J. Robb - Delusion in Death

She went straight to Whitney when he came inside. “I need Mira and Reo secured. As well as Chief Tibble and yourself, sir. Gina MacMillon may target the people who took down her grandson.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“What do we know about her?” Eve demanded. “Attractive woman in her late seventies, early eighties. Wealthy. Patient. Jesus, she’s like a spider. A trained soldier. More, a kind of operative. Could she have made contact with Menzini while he was alive?”

“I can’t say.” Again, Teasdale looked mildly distressed. “I would doubt it.”

“Why wasn’t he executed? They still did that back then. He was a war criminal, a mass murderer, a child abductor, a rapist. Name it.”

“My guess? He was useful.”

“Making chemical and bio weapons?”

“It’s possible. His mind was twisted, but he had brilliance in certain areas.”

“Enough he’d have found a way to get word to her. To keep the fire going. The world didn’t end, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Or shift focus. He made his living selling chem weapons. Maybe that’s how she makes hers.”

Teasdale’s face lit. “I’ll start a search for known dealers in her age span.”

“Bugger that.” Roarke sat back, pulled the tie out of his hair. “I’ve got her.”

“How? Jesus.” Eve all but leaped on him. “Let me see.”

“There was a painting in Callaway’s office. The only piece of any taste or style in the whole place. It struck me at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. It took me some time, but I found it. On screen.”

Eve frowned at the image of long, flower-decked steps, a fountain at their feet. They led to an old building, looked European to her.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s the Spanish Steps, in Rome.”

“Menzini hit Rome, and was taken there.”

“So I recalled, a bit belatedly. This painting was done just prior to the war, by an Italian artist who died in Menzini’s attack.”

“Too much coincidence, and coincidence is bogus.”

“So I thought. I’ve managed to track the owner through insurance. It’s a very nice piece, and part of a collection. Owned by Gina M. Bellona. Bellona is the ancient Roman goddess of war. On screen.”

“There she is,” Eve murmured.

Attractive, yes. Strong bones, smoothly covered by olive skin, a sweep of dark hair liberally, artistically streaked with silver. It listed her as the widow of a Carlo Corelli.

“Find out what happened to Carlo Corelli,” she ordered Peabody when her partner came back in. “And do it on the move. We’ve got a fucking New York address. Upper East Side—good call there, Callendar. Teasdale, I’d like you to stay back, monitor any transmissions Callaway requests to make. And use whatever magic you have to locate any private transportation she may have, and have gearing up. If she’s trying to poof, let’s block her.”

“I’ll make sure of it. And have a biohazard team in place at her condo.”

“Set it up, but hold them back until we get there. You can freeze her accounts faster than we can. Do that.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’m ordering a SWAT team,” Whitney said. “I want that building secure.”

“Yes, sir. I’m going to pull in Baxter and Trueheart. I think that’s enough to take down one old lady.”

“You’ll have one more. I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her.

“You earned it. Let’s move out.”

Eve worked as she went, her mind clicking through steps and strategies. “Peabody, keep digging on Gina Bellona. I want to know if she has any other homes, properties, and if so, we want the locals there to obtain warrants for search and seizure. I want any and all vehicles—ground, air, water. I want relatives, employment or businesses. I want the names of her frigging pets.”

She pulled out her own ’link, grateful that for once the elevator had a little breathing room. “Reo,” she began without preamble when the APA came on screen. “Are you and Mira secured?”

“Yes, we’re in the conference room. What—”

“Don’t talk, listen. I need a warrant, now, for the homes, businesses, and vehicles of Gina Bellona, aka Gina MacMillon. We’re on our way to her primary New York residence, and we’re going in with or without the warrant. Make it clean, Reo. She’s an imminent threat to the people and properties of New York. If she gets out of the city, she will be an imminent threat globally.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Save time, use the conference room ’link. Put Mira on.”

“Eve,” Mira began when they switched ’links.

“Is Mr. Mira at home?”

“He’s teaching an evening class at Columbia. He—”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I need you to go down to Callaway. I need you to keep him busy, talking, distracted. Say nothing about the grandmother. You know what to do, what to say. Just keep him occupied. I don’t want him contacting or trying to contact MacMillon before, during, or after the bust.”

“I understand.” Mira’s voice remained calm, but fear lived in her eyes. “Do you think she would try to hurt my family?”

“She hasn’t had time to do anything about it, but I’ll make sure they’re all protected. I promise you. She needs time and space to plan, to research. We’re not going to give it to her. But we won’t take chances. Get to Callaway.”

She clicked off, started to use her ’link again to order protection details. Roarke laid a hand on her arm.

“It’s done.” He moved off the elevator with her into the garage. “Private security, Mira’s family, Peabody and McNab’s apartment, Reo’s, and so on.”

“It should be cops.” Then she took a breath. “Thanks.”

“One less thing for you and the department to worry about.”

“Okay.” And she set it aside. “Get me the layout of the condo—floor plan, exits, security. I’ll drive, we’re going hot until we’re close, then we’ll turn off the sirens.”

“Hot’s my favorite thing.”

Peabody had a chance for one quick gulp before Eve tore out of the garage.

“Gina Bellona,” she began. “In addition to her condo here, she has a home in London, a flat in Paris, and a villa in Sardinia. Her husband, deceased, was knighted for his contribution to science and humanitarian works.”

“Science,” Eve repeated while she punched vertical and zipped over a knot of traffic.

“Carlo Corelli—Brit mother, Italian father, dual citizenship, a scientist, primary work molecular chemistry. His father was one of the founders of Biotech Industries.”

“One of the leaders in the field,” Roarke told her while he worked. “Innovations and development of synthetic organs, cancer vaccines, fertility, auto-immune research. They’ve built health centers in areas where medicine and health care was a luxury or simply nonexistent.”

“Pharmacology—lots of drug research.”

“No question.”

“Perfect for her. How’d he buy it, Peabody—Corelli?”

“Slipped in the shower seven months ago.”

“About the time Teasdale says Menzini died. I bet Corelli had help in the shower.”

“Death ruled accidental, but it looks like his first wife and his children made some noise about the widow. I can probably find some dish on it in the scandal sheets.”

“Marries him, gets rich, gets access to all the drugs she wants—and some expertise. Menzini dies, and she’s done with Corelli. Wants this tribute, or revenge, or whatever the hell. She takes Corelli out, inherits, moves to New York.”

“Where she lives in a spacious, two-level condo,” Roarke put in. “Private elevator into a foyer. Secondary entrance/exit on south corner. Additional on second level, central. Video security, all entrances. There’s also an interior elevator. Terraces off first and second levels, roof terrace on second level. She’s on Fifty-two and Three, southeast corner.”