J. Robb - Delusion in Death

She unsealed the box, initialed it, then sat to study the memorabilia of madness.

The religious rantings in the journal simply annoyed her. The way those thirsty for power, glory or the satisfaction of brow-beating others into their particular beliefs used God as a weapon of intimidation and fear perplexed her.

Not that they’d do it, but that anybody would listen.

If God actually took the time to go around smiting anyone, she’d like to see him start with the self-righteous pricks who inflated their own egos in his name.

But she supposed that was why God made cops.

Menzini had filled pages in tiny, crablike handwriting, pontificating about the chosen, detailing the ritual rapes of young girls, and calling them initiations or cleansings.

He rambled about his God-given mission to purge the unclean, sinners, the unworthy, his holy mission to prepare the way for the end of days. And his plans to repopulate the earth with the righteous after the purge.

He detailed his experiments, his frustrations with his lack of success. One lack of success had resulted in an explosion that had killed one assistant and blinded another.

That, too, was apparently God’s fault—or his will, anyway. And a test directed at Menzini, to help forge his determination.

“Yeah, it’s all about you, asshole.”

She glanced up when Peabody stepped in.

“I just got to the part where Menzini’s praising God for showing him the way to create the substance. He tested it on some prisoners, which included a sixteen-year-old boy. He dubbed the substance God’s Wrath, and was damn proud of it.”

“Sounds like Callaway came by it naturally. Jesus.” Horror covered Peabody’s face as it reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me. He has this in him, but we’ve all got something. Even some daisy-sniffing Free-Ager like you has to have a rotted branch on the family tree somewhere. It’s what we do with it, about it, despite it.”

“Yeah.” Peabody blew out a breath. “I don’t sniff daisies. They don’t really smell. I like peonies, if you’re taking notes on flowers to send me for a reward.”

“Sure, I’ll mark that right down on my shopping list.”

“You don’t have a shopping list.”

“Exactly. Did Callaway tap a lawyer?”

“Not yet. He clammed up, like total lockdown. He gave me a bad feeling, so I put him in solitary, and on suicide watch.”

“Good. We want him safe and secure. Whitney, or likely Tibble will be making an official statement. We’re expected to do the media conference deal.”

“I don’t mind. It’ll be good to let people know it’s okay, we did the job. McNab’s working on decrypting Callaway’s electronics. I’m going to wait for him before knocking off anyway. The search team’s back,” she added. “There’s talk about going out for some brew.”

“I’m going to skip it. I just want to … enjoy an evening at home.”

“If you change your mind, they’re hitting the Blue Line. Cops might as well celebrate a big win at a cop bar. Do you want me to do the five’s?”

Tempting … but no. “I’m going to start on it now. Go ahead and get the records for Reo, and a copy of the log of everything taken from Callaway’s apartment. We’re going to want to send somebody in—with correct authorization—to confiscate his office electronics, toss his office.”

“I can tell Reo to take care of that.”

“That works. For now, get a uniform to get over there, seal it. Once the news hits, some big nose is bound to go in there and poke around.”

“I’m all over it. You know, it feels good, Dallas, but …” With a sad little shrug, Peabody looked down at the papers on Eve’s desk.

“You wished it felt better. I’m betting there’s a hit list on his comp, where he planned to target, who he’d earmarked to take out. Once you read that, think about all those people who can just go on living their lives, it will feel better.”

“Yeah. You know, thinking about that, it already does.”

“Then get out of here so I can work.”

She slogged her way through the arrest report, copied, filed, added it to her book. She considered the other journals. Not exactly light reading, she thought, but she wanted to know, to see.

She rose, intended to give herself a lift with another hit of coffee, and turned back to her signaling ’link.

“You’re to report to the main media room, Lieutenant, along with Detective Peabody and any other officer you deem appropriate.”

“On my way.”

Coffee later, she promised herself. Better a nice cool glass of wine, or two. And that so much sex.

Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

She stood, scanned the bullpen. “Good work, all around. That includes Detectives Carmichael and Sanchez, and the other officers who took on the load so we could bag this fucker. Anyone who wants or needs some personal time or leave … Get real. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

She appreciated the moans, the muttered curses. “Commander Whitney’s called for a media conference.” She appreciated the mild panic, the hunched shoulders as perfectly sane cops slid down in their chairs as if it would make them invisible.

“Peabody and I will take that as I have other assignments for the rest of you. When you’ve completed your current paperwork or at end of shift—whichever comes first—get the hell out of here and go have a beer.”

Baxter slapped his hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about! The Blue Line, Dallas. Bring Roarke.”

“So he can pick up the tab? I don’t think so. I’m going home to the quiet.” She caught Reineke’s eye roll to the ceiling.

“Problem, Reineke?”

“What?” He blinked at her, then averted his eyes. “No, sir. No problem here.”

“Good. Peabody, with me.”

As she expected, the media prep room buzzed. Tibble, Whitney, Mira, Teasdale, and the ever-sharply dressed Kyung.

Tibble glanced up from his notes, pocketed them before crossing to her to extend a hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant, Detective. Solid work.”

“We had a solid team.”

“A show of all the officers who participated in the investigation would make a good visual,” Kyung commented.

“They need a break.”

“Of course. For myself, I know I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing Lewis Callaway is behind bars.”

“I need a little more than that. Sir,” Eve said to Tibble. “You know Director Hurtz. Agent Teasdale says he’s an honorable man. There’s a formula capable of killing masses of people. As Menzini has been in custody until his recent death, I have to believe that formula exists, and is buried somewhere deep in HSO’s files.”

“I’ve never seen nor heard of this substance,” Teasdale insisted, “until this case.”

“I believe you,” Eve told her. “That doesn’t mean it’s not sealed up somewhere. There’s also a copy in a journal secured in my office. Our chief lab tech is working on an antidote, and he’ll probably come up with one—whether or not HSO already has. We need an agreement, Agent Teasdale, between your honorable man and mine. I’m not naive enough to believe your people will destroy all trace of said formula, but there has to be an agreement said formula will remain sealed and buried.”

“You’ll have it.” Tibble looked from Eve to Teasdale and back again. “My word.”

“Yes, sir.”

She believed he’d keep his word. As for Hurtz, she wanted to believe it. But … politics and positions changed. She’d have Roarke keep an eye on things on his unregistered equipment—and she had an ace reporter in the back pocket, should the time come to do that shouting from the rooftops.