J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“We’ll all sleep better now.” She looked back at Kyung.

“I’m told you have Callaway’s parents,” he said.

“I’ve had them transported to a safe house for tonight. Commander, I’d like to have them taken back to Arkansas in the morning, quick and quiet, and arrange for the locals to provide some protection until we see how that wind blows.”

“HSO will take care of that,” Teasdale told her.

“They’ll need to issue a statement,” Kyung considered. “I could help them with that if they’re willing.”

“That would be good. They’re decent people. It’s going to be hard enough for them. Peabody, pave that road when we’re done here.”

“We’d intended to wait for the mayor.” Kyung smiled. “But he’s been held up as the news of the arrest leaked.”

“Did it?”

His smile widened. “Channel Seventy-five broke the story some thirty minutes ago. They’re short on details, but it was enough to have reporters swarming the mayor’s office. He’ll link up with us from there. Now then, Chief Tibble will make a brief statement, followed by Commander Whitney. You and your investigative team will be acknowledged, as will Agent Teasdale and the HSO. Ah, APA Reo.”

“Sorry, I was delayed.” She hurried in, fluffing back her cloud of blond hair. “The news broke as my boss was leaving court. He’s dealing with reporters there. I’ll represent the prosecutor’s office here.”

“Perfect.” Kyung angled his head, gave them all a glowing smile. “Five strong, beautiful women—all playing a part in securing the safety of the city. It’s an excellent visual. Shall we go in?”

The room was packed, but she’d expected that, too. Cameras whirled and clicked, recorders blinked as Tibble stepped to the podium. Tall, lean, imposing, he stood in silence until the room quieted.

“Today, after an exhaustive and intense investigation, the New York City Police and Security Department, with cooperation from the HSO, arrested and charged the individual allegedly responsible for the deaths that occurred at On the Rocks and Café West. Faced with the preponderance of evidence gathered by the investigative team headed by Lieutenant Dallas, in consultation with Agent Teasdale of HSO, Lewis Callaway has confessed to the planning, the intent, and the execution of these crimes.”

Eve let it roll over her—Tibble’s statement, Whitney’s, then the questions that flew like crazed crows. She wanted home, she realized, intensely. The quiet of it, the comfort, the indulgence of familiarity.

She answered questions when called on, and wondered—as she always did—why so many of them asked the same damn thing with slightly altered phrasing.

“Lieutenant, Lieutenant Dallas! Kobe Garnet with New York News . You interrogated Callaway.”

“I interviewed the suspect, along with Detective Peabody, Agent Teasdale, and Doctor Mira.”

“Did he tell you why? Why he did it?”

“Yes. I’m not authorized to relate the details of the interview or the suspect’s confession that may deter from the prosecution’s case, should this matter go to trial.”

“People want to know why.”

“Callaway’s motives will be disclosed at the prosecutor’s discretion. The why matters. It matters not only to this department in order to secure arrest and confession, to the prosecutor to secure a verdict, but to the survivors of the attacks, and the families of those who didn’t survive. They should know it matters to us. More, and for now, they should know Lewis Callaway is behind bars. The NYPSD and the prosecuting attorney will do everything within their power to see he stays behind bars.”

She fielded more, as did the others, until she felt like a bone, picked clean to the marrow.

When her ’link vibrated in her pocket, she started to pull it out. Maybe she could use it as an excuse to step away, get out. But as she slid her hand into her pocket, Kyung stepped up to end the media torture.

Some reporters scrambled out, others continued—ever hopeful—to lob questions. Relieved, Eve walked out behind Whitney.

“Well done,” he told her. “Go home, get some rest.”

“More than happy to, sir.”

She turned away, reached for her still vibrating ’link, noted Peabody doing the same.

Something in her guts churned.

Even as she pulled out her ’link, McNab—his own in his hand—burst in. “Lieutenant, we need you in EDD, now.”

Whitney laid a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. “What is it, Detective?”

“Sir. We cracked the encryption. Callendar took the journal entries, and she’s got entries detailing Callaway’s meetings with his grandmother. Gina MacMillon. She’s still alive.”

“Peabody, get me everything we’ve got on Gina MacMillon. Teasdale, get me more. When and where did they meet?” Eve demanded.

“I didn’t get all the details. As soon as Callendar hit, she alerted Feeney. We tried to tag you, hoping we’d catch you before any release.”

“Too late. His name’s out. Commander, I’ve got to get on this.”

“Go. I’ll be there myself as soon as I can.”

“I’ve got her basic data,” Peabody said on the run. “She was reported killed in the attack where her daughter—now Audrey Hubbard—was abducted. Her remains were cremated, per her wishes, and as was more usual in those circumstances.”

“Cause of death,” Eve snapped as she shoved onto an elevator.

“Who ID’d the body?”

“It’s going to take longer to—”

“Gunshot to the face,” Teasdale stated, reading her PPC. “Both William and Gina MacMillon were identified by a neighbor, an Anna Blicks, who died of natural causes in 2048.”

“Face blown away. Your neighbor IDs by body type, hair, clothes, jewelry, and because you’re in the house, because who the fuck else would you be? Goddamn it. She started him up. That was the trigger. Not finding out about the grandfather, not initially. But the grandmother.”

“Why would she fake her own death?” Peabody demanded.

“Let me think. Let me think. Put extra guards on Callaway. Now!”

“Menzini might have arranged it,” Teasdale considered. “He wanted her and the child back, located her, killed someone in her place so no one would look for her.”

“No. No. Women didn’t matter that much. The kid—she’s his blood, and part of the new world order, part of the new beginning. But not the mother. She did it. She went home for something, under Menzini’s orders, had to convince her husband she was contrite—or she’d been brainwashed, abused. She’s terrified, and there’s this baby. He opens the door.”

“For all those months?” Teasdale began.

“Menzini needed someone on the outside, someone who could funnel him money, supplies, information. How the hell do I know, I wasn’t there. Isn’t that how it works—moles, sleepers, double fucking agents?”

She bulled off the elevator, tore toward EDD.

“In the lab, Dallas.” Fast on his feet, McNab passed her, led the way.

She spotted Feeney through the glass, pacing, his hair in wild silver and gray wires, and Callendar, her face grim in contrast to the sassy butt wiggle she performed in front of a swipe screen.

She didn’t see Roarke until she’d pushed through the doors behind McNab. He huddled at a comp station, working manually and by voice. The muttered Irish curses she caught meant he battled the work.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” Callendar broke off the work and wiggle. “If I’d been faster—”

“Forget that. Run it through.”

“Once we broke the code, I took the journal entries. I was taking my time because … we had him. The first bit was just long, rambling bullshit about how he was special, different, important. It was just full of the E and the Go, and how now he knew why he’d always known it. Then he started talking about the grandmother. She set up a meeting, posing as a client, St. Regis Hotel bar. You should read it for yourself, Dallas.”