Delusion in Death

8

He stared at her with his shadowed, bloodshot eyes. Said nothing at all.

“Your brother’s a big-shot chemist, right, Devon? Dr. Christopher Lester, with a bunch of letters after his name. A really smart guy,” she added, opening a file, nodding as she scanned it. “A scientist.”

“What?”

“Is your brother a chemist who specializes in the development and testing of medicines and drugs?”

“He—yeah. What’s that got to do with any of this?”

“Put it together. You couldn’t afford the place, so you have to work for somebody else. Somebody with more money, more connections. Somebody, like you said yourself, everybody knows. That’s a pisser, I bet.”

“No—it’s—”

“Your brother’s got access to all kinds of drugs, chemicals, and the knowledge to put them together.” Eyes on Devon, she slapped the file closed. “A substance is released in the bar you run, Devon, and when it’s your day off. Boy, that’s handy. People die, it’s a massacre. And a scandal. Property value plummets. Like you said, maybe Roarke’s not going to open again. Maybe he’ll sell it. Maybe, again like you said yourself, somebody did this to take a hit at Roarke, and to bring the cost of the property down.”

“You—you think I did this? To my own people? My own place?”

“Roarke’s place.”

Fury rose up until his face matched his dreads. “He owns it; I run it.” Devon slammed a fist on his chest. “I run it! I know every single one of the people who work there, and all the regulars, too. I know a lot of the people who died yesterday. They mattered to me. I come in here to try to help, because I want to find out what happened, who did this. And you accuse me?”

“No one’s accusing you, Devon. It’s a scenario.”

“It’s bullshit. You’re saying I could’ve made this happen. And worse, God, you’re trying to pull my brother into it? Chris is a hero. You get that? A hero. He works to save lives, to make lives better, to help people. You’ve got no right to say anything bad about my brother.”

“We have to ask questions.” Peabody put on the calm as Devon’s outrage spun through the room, sharp as whirling blades. “We have to consider different possibilities before we can eliminate them and move on in the investigation.”

“You want to look at me, you look. Inside, outside, back and forward. Give me a truth test, stick a fucking probe up my ass. I’ve got nothing to hide. But you lay off my brother, right? You lay off Chris.”

“Let me ask you this, Devon.” Eve leaned back a little. “If Roarke sells, and the price is in your reach, would you buy the place?”

“In a heartbeat.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Make something of it.”

“If you wanted the place, still want it, why didn’t you ask your brother for a loan, or to make an investment? He could afford it.”

“If I can’t make it myself, it’s not mine, is it? I don’t tap Chris when I want money. He’s my brother, not a frigging bank. I’ve got nothing more to say about it. Unless you’re charging me with something, I’m leaving.”

“We’re not charging you with anything. You’re certainly free to go.”

He shoved back, scraping the chair on the floor. At the door, he turned. “I’d hate to be somebody who’s always looking for the worst in people.”

When the door shut, Peabody lifted her shoulders in a hunch. “He kinda made me feel guilty.”

“You’re a cop. You’re paid to look for the worst in people.”

“I like to think of it more as hunting down the worst people.”

This time she rubbed the back of her neck because it did trouble her. “Do you want to count the number of times we’ve had somebody in that chair who looked like a nice guy who turned out to be a stone killer?”

“I don’t have enough fingers.”

“Exactly. Let’s talk to the brother.”

Christopher Lester shared his brother’s coloring and build. Rather than dreads, he wore his red hair short, straight, styled like a Roman centurion. He wore a well-tailored suit and perfectly knotted tie, both in deep, bronzy brown.

His wrist unit winked gold in the overhead light.

“Dr. Lester,” Eve began. “Thanks for coming in.”

“I’m happy to cooperate. I assume this has to do with the murders at On the Rocks yesterday. My brother’s devastated.”

“You’ve spoken to him.”

“Of course. I contacted him as soon as I heard there’d been trouble. If he’d been there …”

“I understand. We’d like to record this interview.” Eve ordered record on, read in the data. “I’m going to read you your rights. It’s routine.”

Chris lifted his eyebrows. “Is it?”

“It’s standard, and for your protection.” She recited the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations, Dr. Lester?”

“Yes, I do.” His hands, big like his brother’s and perfectly manicured, folded on the table. “What I don’t understand is what you think I can tell you, or what possible help I can be.”

“You never know. Yesterday, the day of the incident, was your brother’s day off.”

“Thank God. That may be selfish, but he’s my brother.”

“You contacted him, you said.”

“A friend heard the bulletin, told me. She knew Devon managed On the Rocks as I’d taken her there for drinks. I contacted him.”

“Where were you?”

“I was still at the lab. Actually about to leave. I tried his ’link immediately. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when he answered.”

“You weren’t aware of his work schedule?”

“No. It changes often, as does my own. When I reached him, he was at the bar. Not inside as they—the police—wouldn’t let him go in. He said he was coming in here, to try to find out what happened. When we spoke later, he said he and his partner would visit the rest of his staff this morning to tell them.”

He looked away a moment. “My brother is a strong man, a good manager. To be a good manager he has to know how to handle problems—small and large—with equanimity. And he does. I’ve never heard or seen him so broken. I hope to never hear or see him broken like this again.”

He looked back, straight into Eve’s eyes. “So I came in to speak with you, as requested. And I’ll answer these questions fully understanding you suspect him. I’ll answer them, Lieutenant, so you’ll understand Devon is a strong man, with equally strong senses of loyalty and compassion. He not only loves his work, he cared, very much, for every single person who worked under him. He could tell you their names, the names of family members, pets, boyfriends, girlfriends. They are—were—family to him.”

“He wanted to buy the bar.”

“I’m aware. His partner, Quirk, told me Devon had looked into buying it some months back, but didn’t have the funds.”

“You have them.”

“Yes. I would’ve lent him the money, and offered knowing full well he’d refuse. We’re stiff-necked, you could say. Pride is a Lester family trait—or flaw, depending. I can also tell you Devon was pleased when Roarke purchased the property as it gave him confidence it would be well-funded, and marketed.”

“Price should be going down after this.”

He shot Eve a look of pained amusement. “Lieutenant, do you seriously think a man like Devon would bring about the horror of what happened at On the Rocks so he’d lower the market value of the property into line with his own finances? He’d never deliberately cause anyone harm, and in addition, simply lacks the means. He wouldn’t know how to … Ah.”

Now Chris sat back, nodding slowly. “I would have the know-how. The reports haven’t been very specific, but it was a biological or chemical agent, something that infected the people inside the bar. So Devon and I plotted this out, and I gave him the agent.”

“He wanted the bar, you have the means. It’s a theory.”

“My brother isn’t a wealthy man, not monetarily. Did you know he’s planning a memorial, for everyone who was killed? Using his own funds. People mean more to Devon than money, and always have. You don’t have to take my word. Talk to anyone who knows him.”

“You work with hallucinogenics, with psychedelic drugs?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Recently? Currently?”

“If you clear it with the board, I’d have no objections to discussing my projects—past, present, and pending. But I can’t give you information on them without that clearance, not even to eliminate myself, even my brother, from a suspect list.”

“All right. Thank you again for coming in. Interview end.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, for now.”

He rose. “Even if he weren’t my brother, I’d tell you Devon is the best man I know. It’s as simple as that. I hope you find who’s responsible, Lieutenant. I don’t believe Devon will begin to heal until you do.”

Start working on getting a warrant for Dr. Lester’s records,” Eve told Peabody when they were alone.

“Okay.”

“Problem?”

“It’s just … The way each of them took up for the other, the way each one of them talked about the other. I’m not being soft,” Peabody insisted. “But it’s hard to reconcile that kind of love, affection, and respect with two people who’d plot a mass murder.”

“Do you have enough fingers to count the number of partners who had affection and respect, possibly love for each other who murdered, raped, stole, tortured, and committed other assorted crimes?”

“I guess not.”

“We follow through, Peabody, every detail, every angle—even when the odds are they’re not going to lead us anywhere.”

“You don’t think the two of them are involved?”

“No, but I can’t prove it. If I thought they were involved, I couldn’t prove it. Let’s get data.”

Eve glanced at the time. “Aw, gee, I missed the media conference. That’s a shame.”

“That statement hits the red zone on the lie-o-meter.”

“But it feels good. I want thirty minutes in my office to check incomings and status, then we’re going back to the crime scene.”

“Do you think they’re not involved—the Lester brothers—for the same reasons as me?”

“Probably not.” Eve headed out, moving fast so Peabody had to hustle to keep pace. “Devon’s not stupid. Roarke doesn’t have stupid people managing any of his interests. But when I push him on buying the place—would he if he could—he’s all pissed off, damn straight. Smarter to say it’s tainted, his friends died there. Smarter, too, to go straight to pissed or shocked when I led him to our looking at him and his brother. Instead he’s just confused at first. He didn’t have an answer for everything. He didn’t have the right answers for everything. If he had, I wouldn’t bump him down the list.

“The brother’s smart, real smart, and a lot more cynical. He caught on fast. I want to look at his research, his experiments, I want a feel for what he does and how he does it. But it would be stupid for him to kill a whole bunch of people in his brother’s bar. If he were going to do it, he’d have done it somewhere else, not so readily connected.”

“Part of your reasoning’s like mine. It’s the kind of people they are—the stand-up-for-your-brother people.”

“Half a point.”

“Three-quarters.”

“Three-quarters because I’m too busy to argue.”

“Yay!” Peabody said as Eve swung off and into her office.

She’d barely started on the first report when Baxter came to her door.

“Need a minute.”

“Take it,” she told him.

“Adam Stewart. We just finished up with him. He’s alibied for the time line, and I’ve got nothing that puts him in that bar yesterday, or at fucking all.”

“But?”

“He’s a bad bastard, Dallas, and he’s cagey. Bad and cagey fits whoever did this.”

She saw his eyes flick toward her AutoChef. Under the circumstances, she thought, what the hell. “Go ahead, but don’t spread it around you got coffee in here.”

“To the grave.” He moved quickly before she could change her mind, programmed a mug for each of them. Knowing its miseries, he sat on the edge of her visitor’s chair.

“But,” Eve prompted again.

“With him being a bad bastard and a cagey son of a bitch, I figure he’s capable of doing this. But I don’t think he had the means or opportunity. Plus, poking around, the sister—that’s Amie Stewart—didn’t go in there routinely. Now and then, sure, but she wasn’t a regular. How’d he know she’d be there? They weren’t close, didn’t hang out together, or make regular contact. But …”

Baxter let it hang a moment while he drank coffee. “He’s sweaty in Interview. He’s evasive, and not doing such a hot job of pretending to be sorry his sister’s dead. I had Trueheart drill down into his financials, and they don’t add up. It looks like he found a way to siphon off some funds from the trust deal, so with a little work we could get him there.”

“We don’t have time to poke at some bad bastard for embezzlement right now.”

“I get that, but there’s more. The trustee who oversees all that stuff went missing two weeks ago. Being a detective, I detect two ways, the trustee was in on it with Stewart and went on the lam, or the trustee found out what Stewart was up to, and Stewart made him disappear. Either way …”

“Yeah.” She calculated. “Do you have any problem turning this over to Carmichael and Sanchez?”

Baxter winced, comforted himself with coffee. “I gotta say, I want to see it through. The fucker’s dirty, and he just makes my ass twitch. But I can live with passing it on, at least until we clear this case.”

“Do that, and move to the next.”

“That’d be Callaway, then Weaver. They’ve been in meetings all morning, but we’re going over to the offices, corner them, separately, try to follow up with some of the others. That place lost five people.”

He rose, set aside the empty mug. “I wish it was Stewart, because he needs to go away.”

She made a note to stay on top of Stewart, then toggled back to continue with the reports, read Strong’s, and saw the Illegals detective currently pushed on a lead on sources for large or regular purchases of LSD.

Back to the beginning, Eve decided, and returned to the bullpen. “Peabody, with me. Unless otherwise notified, I want everybody in that briefing at sixteen hundred. I’m in the field.”

“I went to Reo for the warrant,” Peabody told her on the way to the garage. “She doesn’t see a problem getting it, and quick. Everybody’s on full alert on this one.”

“I want at least two men on that, with experience and knowledge in Lester’s field. Send in a request to Whitney.”

“Dickhead would have people.”

Eve sighed. “Yeah, he would. Copy him on the request, further requesting Dickhead handpick two of his people to examine Lester’s records, his lab—and I want reports on same in plain English.”

“I talked to McNab for a minute.”

“I don’t want to hear your perverted sex chats,” Eve warned as they got into the car.

“We only spent like ten seconds on that part. They’ve about finished with the ’links. They got a couple more who were on when they were infected, and a couple more who made calls directly after becoming infected. It’s ripping, he said, listening to it. They’ve been going over any and all recovered electronics. Memo books, notebooks, PPCs. Some of them were in use, too. It doesn’t look as if they’ve got anything that’s going to help. Nothing that pops as a communication with or from the perpetrator. But it shows, again, how fast and how strong the vics were affected.”

“How about the door surveillance?”

“They went back forty-eight hours. There’s no break in the time scan, no anomalies. They ID’d some of the vics—I guess regulars— who went in and out the day before approximately the same time frame, and they’re working on a search for any of the people who connect to vics or survivors to see if any showed up within the last couple days. They’ll have those for you at the briefing. Some coworkers. The after-hours activity is just what you’d expect. Staff leaving, either alone or in groups. Last one out the two nights before the incident was Devon Lester, and that coincides with the work schedule for the week.”

Normal day-to-day, Eve thought. Until the world ends.

“Whoever’s responsible knew about the door cam, which means anybody as it’s right there in plain sight. If they didn’t jam it, then they just walked in as staff or customer, and left the same way.”

“McNab says no jamming. They’ve run it through every analysis, including Roarke’s. Feeney’s also put a couple of his uniforms on listening detail. They’re monitoring sites globally, and off-planet. Listening for any chatter on the incident. Any hint of any individual or person with prior knowledge, or claiming credit. Lots more chatter—it’s the big buzz—but nothing that stands out.”

“He/they? There’s going to be a reaction to the media conference. Lots of chatter and buzz, but Whitney’s statement, and his delivery? It’s going to strike as a challenge. Whitney’s confident, stoic, steady. He might let some of the anger show, but that’s just juice for this type.”

“You think he’ll make some sort of contact.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” But not what she feared.

When they got to the bar, Eve broke the seal, then took a moment to clear her mind. She stepped in, scanned the dimly lit space.

The ugly and all too familiar scent of blood and chemicals, of death and sweepers’ dust, clung to the air. She cleared her mind of that, too.

“Lights on full,” she ordered, and imagined what it would have looked like at opening. Rather than broken chairs and tables, shattered glass, floors and walls stained with blood and gore, there would have been the shine and clean of closing mopping.

“Devon took us through the opening routine,” she said to Peabody. “Be Devon. Walk through it.”

“Office first, check receipts and drawer.”

“Temp controls first,” Eve corrected.

“Right.”

While Peabody ran through the checklist, Eve stood back, watched.

Whoever opened moved through every area of the space—office, kitchen, storeroom, restrooms, behind the bar.

“He sees what he sees every day,” Eve said out loud. “Sometimes people miss, in a routine, don’t see what they don’t expect to see. But Devon Lester’s meticulous. He thinks of this as his place. I’d say the bartender followed suit, or he wouldn’t stick as assistant manager.”

“No criminal on the bartender,” Peabody told her. “I talked to the fiancée. Tough one. She said he thought of the bar as his home away from home as much as a job.”

“I saw the report.” And she’d read Roarke’s background checks on the bartender, and the other employees. Nobody popped out.

“The substance or device had to be handy if it was used by a customer,” she considered. “If it was staff, there aren’t that many hidey-holes Lester, the bartender, or one of the other staff wouldn’t see at some point during the day.”

“They’re open for lunch,” Peabody pointed out.

“Yeah. Why risk leaving a dangerous substance on the premises, where it can be found or accidentally triggered before you’re ready? You bring it with you, keep it with you.”

She moved to the bar, behind it, crouched, rose again.

“Not suicide.”

“Why?” Peabody wondered.

“All the next of kin have been notified. A good chunk of friends and coworkers have been interviewed. It’s taking time, but vics’ residences and places of employment are being searched. This was a big statement.”

She saw it again, like a film over the room. The blood, the bodies, the battlefield.

“If you’re using it to self-terminate and take a bunch of people with you, where’s your announcement, your statement in your words? Suicides typically want people to know. And murder/suicides? They’re not just depressed, they’re pissed off. It’s not impulse, so where’s the mission statement?

“No,” Eve repeated, “not suicide. He’s out there. He came in.”

She moved back to the door, imagined the noise, the color and movement, the tables of people, the crowded bar. “He’s been here before, knows the place. He doesn’t particularly stand out. He’s one of the type who comes here after work, before heading home. Wears a suit, carries a briefcase or a file bag, a purse. Something normal, and it serves to carry the substance.

“He’s not alone.”

“But—”

“You stand out more alone,” Eve said before Peabody could finish. “He’s got to figure there’s a good probability there’ll be at least a couple survivors. Maybe more. This is the first, so he can’t be absolutely sure. Stop off for a drink with friends from the office, or meet a client, grab a table or a seat at the bar, order drinks. Get some finger food, talk shop, talk business. Blend in.”

“Pretty damn cold.”

“Cold, sure. But cool, too. Cool-headed. Controlled, detail-oriented. He’s excited, has to be. He talks to the bartender or the waitress, maybe both. And he thinks, ‘Soon you’ll be dead. I’ll kill you soon and I won’t so much as smear the shine on my shoes. Today I’m God.’”

“Oh, man,” Peabody mumbled.

“And the same with the people he works with every day. You’re not going into the office tomorrow, he thinks, or coming in for your shift. You’ll never get that raise or promotion you’ve been busting your ass for. And I’m the reason. I’m the power here.

“His pulse may be racing at the thought of it, but it doesn’t show. Not enough. He looks around at all the people—the suits, the drones, the eager beavers, the overworked. It ends for them here, over half-priced drinks and free salsa.”

“God,” Peabody breathed, because she could see it, too.

“It’s so fucking funny when you think about it, and he thinks about it. But he doesn’t laugh. He just has his drink, talks shop, eats a spring roll, bitches about the workload or the client or the boss—whatever the topic of the day might be.”

She wandered, glanced up, over. “At the bar or a table close to it. This area, most likely. He wants to cover as much ground as he can—this space, the kitchen, down to the restroom. Ventilation’s right overhead here.”

She studied the bar, pictured the nearby tables.

“Purse or briefcase or bag on the lap, take out the substance, the container. What does he do? What does he do? Under the chair, the table, the barstool? Drop something, bend down to pick it up. Set it down? Who’d notice? Could have your hand sealed, coated with it. Shake someone’s hand, friendly slap on the back, whatever—spread it around some.”

“If it started spreading wouldn’t he be infected?”

“That’s the sticky,” Eve muttered. “It works fast, so he’d have to get out fairly quick. Into the air. Or if he concocted this, he could’ve concocted an antidote, a preventative. But either way, he can’t hang around and see how it goes.

“Gotta go. See you tomorrow. I’ll e-mail you that file when I’m finished. Easy-breezy, and out the door.”

She walked to it, opened it. Stepped out.

Traffic, noise, movement again. More of it when the killer had stepped outside. Slide right into the flood of people heading home, to other bars, to shops.

“Offices,” she said to Peabody, looking up at the towers with countless windows. “But apartments, too. A lot of people like to live close to work. They can walk in the good weather. Plenty of buildings with a good view of the bar. He can’t stay inside, can’t risk planting a camera, but wouldn’t it be fun to stand at one of those windows, look down here and know what was happening inside? Timing it, waiting for it, watching throngs of people walk right by the door, unaware, oblivious to the fact that you’re committing murder right now.”

“I’ll start a cross-search for anyone with a residence in eye-line with the crime scene.”

“Worth a shot,” Eve agreed.

“There are a couple cafés, street level, with street views. He could’ve walked across the street, sat down, and watched from there.”

“Start some uniforms on a canvass, showing photos of everyone who’s marked for another round of interviews to whatever waitperson had window tables during that shift. Yeah, he might’ve enjoyed having a bite to eat or a fancy coffee right across the street, watching the whole damn aftermath. All those cops swarming the place, checking out his work. He might.”

While Eve stood on the sidewalk, considering a killer’s entertainment, the lunch rush at Café West was in full swing. They served good, simple food with table and counter service. Customers sat ass to elbow, talking over the clatter of dishes.

The air carried the appealing scent of fall with today’s pumpkin soup. Most of the crowd looked for a quick, easy meal that didn’t consume the entire lunch hour, so they could pop out again to handle an errand, or linger over coffee before scrambling back to offices and cubes.

Lydia McMeara picked at her tiny, undressed salad between sips of spring water. She was on a diet—again. She nibbled hungrily at lettuce, struggling not to hate Cellie for her perpetually svelte figure. Then there was Brenda who couldn’t claim svelte but owned smoking.

Plus they both juggled men like tennis balls while she herself was in a two-year rut with dull, earnest Bob.

Even his name was dull and earnest.

Things would be different once she got in shape. And it would be easier if she could afford some body sculpting rather than starving herself on rabbit food.

The money she saved walking the eight blocks to work and back every day would add up, she assured herself. And God knew she spent nearly nothing on food anymore.

What she wouldn’t give for a couple bubbling slices of pizza with the works and a calorically prohibitive beer.

“Here, Lydia.” Cellie with her perfect cupid’s bow mouth smiled sympathetically. “Have half my sandwich. Half doesn’t count.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should join my health club.” The smoldering, smoking Brenda had a salad, too. A huge one with an ocean of creamy dressing, seasoned croutons, and golden slivers of cheese.

At that moment, Lydia hated her.

“I don’t have time, and I don’t have the money. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself, Lydia.” Cellie, big brown eyes radiating sincerity, rubbed a hand up and down Lydia’s arm. “You’re beautiful.”

“I’m fat,” Lydia said flatly. She hated herself, hated Cellie and Brenda. She wanted to slap the stupid, tasteless salad right in Cellie’s face.

“I look fat, feel fat, am fat. And I’m going to fix it.” Annoyed, Lydia shoved the salad away. “I’m not hungry,” she repeated, “and it’s too noisy in here. I feel a headache coming on. I’m going to walk for a while.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cellie began.

“No. Stay. Eat. Eat, eat, eat. I’m in a bad mood, and I want to be alone.”

She stomped toward the door, squeezing through the spaces between tables while her temper spurted up like a black, oily fountain.

Oh yeah, midday headache from starving myself half to damn death, she thought.

She reached the door, yanked it open. Glanced back.

Her eyes met Brenda’s, just for an instant. In them she saw the same vile dislike she felt, the ugly truth of it.

She always knew Brenda was a bitch. Always knew it.

For a moment she wanted to turn around, stomp back, and punch smoldering bitch Brenda in the face. Then claw her nails down it. Draw blood. Drink blood.

Instead, she slammed out the door, shoving her way down the sidewalk.

And lived.