J. Robb - Delusion in Death

“We have both locked, Dallas. What—”

“She’s blown. Hold. Alert your security on the families and apartments,” Eve told Roarke. “We’re going to go over every inch of this place. McNab, I need men on all Biotech facilities in New York and New Jersey. Get e-men on it, check all security discs for any sighting of the suspect. She’s to be considered armed and dangerous.”

She replaced her ’link. “She didn’t have much time here. I gave her more, just a little more by giving Nadine the heads up on an arrest. Damn it. Fuck it. How much did she make? Why? Why not just blow?”

She began to pace. “She could’ve walked straight out the front. She didn’t. She wanted us to waste time, setting this up, assuming she was inside. But that cost her time. Time she couldn’t spend getting on her shuttle and getting away. Now we’ve locked down her vehicles, frozen her accounts.”

“I suspect she has ready funds buried.”

“Yeah, but she took this time instead of running.”

“She’s not ready to get out of New York.”

“She has a target. Something big. The mayor—she’d never get near Gracie Mansion, not today. Cop Central—same deal. She has to know security has her face.”

Peabody walked in. “It looks like she might’ve packed a few things. Jewelry, I think. There’s an empty safe in the master bed-room, and some signs she, or somebody, went through the closet in a hurry.”

“She figures on getting away. She took valuables, clothes. You don’t bother with that unless you believe you’ll need them.”

“It doesn’t feel right she’d just leave her grandson,” Peabody said. “Just take off, leave him swinging.”

“She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him when push comes to bigger push. It’s about the principle, the mission. About Menzini.”

“I think she does care about Callaway. She’s got a picture of him framed on her dresser. And there’s one of the two of them in the second bedroom—some men’s clothes in there, too. Nice ones, new. They look like his size. It seems, I don’t know, caring and sentimental.”

Eve pushed by, strode through the living room. “Your men can stand down, Lowenbaum, but hold. Just hold.”

She took the stairs two at a time.

In the master, gold again with soft, almost watery greens and blues, Callaway’s photo stood in a gold frame on an antique dresser. Facing the bed, Eve noted. She’d wanted to see him, see his face before she went to sleep.

“This was taken here.” She snatched it up, walked to the wide windows. “On the terrace, probably. You can see the river behind him. Get me the other one,” she snapped at Peabody, and circled the room with the photograph.

“Caring, sentimental. I’m wrong here. Maybe, maybe. He’s her blood—Menzini’s blood. Male. Good-looking, fit, not stupid. And willing to kill. Willing to follow the path. Menzini dies, and what does she have left? Callaway. The daughter’s nothing but the daughter provided the grandson. People put their hopes and dreams into their offspring.”

She grabbed the second photo when Peabody hurried back. It showed Callaway, wide smile, his arm around the waist of his grandmother. Was that pride in her eyes, Eve wondered. Affection? Ambition.

Maybe all of it.

“She gave him what she had,” Eve mused. “The means to destroy. Let him start with his enemies, his competitors, those he considered in his way. No, that’s not the mission, not the credo. That’s personal. Indulgence. She lets him create panic and fear, for his own sake—not the big picture. Then they’d move on, together, to bigger and better. Is that it? Did she, along the way, develop feelings for him? Her grandson, her only worthy family. No, she’s not going to leave him swinging.”

“What can she do?” Peabody asked. “She can’t get to him.”

“She’s cooked up a hell of a bargaining chip, right down in her kitchen. She can finish what he started, what he’d planned to do next. Weaver. That restaurant. What was it? What—Appetito.”

Nancy Weaver hooked her arm through her date’s as they strolled along the sidewalk. The night air, so cold and crisp, felt wonderful on her skin.

“Thanks, Marty.”

“For what?”

“For indulging me.”

He laughed, shifted so he could wrap an arm around her waist. “I thought we indulged each other.”

“We did. I know I was a mess when I showed up at your door.”

“You’ve had a horrible couple of days. We all have, but you most of all.”

“It’s been a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up. When I heard that Lew—Jesus, how could I have worked with him all this time and not known, not seen?”

“Don’t they say it’s often the people closest who don’t see?”

“Maybe, but I’m trained to read people. Damn it, Marty, I’m good at it. Or I thought I was. I never read this in him. He can be difficult, moody, and annoyingly passive-aggressive, but, Marty, he killed all those people. And our own. Our own Joe and Carly.”

“Thinking about it’s only going to upset you again.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. Well, I did for a while.” She smiled up at him. “And to think I nearly canceled our date tonight.”

“I’m glad you didn’t—not only for the mutual, predinner indulgence, but because you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I just walked out of work.” She tipped her head toward his shoulder. “I couldn’t be there. I just walked, and walked, and ended up at your door—two hours early. It was good for me, I admit it, but I have to think about everyone in the office. And, God, I still haven’t turned my ’link back on.”

“Leave it off.” He gave her a comforting squeeze. “Give yourself tonight. You can be there for everyone else tomorrow.”

“It feels selfish.”

“Speaking as the CEO of Stevenson and Reede’s, I say it’s not selfish but sane. You need some breathing room, Nancy. And so do I. The fallout on this is going to take weeks, months to dig out from under.”

“I need to contact Elaine—Joe’s wife—tomorrow. See how she’s doing. We need to do something for her, Marty, for her and Carly’s family. For the other families. I don’t know what yet. I can’t think straight.”

He drew her a little closer. “I promise you, we’re working on just that. Take the breathing room. We’ll have a nice bottle of wine, some dinner. You stay at my place tonight, and we’ll talk it through.”

“If I hadn’t had a date with you that night, that night we all went to the bar …”

He bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Don’t think about that either. You’re safe. You’re with me. And Lewis Callaway’s in police custody. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

“Thank God for that.” She managed to smile at him as they reached the door. “I’m glad you talked me into coming down, having dinner here after all. It’s another kind of indulgence. I guess I need it.”

“We both do.”

They walked in to the sounds, the scents, the lights. Comfort, Weaver thought. She’d take all she could get, and try to put Lew and the nightmare away for another hour or two.

The maitre d’ came toward her with hands outstretched. “Ms. Weaver, it’s so good to see you. Don’t worry about a thing. Your assistant called to confirm your reservation.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize …”

“We have your favorite wine for you, with our compliments. We want you to relax. We want you to know we value you, and are happy you’re safe and well.”

“Oh, Franco.” Her eyes welled. “Thank you so much.”

“Now, you only relax and enjoy. Right this way.”

Weaver blinked at the tears, clutched Marty’s hand. And didn’t notice the attractive older woman at the bar, sipping a martini and watching her with hard blue eyes.