J. Robb - Delusion in Death

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.”