J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“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 have 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.”

“Got the fucker.”

“It seems so. I’ll call the lieutenant, let her know.”

“Tell her we’ll bring everything in. She can start wrapping him up.” He started toward the office. “When we close this down, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” Roarke took out his ’link, waited for Eve to come on screen.

“Give me something good.”

“Would a small, secret lab with the ingredients contained in the substance, the formula for said substance, Menzini’s journal, and a computer that likely holds pertinent data be something good?”

“Jesus. Jesus, you’re going to get so much sex.”

“Jenkinson says: ‘Hoo-haw!’”

“For Christ’s—”

“I’m winding you up, darling. I’m quite alone at the moment, and will happily take you up on so much sex. Do you have him in the house?”

“In restraints. He slipped up enough I’ve charged him, and I’m about to head in to work a confession out of him, with details. You just nailed it shut.”

“Feeney said we’ll bring everything in.”

“Give me some details so I can use them to cook him some.”

“The lab’s behind a false wall, lined with shelves, in his office. The journal with the formula has a leather binding—it’s faded brown leather and cracked with age, and there are notes that appear more recent and in another handwriting with the formula. There’s a storage box holding more journals, an old Bible, and a manifesto hand-written by Menzini. It’s titled End of Days .”