Delusion in Death (28 page)

He might tell her to take care of his cop, but he often beat her to it.

“A cold front moved in,” Summerset said simply. “We’ve had a hard frost, and there’s a bitter wind this morning.”

“Okay.” She hesitated, knowing very well they were both aware he rarely greeted her in the morning, much less with a weather forecast. “I can’t give you all the details, but we found a link between the suspect and Red Horse. I have to tighten it, but it’s a connection, maybe—probably—an important one.”

“I could be useful.”

“Be useful to him.” She glanced upstairs. “He’s let too much slide the last couple months. I’ve got this.”

“Then I wish you a very productive day.”

She stepped outside, found Summerset’s description of the wind exactly on target. The bitter blew straight into her bones before she jumped into the vehicle—heater already running—at the base of the steps.

She plugged in the disc Roarke had given her, started to order it on audio. Then gave herself permission to deal with personal business first.

A sleepy-eyed, slurry-voiced Mavis came up on her in-dash screen.

“Hey. Guess I woke you up.”

“Not so much. We’re all having a snuggle. We put in a late night, and Belle woke up early.”

“Okay. Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you. You texted you were all in Florida. Still?”

“Miami. We zipped down a couple days ago. I had a two-night gig, and Leonardo’s meeting with some totally-too-tanned clients while we’re here. We’re good.”

“Why don’t you stay down there until I get back to you?”

There was a rustle, baby-voiced babbling, and a low rumble that must have been Leonardo. “That’s affirmative.” Mavis shook back her hair, a cotton-candy pink froth sparkling with some sort of silvery overlay. “Weather’s mag, and we got a place with our own pool. Bellarina’s our little mermaid. We got the skinny off screen. What the you-know-what, Dallas.”

“I can’t give you the details, but we’re working it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

“There’s lots of buzz about terrorism.”

“It’s not, but it’s messy. Just stay sunny.”

“Totally, but—okay, sweet potato. Bella hears your voice. Hang a mo.”

“Das!” Belle’s pretty face popped on screen. Eve had a flash of that pretty face, with tears streaming.

“Hey, kid.”

“Das, Das, Das,” she repeated, and bouncing launched into a long, incomprehensible babble, ending with, “Kay? Kay, Das?”

“Ah, sounds good. You do that.”

“Say bye, Belle. Bye-bye.”

“Bye, bye, Das! Bye slooch!”

Lips pursed, Belle pecked kisses at the screen. Sliding her gaze right and left—in case any other driver might catch a glimpse—Eve gave a single peck back. “See ya.”

“Ya!”

“She wants you to watch her swim,” Mavis said.

“How do you know that?”

“I’m multilingual-like. I speak Belle.”

“If you say so. Gotta go.”

“Stay chilly, stay safe.”

“That’s the plan. Talk later.”

Satisfied, oddly relieved, Eve ordered the disc to audio. She listened to data on the MacMillons the rest of the way to Central.

She tagged Peabody the minute she’d parked in the garage. “Where are you?”

“Walking into Central.”

“Grab me a coffee—real coffee from my office, then meet me in the conference room. I need to fill you in.”

“On that.”

Time to fill her in, Eve decided as she muscled onto the packed elevator. On a lot of levels.

15

Eve worked the board, running through data, connections, time lines as she added them.

Callaway to Hubbard to MacMillon to Menzini. How many turns, decisions, mistakes made in that chain? she wondered. All of them leading to this.

And how long had Callaway simmered, stewed, planned? How long had some suit whose purpose was to sell products—half of which people didn’t need in the first place—dreamed of murder?

And how long had he known murder was his legacy?

She thought of her recent dreams. Murder and misery could have been her legacy, if she’d reached for it, if she’d opened that door instead of another.

So now she stood here, studying murder—the victims, the killer, the whys, the hows. Another path, another choice, she might have been up on a board like this, with someone else doing the studying, the wondering.

Mira was right, she determined, in reality and dreams. It always came down to choices.

She heard Peabody’s clumping footsteps, then caught the scent of coffee.

“Long night,” Peabody said. “I worked with McNab, and we’ve got everything there is to know on Macie Snyder and Jeni Curve, plus we have deep data on five of the abductees who settled in New York.”

She paused, scanned the new data on the board. “Wow. Long night for you, too.”

“Did you read the data I sent you on Guiseppi Menzini?”

“Twice. Bad guy, chemist, religious crazy—and the primary suspect in two attacks, using the agent we’ve identified was used in our attacks. Captured and erased.”

“Callaway’s linked to Menzini through his mother, an abductee.”

“Callaway.” Peabody’s eyes narrowed on the board. “I took him for a lightweight. I don’t remember any Audrey Hubbard on the list.”

“Because there wasn’t. She was born Karleen MacMillon to Gina MacMillon—Tessa Hubbard’s half-sister—and an unknown father. The MacMillons were reported killed during the home invasion. Hubbard recovered the kid, changed her name, got a fresh birth certificate, and moved with her husband to New York.”

Eve grabbed the coffee. “There’s more. I want the images programmed as I’ve outlined while I fill you in.”

She ran it through while Peabody set up the programming.

“I’ve got two men on him. Roarke dug into the mother—Gina MacMillon. There’s more there, but we’ll pass that to Feeney.”

“With all the angles, all the data to sort through, I never thought we’d zero in this fast.” As Eve had, Peabody turned to the victim board. “I went to bed last night thinking we’d have to go into
another scene like the bar and the café. I didn’t get a lot of sleep thinking it.”

“We won’t give him a chance to add to this board.”

“I’ll sleep a hell of a lot better tonight then. Are we picking Callaway up this morning?”

“I want to see what he does this morning, where he goes. But yeah, we’ll be talking to him. I want to interview the Hubbards, and I’m damned if I’m going to Arkansas. I figure Teasdale has the pull to bring them here. Maybe enough pull to get a warrant to search their place while they’re out of it.”

“Do you think there’s something there, something with his parents? Jesus, Dallas, do you think they know?”

“I think there’s something there.” Eve stepped back from the board, drinking coffee as she scanned. “I can’t say what they know, but there’s a direct link from Red Horse, Menzini to Lewis Callaway. It’s biological, and there’s nothing here that comes close to proving he knew his own biology, or cared, or has any information on the substance used.”

“Maybe not, but we’ve got a lot of key pieces.”

“Now we need the whole picture. We need that to show means. There’s no clear motive. Was there a specific target—Cattery, Fisher—or were the attacks broad based? If target specific, why Cattery and Fisher? We’ve got opportunity. He was in the bar, and he lives and works within spitting distance of the café, and has admitted to frequenting same.”

She sat on the edge of the conference table, scanning, scanning. “We need more. We need to prove he had knowledge, had access to the formula. We need motive, specific or broad based. To sew him up tight, we need it all.”

“You’ve got enough to sweat him,” Peabody pointed out.

“Yeah, I can sweat him, and I will. I’d like more in my pocket before I do.”

She went back to her notes as cops trickled into the room. Then her head came up. She scented baked goods seconds before the wolf pack circled Feeney.

“Listen, the wife made this coffee cake thing from her cooking class deal. It’s probably not half bad.”

As if it mattered, Eve thought. She let them have the next couple minutes to tear in, devour while she finished off her coffee.

“Fall in,” she ordered. “And wipe the crumbs off your faces, for Christ’s sake. In case any of you have maintained some minor interest in the current investigation, we’ve connected Callaway to Red Horse.”

That shut them up. Attention zeroed in on the boards as cops grabbed chairs.

She waited one more beat, nodded to Peabody. “Gina MacMillon,” she began as the image came on screen. “This is Lewis Callaway’s biological grandmother. She is twenty-three in this ID, issued before, according to statements and documents, she abandoned her husband and joined an unnamed cult. During her association with the cult, she gave birth to a female. The certificate of birth lists her husband as father, and was issued when the infant was six months old. The infant was named Karleen MacMillon, listed as an abductee at the age of eighteen months, and never recovered. However—”

The next image slid on.

“This is Karleen MacMillon’s computer-aged image at the age of twenty-one. And this is Audrey Hubbard Callaway’s ID photo at the same age. Audrey Hubbard’s certificate of birth is fake, and issued to Gina MacMillon’s half-sister Tessa and her husband, Edward, who left England when the child was approximately four years of age, and
settled in Johnstown, Ohio. Audrey Hubbard married Russell Callaway, and subsequently gave birth to a son, Lewis.”

“The dots connect,” Baxter commented.

“Yeah, they do. William MacMillon’s petition for divorce, and his deposition, cite abandonment, a cult, and specifically names Menzini. Unless MacMillon was lying, the date of the deposition and the date listed as the kid’s birth make it impossible for him to be the biological father.”

“He took her back,” Baxter said, “and took the kid as his? What is he, an apostle or something?”

“Find out. You and Trueheart find out everything you can, find me somebody who knew him, knew them. He’s listed as killed, along with Gina, in the raid that took the kid. I want the dirt on the marriage—people always know the dirt, and they remember it.”

“Reineke, Jenkinson, I want the same on the Hubbards. Why did they change the kid’s name, fake a birth certificate, move to another country?”

“Could be the sperm donor was trouble,” Reineke speculated. “They wanted to keep the kid from him. Or hell, they just wanted a fresh start.”

“I like the first, that’s my push on it. They could’ve legally adopted the kid, or applied for guardianship. I can’t find anything that says they went that route. Why not? Hubbard was military, retired a captain. She was the kid’s closest blood relation, except for the grandparents. Her father, Gina’s mother. The grandmother’s still alive, in England. Get me the story.”

“I think Detective Callendar and I might have something.” Teasdale glanced toward Callendar, got the nod. “We have considerable data on Red Horse, though much of it is anecdotal, speculative or unsubstantiated. We focused most directly, for obvious reasons, on
Menzini once you passed his name to us, and were able to find a few reports, and images—all dating prior to his apprehension.”

“I’ve got the data, if I can use the auxiliary,” Callendar said.

“Go ahead. While she’s setting that up, further search showed Callaway’s habit of visiting his parents—now in Arkansas, an average of once a year, until a few months ago. He’s traveled there several times this year. And in reading the employee reviews, we found Cattery received a much larger bonus than Callaway on a recent project—initiated by Callaway, completed by Cattery. Cattery was also in line for a promotion. Money and position may be motive.”

“I’ve got it, Lieutenant.”

“Run it,” Eve ordered Callendar.

“The images were grainy, indistinct. I cleaned them up, and I can clean them more. This is a photo run on the
Daily Mail
blog, out of London. It identifies Menzini, preaching to a group after a fire-fight in the East End. The woman to his right is identified only as his companion.”

“Magnify her.” Eve moved closer to the screen. “Dyed her hair red—that fits—and it’s longer—but that’s Gina MacMillon.”

“There’s another.” Callendar switched images. “Leaving some kind of revival. She looks knocked up to me.”

“And right beside Menzini again. Run the image against her ID, make sure we’ve got a match.”

“There are very few photos of him during the Urbans,” Teasdale commented. “It’s interesting that two of the few have this woman at his side.”

“It’s going to be more interesting if he’s the biological father.”

“Yes.” Teasdale smiled serenely. “It will.”

“His DNA is on record somewhere. HSO would have it.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“The birth mother and the half-sister are dead, but there might be DNA records there. And the grandmother’s still alive. I need Menzini’s. Make it happen, Teasdale. And while you’re at it, I want the suspect’s parents brought to New York for questioning.”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

“Arrange it, and asap.” She pulled out her ’link, read the incoming text. “The suspect is leaving his apartment building—dressed for work, carrying a briefcase. He’ll be kept under surveillance. I want to interview the parents before we bring him in.”

“Then I’ll begin arrangements.”

“I want to search their house once they’re en route.”

Teasdale lifted her eyebrows. “As you know, what we have is compelling, but there is no hard evidence, and securing a search warrant on civilians, who even with this compelling data show no association with Red Horse, or any involvement in the murders, may prove difficult.”

“There’s a reason he went back there multiple times in the last few months.”

“Agreed. But the residence in question is one belonging to two, apparently, law-abiding citizens. I’ll do what I can to persuade my superior and the appropriate judge that the warrant is vital to public safety.”

“Fine. Feeney, everything Roarke has on Gina MacMillon’s on disc. He ran out of time.”

“I’ll pick up where he left off, get more.”

“Let’s all get more. I want to know everything there is to know about this cast of characters, including their freaking shoe size, by midday. Move on it.