy broke in. Eve allowed herself a brief wince.

“Their involvement in this matter is not, at this time, a matter of public record. I’d appreciate your discretion. If the perpetrators learn of this new direction, it may impede the investigation.”

She got to her feet. “This is all I can or will tell you at this time. If you think of or remember anything—any detail, however small—contact me. Your input will be given all due consideration. Otherwise, let us do our job.”

“Lieutenant.” Weaver rose as well. “The public has a right to know. Innocent people are dead, and more could die. Some warning—”

“What warning would you suggest?” Eve snapped back. “Lock yourselves in your homes? Flee the city? Expect the building where you live may be the next target. And don’t go out for any supplies before you leave or lock down because the store where you shop could be the next target? Panic’s exactly what these people want, and attention feeds them like candy. We’re going to do everything we can to avoid both. Unless and until you have something viable to offer to the investigation, I can’t give you more of my time.”

Roarke walked to the door, timed it so he opened it just as Eve reached it in a dismissive stride. Purposefully he left the doors open as they continued toward the reception area.

“You spend too much time placating people.”

“Part of the job,” she snapped out.

“A tedious one.” He paused at the glass doors. “I know you’re frustrated with the HSO involvement, but the additional resource might give you time to sleep, which you’ve barely done since this began.”

“I’ll sleep when we’ve got the bastards.” She shoved through, called for the elevator, then shoved her hands in her pockets.

They didn’t speak again until they’d reached the sidewalk.

“‘You might ask those associated with the group formerly known as Cassandra.’” She used a haughty tone, then gave Roarke a friendly elbow jab. “Good one.”

“I thought it might give you the opening to slip the HSO business in. You did want to.”

“If all, or any of them, are involved, it’ll give them something to think about.”

“And knowing they have HSO’s attention may satisfy for now, give a breather between incidents.”

“Slim chance, but I’d rather take it than not. Something’s up with those three. Together, separately, I can’t figure. But they’ve all got something going on. What the hell were you doing on that toy of yours the whole time?”

“This and that. Did you know Nancy Weaver broke off an engagement, at the age of twenty-three, only weeks before the wedding?”

“People change their minds. And twenty-three’s pretty young.”

“The breakup coincided with a change of firms—and a promotion. She did the same when she came aboard in this firm. Broke an engagement, took a new position. According to my source, she was involved with the man who held her current position. In this case, he’s the one who left. Transferred to London, and she stepped into the job.”

Now it was getting interesting. “Who’s the source?”

“I know people who know people—and part of the this and that was tugging those lines.” He opened the car door for her, smiled.

“Using sex or relationships to advance doesn’t make her a killer.”

“No, but it does make her a bit callous, doesn’t it?” He walked around the car, slid behind the wheel. “She defers, on some level, to her male subordinates. Lets them see her as female, softer—and yet she’s the one who’s climbed to the top of her department. I’d say a bit callous, certainly cagey.”

“She’s emotional and nervous, or wants to be perceived that way right now,” Eve agreed. “And she’s slept with Vann. Not serious, from my take, but they’ve banged. I saw it on her face when he talked about Jeni Curve.”

“He has a reputation for not-so-serious banging, according to my source.”

“He put himself next to Curve, closer than either of the other two. Made it personal.”

“He’s used to getting what he wants. He’s good at what he does—knows how to think in marketing terms, knows how to connect. And he’s not interested in climbing rungs, working his way up. The basics don’t interest him. He likes the shine, the corner office. But he wouldn’t want Weaver’s job. It’s too demanding.”

“Your source?”

“My personal observation.”

“Nice that it meshes with mine.” She settled back as he drove. “He wants to be out front—the fancy business lunches, the travel, the wining and dining of high-dollar clients, with the occasional not-so-serious banging. And his relationship with the head of the firm gives him that opening over the others. Even Weaver, who outranks him. Pisser.”

“So she sleeps with him, hedging her bets, you could say.”

“You could say. Both Weaver and Vann make Macie Snyder right away—with Vann even elaborating—sitting at a table with another woman, two men. Laughing. Callaway’s more vague. Both men refer to Carly Fisher as a girl—a small thing, maybe, but it shows an innate lack of respect for females in the workplace. You perceive them as girls. Callaway referred to Curve the same way.”

“I have to point out Feeney refers to his e-geeks as boys.”

“That’s affection. He calls them all boys even when they have tits. This was different, knee-jerk. Something going on there,” she repeated, picking at it. “Something. Two key players in their department dead. Cattery and Fisher. Cattery—the go-to guy, Fisher, Weaver’s ‘girl’, an up-and-comer who dug into any job that came her way.”

“If Weaver wanted either of them out, she could find a way to fire them.”

“Yeah. It’s harder to fire somebody who maybe knows something you don’t want them to know. Five people—that we know of—worked on this major campaign. Two of them are dead. It makes you wonder.”

“It’s a damn complicated and callous way to get rid of a competitor or a blackmailer—or inconvenience.”

“I don’t know. Business is dog eat cat, right?”

“Dog.”

“I said dog.”

He chuckled, sent her a look of amused affection. “Dog eat dog.”

“That’s just stupid. Dogs eat cats. Everybody knows that.”

“I stand corrected. Business is dog eat cat.”

“Like I said. So. Factor in Mira’s profile. Not getting the attention he wants, craves, no conscience, a need for power and control. Add in both times a woman—say, girl—was used as the vessel. He’s pissed off. It’s time for a goddamn statement. But he doesn’t have the balls to kill direct, to get his hands bloody. Let the girl do it. The girl’s beneath him anyway. Delivery girl—menial—the girl at the bar—just some unimportant drone.”

For a moment or two she tapped her fingers on her knees. “So, if it’s one of them, it’s not Weaver.”

“She’d have used a man.”

“Bull’s-eye. Using men is what she’s used to. And if, again, it’s one of them and Cattery was a target, she would have used him as the vessel. Just slip the vial in his pocket, walk out. Same with Fisher. Plenty of opportunities for her to plant the substance on Fisher. Say she ran into her, like she said, on Fisher’s way out. She could’ve walked out with her, told Fisher to go on in, get them a table. Just have to run over to the wherever for a minute.”

“Yes, it’s simpler. Why complicate it?”

“And Weaver’s not a loner, not by nature. Engaged twice. Maybe she can’t commit, but she makes personal connections. She’s a team player, just one who wants to captain the team.”

Time well spent, Eve considered. The meeting at S&R had been time well spent.

“I’m going to look at Fisher’s financials, run her hard, just in case. But until I see different, she was Weaver’s protégée. Someone she was training and molding to rise. And that rise would be a feather in her pocket, right?”

“I hesitate to say, but that would be cap. And yes, it would be.” He drove through the gates, wound up the drive. “Who is it then? Vann or Callaway?”

“I don’t know if it’s either of them. Maybe Scientist Lester. Maybe somebody I haven’t looked at hard enough yet. We still haven’t nailed down any connection to Red Horse, and that’s key.”

He got out of the car with her, looked at her in the brisk, breezy fall evening. “But you’re leaning toward one.”

“I’m thinking about leaning toward one. What I’d like to do is think about leaning toward one with a glass of wine and a clear head.”

“Why don’t we arrange that?”

“Why don’t we?” She held out a hand for his. “You were aloof, superior, and just a little rude.”

“And it comes so naturally.”

“Yeah, it does.”

He laughed, leaned in to kiss her. And bit her lightly on the bottom lip. “And here I was considering arranging spaghetti and meatballs with that wine.”

“I take it all back. You had to put on an Oscar-winning performance to pull off the aloof, superior, and just a little rude.”

“Now you’re just pandering. Speaking of Oscars, the premiere for Nadine’s vid is only a few weeks away.”

“Please, don’t remind me.” She walked inside where Summerset stood in the foyer. Before she could formulate an opening insult, he stepped forward. “I have a name. Guiseppi Menzini.”

“Who is he?”

“Was he. He was a scientist, reputed to be the leader of one of the Red Horse factions. He was apprehended in Corsica, two weeks after the incident in Rome.”

“He was responsible?”

“One moment,” Roarke interrupted. “We’ll go sit down in the parlor. Eve wants a glass of wine, and you look as if you could use one.”

“Yes, I could. I’ll get it.”

Roarke laid a hand on Summerset’s arm. “Come in, sit. I’ll get the wine. Have you eaten?” Roarke asked as he crossed to a japanned cabinet.

“Tending to me now?”

“You look tired.”

Eve stood for a moment, hands in pockets. “I was thinking you look even more dead than usual.”

That got the slightest ghost of a smile as the cat rubbed against his legs. “The day’s been long.”

So they should get to it, Eve decided, and sat on a plush ottoman as rich as rubies. “Guiseppi Menzini. What do you know?”

“Born in Rome, 1988, the son of a defrocked priest and one of his faithful. My information indicates Salvador Menzini’s literal interpretation of the Bible meant women were to bear children in pain and blood. Guiseppi’s mother died a few weeks after his birth from complications in childbirth, attended only by Salvador.”

“Rough start.”

“Indeed. Thank you,” Summerset said when Roarke handed him a glass of wine. “Salvador raised the boy alone, educated him. They traveled across Europe, Salvador preaching. He may have fathered more children as part of his doctrine held that man was obligated to populate the Earth, and women were created to subjugate themselves to a man’s will, his needs, his desires. There was no rape in Salvador’s teachings as he claimed it was a man’s God-given right to take any women he pleased, over the age of fourteen.”

“Handy for him.”

“The law, however, disagrees. He was arrested in London for sexual assault. Guiseppi would have been twelve, if records are correct.”

“Close enough,” Eve told him.

“The boy evaded child protection. One of Salvador’s wealthy followers posted his bail and he went into hiding. There isn’t much information on either of them for the next several years, but the Red Horse cult was born during that period, or at least the seeds of it were planted. In 2012 Salvador was shot and killed by the father of a fifteen-year-old girl during an attempted abduction.”

“And the son?” Eve prompted.

“He came to the attention of the CIA, MI6 and various other covert organizations two years later. He had an aptitude for chemistry.”

Eve looked into her wine, thought: Click. “I bet he did.”

“It’s believed he must have studied under an assumed name, but I can’t find any confirmation. Between 2012 and 2016, and the dawn of the Urban Wars in Europe, he developed biological weapons for various terrorists groups. He had no particular allegiance, even to Red Horse, though it’s believed he stood as leader of a faction of that group. He had fortifications in at least three locations in England, Italy, and France.”

“Not here?” Eve interrupted. “Not in the U.S.?”

“Nothing on record, no. He enjoyed Europe, and preferred cities over the country, as had his father. While the Urban Wars raged and spread, he supplied the highest bidder with munitions, explosives, and his specialty—bioweapons.

“He had no children on record,” Summerset continued, “but witness reports—including those of recovered children his sect and others abducted, state he had many—though it’s not verified if they were biological offspring, or abductees he’d taken as his own. There were others like him, and others with more followers, more power. He wasn’t considered a top priority, though there were attempts to capture or assassinate. Again, according to reports—reports that were and are carefully buried, one of the assassination attempts resulted in the deaths of five children. Two months after that, the café outside of London was attacked. He became a top priority.”

“Sometimes late’s as bad as never.”

Summerset studied Eve as he sipped his wine. “To say the world was in disarray is the least of it. Looting, burning, bombing, indiscriminate killings, rapes. At first it seemed the police and the military would quell it, all would right again. People locked themselves in their homes or fled to the countryside to wait it out. But they didn’t quell it, and it didn’t right again, not for a very long time. It became a tidal wave of rage and violence that wouldn’t be stopped.”

Summerset paused a moment, sipped his wine. “I’m told he was a small man—a gnat as it were—compared to others who sought to destroy.”

“Gnats need to be swatted.”

“I agree, but there were so many more, so much more organized. There are always those who wait and plan for just such a thing. There were armies that attacked strategically—military bases, communications, food and water supplies—much more so than Menzini or other Red Horse sects. They thought they would win, but in the end, they too were engulfed in that wave. What you’ve seen these last two days? Imagine it everywhere, the bodies and blood, the waste, the fear and panic. The law broke under it. There weren’t many like you who stood between the guilty and the innocent—and neither were easy to recognize for a time. For too long a time. You’re too young, both of you, to have known it. Be grateful.”

“I know some who stood, like you. They rarely, if ever, talk about it.”

“There aren’t words.” He looked thinner, if possible, as he spoke, Eve thought. Paler. Bad memories, she knew, could carve you out.

“What they teach, what they wrote? It’s pale and soft compared to the reality of it. What you’ve seen the last two days? There are some of us who were there at the beginning of it, those of us who remember. I remember,” he murmured, “and I’m afraid.”

She hadn’t expected him to say it, hadn’t expected to see it. She spoke to him now as she would to a victim. “This isn’t a movement or a war. It’s a man with a weapon who wants your fear, your attention. I think I know him, that I’ve spoken to him, that I’ve looked in his eyes. I’m going to stop him.”

“I believe you will. I have to believe it.” He took a slow breath, sipped again. “The details of his apprehension after the attack in Rome aren’t just buried. Much of the data was destroyed. What I learned can’t be confirmed. Menzini created the substance, but did not, in fact, deliver it personally. He created it, selected the two targets, gave the order, but he used two women—girls. His own children, if you will, sent by him on a suicide mission. Each took a vial of the substance into the location, released it, and under his orders remained so they were also infected.”

“Girls. You’re sure?”

“It can’t be confirmed.”

“You know if it’s true?”

“I believe it to be true.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“You said you knew him. What is his name?”

“I said I think,” she corrected. “I have three suspects, viable to me—if I’m pursuing the right angle. Even if I’m right, I can’t prove it. I’m missing essential connections.”

“You know which of the three. I want to know his name. I want his name in my head so I can say it when you stop him.”

“His name’s Lewis Callaway, but—”

“That’s good enough for me.”

He tossed her own response back at her so casually, she couldn’t think what to say. When her pocket ’link signaled, she considered it a reprieve.

“It’s Nadine. I need to take this upstairs. Dallas,” she said in answer. “Wait.” She thought of what she probably should say. “Lewis Callaway,” she repeated. “He’s a coward. It used to surprise me how many killers are cowards. We’re going to stop him. Everything you told me yesterday, everything you told me now is going to help us make the connection, make the case that’s going to put him away for every minute he has left in his sick, cowardly life. So you can forget him. Macie Snyder, Jeni Curve. Those are the two women he used to do his killing, and not under his orders. They didn’t even know. If you need to have a name in your head, put theirs in it. They’re the ones who matter.”

She turned, switching her ’link off hold as she went. “Nadine. Go.”

Roarke rose, topped off Summerset’s wine. “This may be a record.”

“What would be a record?”

“You and Eve having an actual conversation without sniping at each other, two days running.”

“Ah well.” Summerset let out a sigh. “I expect the lieutenant and I will be back to normal shortly—to our mutual relief.”

“You need food and rest.”

“I believe I do. I’ll get both shortly. I believe I’ll have the cat as well for a while. I could use his company. Go, see that your wife eats a meal. I’m surprised she didn’t starve to death before she had you putting food under her nose.”

“It pleases me to do it.”

“I know it does. You were an interesting boy, always so bright and clever, so thirsty for more—of everything. You made yourself an interesting and clever man. She’s made you a better one.”

“She’s made me more than I ever thought I could be.”

“Go feed her. I expect the pair of you will work late tonight.”

Alone, he sat with the cat sprawled over his feet, the wine in his hand. A fire simmered in the hearth of the beautiful room of gleaming wood, sparkling crystal, rich fabrics, and art. The room where the pain, the loss, the fear of long ago tried to haunt him.

Macie Snyder, he thought, Jeni Curve. Yes, he’d remember those names. The lieutenant was right. The innocent mattered.