J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“I have a few words of my own.”

“Teasdale?”

“We’ll talk in the car.”

She worried—marriage so often had some little pocket of worry—he’d found enough to push on ditching the fed. Shaking off Teasdale wouldn’t be a snap, but …

As the elevator opened, a human tank wearing restraints and sporting a massive erection under his flopping trench coat charged out. He upended cops like bowling pins as two uniforms scrambled out in pursuit.

“Never a dull moment,” Roarke commented just before Eve danced to the side, stuck out her foot. The tank, his long blond wig askew, went airborne.

He shouted, “Woo-hoo!”

He hit the floor with a bone-rattling thud, skidded—taking out another line of bystanders, then smacked the wall with an audible crack.

He lay, eyes glassy, erection spearing up like a monument.

“For Christ’s sake, cover that thing up,” Eve ordered. “He could put somebody’s eye out.”

In the ensuing rush, she nipped onto the elevator, ordered the garage as Roarke stepped in beside her.

“Nice,” she decided. “You hardly ever get an empty car to the garage.”

“We owe it all to a three-hundred-pound flasher.”

“More like two-eighty, but yeah.” She rolled her shoulders. “Anyway, it gave me a little boost.”

“It would as kicking ass is your drug of choice.”

“Maybe, but I only tripped him. No time to kick a naked flasher’s ass right now.”

“There’ll be others, darling.”

“Something to look forward to.”

She got off the elevator, headed straight to her vehicle slot. “You talk first.”

“All right then.” He slid behind the wheel, spared her a quick look before he wound his way out of the garage, punched out into traffic. “Teasdale has an impressive background. Her father was U.S. Air Force, retired as a major general. Her mother served as an assistant Secretary of State. She traveled considerably as a child, speaks several languages, excelled in her schooling. She was recruited by HSO while at university, but didn’t officially join until she’d completed her advanced degrees.”

“Officially?”

“Officially,” he confirmed. “She was an operative at the tender age of twenty-three—unofficially. And she’s quietly, steadily risen up the ranks. She worked with Hurtz on the investigation of Bissel, and in fact, gathered the lion’s share of intel and evidence against him and others involved—though her part in that business was, again, what we’ll call unofficial.”

“Okay. Just give me your take on her.”

“She’s brilliant, dedicated, ambitious, and though your styles appear to be polar opposites, she’s quite like you. In that she doesn’t give up, can’t be bought, and appears to believe in both the rule and the spirit of law.”

“You’re okay with her.”

“I don’t know that I’ll ever be okay with anyone associated with HSO, but I can deal with her. You believe she had no prior knowledge of the formula.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“She’s a trained liar.”

“So am I. It rang true, Roarke. And it feels true that when and if HSO got anything on this back during the Urbans, they covered and/ or destroyed. Made it disappear.”

She sat in silence a moment. “But we don’t have to be okay with HSO. Why should we? Maybe they’ve cleaned house, maybe they have. Good, fine. But we don’t have to be okay with what they did, not back in Dallas years ago, not here in New York last year. They can bite me.”

She took a long breath. “But I can work with Teasdale, at least for now, at least until I get a better sense of her. If you’re good with that, I’m good with it.”

Roarke took his hand off the wheel, covered hers. “Then we’re good.”

“Okay. Moving on. I’ve got to consider the Lesters. Too many connections, too many elements not to.” She ran through the high points of the interview quickly.

“Mass murderers want attention. They need to be important. Shock and awe, that’s the deal. Christopher Lester’s used to certain levels of attention, but he’s still a relatively small fish, right? No big, shiny international prizes. He makes piles of money, gets kudos from his peers, but he’s still, basically, a lab rat. Taking out over a hundred people in two days, with this method? That’s big and shiny. It’s the sort of thing that lives in, you know, infamy.”

“Wouldn’t he reach for the big and shiny with an antidote to the infection? Discovery, in his area.”

“Depends on how pissed off he is. Besides, nobody’s going to care much about the cure if they haven’t experienced or heard about the infection. If that’s not news, the cure isn’t news.”

“That’s a point.”

“The missing link is Red Horse, or a military source. I’m not going to buy he just stumbled on the same exact substance while dicking around in his lab.”

“Odds are a bit long on that.”

“And now we have the S&R trio. Weaver, Callaway, and Vann. Whistler looks clear—so far?”

“Whistler. Refresh me.”

“The suit who left the bar at the same time as Callaway—same company, different department. He’s Sales. I’ve read his statement. Left with an oncoming headache, went home, and that’s verified, to his wife and six-month-old baby. He’s three weeks into a big, fat raise and promotion. He doesn’t fit for me.”

“Lucky for Whistler, and likely his mother?”

“What? Why?”

“Weak joke. So back to your corporate trio.”

“Right. S&R lost people in both incidents, a chunk of them in Weaver’s department. And, so far, they’re the only ones from those offices who’ve contacted me directly—twice now for two of them—and asked for a meeting.”

“A way to get information and attention.”

“Four suits walk into a bar.”

“And what’s your punch line?”

She angled toward Roarke. “Only three walk out. The thing is, if I’m one of the four, the target’s more likely to be Vann. He’s rich and connected. He breezes in while the others put in years. But he’s the one who walks out. If the statements were accurate, they all knew he’d only be there for a short time. So, if Cattery—the dead suit—was the, or even a, target—why? What do the other three—or one of them, possibly two of them—have to gain by offing Cattery? None of them could be sure any of their other coworkers would be there at the right time.”

“It may very well have been random. You know that.”

“I don’t like random.” She scowled out the window. “Random pisses me off.” She continued to frown as he turned into a lot. “You could’ve grabbed some curb. I can put the On Duty light on.”

“A short walk won’t hurt either of us.”

More time to think, she decided when she got out of the car. “I’m going to spend some time with Joseph Cattery tonight. See what I see.”

“Spend a moment with me now.” He pulled her in for a kiss, laughing when she nudged him back. “Your On Duty light isn’t on, Lieutenant.”

“It just doesn’t show.”

She studied the towering steel and glass building as they walked, and the way it caught the red gleam of the lowering sun.

“A long way to the top,” she considered. “Lots of rungs to climb, hours to put in, hands to shake and palms to grease.”

“So it is in the world of business.”

“That’s why you’re handy to have along. You know the ins and outs, the slippery corners. They’re marketing people, right? So they’re always selling something.”

“Including themselves,” he agreed. “It’s not only selling the product, showing it in the best and most creative light, but hyping themselves as the ones with the best ideas, the freshest angles, the most muscular follow-through.”