J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“Lydia, this is Lieutenant Dallas.” Jenkinson used his trusted uncle tone. “I want you to tell her what you told me. Okay?”

“I’m—I’m looking for Cellie and Brenda. We were having lunch.”

“In Café West?”

Fresh tears swam in terrified brown eyes, spilling through the makeup bruises. “Yeah. In there. We were in there.”

Not a mark on her, Eve observed. “What time did you leave the café?”

“I’m not exactly sure. A little after one, I guess. We were having lunch.”

“What time did you get there?”

“I—we—Well, we left the office about twelve-thirty, but the elevator was really slow, so that took forever. But it’s only a little walk, maybe five minutes. And we got a table, ’cause they go fast. Then we went up to the counter to order. It’s faster that way. I got a salad, just a plain salad. A little one because I’m on a diet. I was in a bad mood because I was hungry, I guess. I was really bitchy with them, even when Cellie said I could have half her sandwich. I was bitchy, and I left.”

“They stayed to have lunch, and you left, just a little after one. Did you have a headache, Lydia?”

“How did you know? I started to get a headache, and I just wanted to leave. It was crowded and noisy, and I was hungry, and my head started to hurt. I walked out, and walked around. I felt kind of sick, then I felt better. I felt bad, you know, because I’d been so bitchy. I thought I should come back. Tell them I was sorry, walk back to the office with them. But the police were here, and people were yelling. People were hurt and crying, and I can’t find my friends.”

“We’ll look for them. You come here a lot, on your lunch hour?”

“Sure. It’s close, and the food’s good. But you have to get here before one, or you’re not going to get a table.”

“How did everything seem when you left?”

“Like usual, I guess.” Her eyes shifted, lowered, shifted again. “Except …”

“Except?”

“I looked back when I got to the door, and Brenda was looking at me, really mean. She’s not mean. I’ve never seen her look at anybody like that. It just made me so mad. I almost went back to the table. I wanted to punch her. I’ve never punched anybody. Now I can’t find her.”

“Reineke, get the full names of Lydia’s friends so we can find them.”

She signaled to Jenkinson, pulled him over. “I want her examined. Get her to the hospital, have them run a tox, examine her nasal passages, her throat. She won’t want to go. Convince her.”

“I’ll take care of it. How many, LT?”

“Forty-one. It looks like sixteen survivors, at this point. We may find more, like Lydia, who got out before it took a strong hold. Get her examined,” Eve repeated, and moved fast to find Feeney.

“I’ve got a time line,” she told him. “We got a wit who was in there with friends, but left—felt a headache coming on as she walked out. They got there approximately twelve-forty, and she left just after one. First on scene pulled up at thirteen-eleven. The vics inside were still infected.”

“It hit about the time your wit left. We’ll focus on twelve-thirty to one-fifteen, to cover it. Cams were operational. I’ll run the discs back at the house.”

“Run it with face recognition, using the faces we have leaving the bar or connected to vics.” She pushed at her hair. “We’ll bump the briefing until eighteen hundred.”

She scanned the street, the buildings. “He was here, Feeney. But he had to know about the cams. How could he risk popping on the security disc in both places? Can’t. He found another way to get it in this location—or both. Or there’s more than one of them, and they took turns. He had to leave about the same time the wit did. Hefty blonde, black pants and jacket. I want to see everyone coming and going about five minutes before up to five minutes after the wit.”

“I’m heading back now. Do you want to keep McNab?”

“If he’s got the electronics, take him with you. Otherwise I’ll send him in as soon as he has them all bagged.”

Baxter met her on her way back in. “They’re loading up the last of the survivors. We have fourteen from inside.”

“I counted sixteen.”

“Two didn’t make it. I peeled off to talk to a couple of them who were lucid enough. It’s running like the bar, Dallas. Having lunch, serving it or cooking it, headache, hallucinations, most with feelings of anger or fear along with the headache.”

“We’ve got one who got out, left with the headache.”

“Good.” He glanced toward the café, the blood on the sidewalk. “She’s lucky.”

He rooted in the pocket of his snazzy top coat—always the smart dresser, that Baxter. And came up with a PowerBar. “Want half?”

“No. Maybe. What kind is it?”

“Yogurt Crunch.”

“That’s a no.”

With a shrug he unwrapped it, bit in. “I’ve had worse. McNab and two e-geeks have most of the electronics. We’ve got IDs on the survivors, and about half the DBs so far.”

“Take Trueheart and what you’ve got, go back and start running the names. I want lists of anyone with employment at any of the businesses involved in the first incident. There’s going to be some cross. Another crossing the connections.”

It was going to come down to relationships and geography, she concluded. Who he knew and where he knew them.

“This is his comfort zone, his place. People tend to eat and shop in the same area, especially when they’re on a schedule. Look for businesses between the two crime scenes. Use a two-block radius on both ends, list who lives in that sector who’s connected to any survivor, any vic, or who we pin leaving either scene before the hit.”

Baxter took another bite of the bar, chewed thoughtfully. “It won’t be fast.”

“Get started. Briefing rescheduled for eighteen hundred.”

“LT.” Jenkinson hustled up. “Lydia’ll go in for exam, but I had to tell her Reineke and I would take her.”

“Get it done. Start interviewing survivors while you’re there. Briefing’s now at eighteen hundred. Don’t waste time.”

Taking her own advice, she moved fast, walked back into the building, and spotted Morris kneeling beside one of the dead.

“You didn’t have to come in,” she told him.

“You’ll want confirmation as quickly as possible you’re dealing with the same COD. There are tests I can run here.”

“And?”

“The same. I can give you solid confirmation within the hour, but it reads the same.”

She crouched down beside him. “We’re going to try to keep a lid on how and what. We won’t, not for long, but do what you can.”

“Depend on it.”

“I am.” Still crouched, she scanned the room. “Was it already planned? Both hits? Bang-bang. He went smaller. Impulse or planning? He’s not impulsive, so … Why this place?” She tracked the bodies. “Who in this place?”

As he understood she was thinking out loud, Morris remained silent.

“Is he a familiar face, a regular? I bet he is. Pleasant enough guy, knows how to interact, but it’s all surface. Probably speaks to the counter guy or the waitress whenever he comes in. Just a ‘How ya doing?’ kind of thing. He wants attention, to be noticed, remembered. But he’s just one of the many. Really just another customer here, and back at the bar. One of the many where he works? It’s not enough. Not nearly fucking enough, not for him, not with his brains, his potential. He’s not just one of the many. The suits and drones, the people who trudge through the workday. Goddamn it, he’s special. They’re beneath him, all of them. None of them matter, and still …”

She shook her head, continued to study the room. “Someone in here or something that happened in here mattered enough for this. Because it’s not random.