by J. D. Robb
“Done and done.” He pulled out some gum—she remembered, for some reason, he preferred blueberry—offered it. When she shook her head he folded a piece into his mouth, then took out his tablet.
They huddled over the floor plans.
“My e-guy here’s going to take out her security,” Eve told him. “Once your team’s secured the entrance, I need you to hold.”
She pulled out her ’link, printed out the warrant. “We’re a go there. There’s a biohazard team en route, but I’m not waiting on them. Have your coordinator send them in, the minute they arrive.”
“We’ve got mouth-breathers. You want?”
“They leave a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Tell me.” He nodded, tapped his earpiece. “My man says we’re having trouble with eyes and ears. She’s got it shielded.”
“Here’s the deal, Lowenbaum. My team’s going in, the team you select comes in behind us, helps us clear. She went in prior to the media report, and hasn’t come out this way. If she’s in there, we apprehend, incapacitate if necessary.”
She hesitated a moment. “You know me, right?”
He grinned at her. “Used to think maybe I’d know you better, but that didn’t happen.” He turned his grin to Roarke. “She wouldn’t give me the green.”
Roarke grinned back at him.
“You could say I took my shot.”
“Jesus.” Eve shook her head. “I’d like you on the clear team, and if I tell you to stun me and my people, do it.”
“That’s … unusual.”
“Maybe, but do it. Every room we go in, we open doors and windows. Blast them out if they’re sealed. I’ll get back to you.” She turned, moved fast to meet up with Baxter and Trueheart. “They’ve got mouth-breathers. You may want.”
“You carry around that crappy aftertaste for hours,” Baxter complained.
“Your choice. We take the central elevator. Roarke, take down her private. Trueheart, you head to Five-two-oh-four, get the family inside out and down. Baxter, you and Peabody go in from Fifty-three, clear it, open all windows and doors. If she’s up there, secure her, or take her down. Roarke and I go in on Fifty-two. Lowenbaum has men covering the terraces, moving now to secure all exits.”
“One old lady, right? A grandmother. Mine still makes the world’s best apple pie.”
“She’s nobody’s pie-making granny. Let’s go.”
Lowenbaum’s men had the lobby secure, and empty. Roarke shut down elevators one by one as teams reported positions.
“You don’t have body armor, LT.” Trueheart started to remove his own to give her.
“Keep it. I’ve got a magic coat.”
As Trueheart started to speak, Peabody nodded at him. “Seriously. She does.”
“Okay, cut the chatter.” She stepped off with Trueheart and Roarke into a white and gold foyer, pointed at the ceiling before the doors shut on Peabody, Baxter, and the other men. Pointed Trueheart in the direction of 5204. She shook her head when a SWAT guy stepped forward with a battering ram, pointed to Roarke.
He studied the locks as he drew out his picks.
Lowenbaum grinned again when the locks quietly gave way.
Again she nodded at Roarke, then held up three fingers. Two. One.
They hit the door hard. She went low, Roarke high, splitting off as SWAT rushed in behind them. “Get those terrace doors open!” She’d cleared the living area before she spotted the droid on the floor of a wide dining room.
She could smell the electrical burn in the air, noted the fried circuits spilling out of the back of the head of what had been a domestic droid.
Too late, she thought. They were too late. And she saw the proof of it when she, leading with her weapon, moved into a large kitchen done in soft green and golds.
She hadn’t bothered to tidy up, Eve noted, but had left the burners and tubes, the conductors and jars in plain view.
She’d been cooking—and she hadn’t made any damn pies.
She heard the calls of “Clear!” ringing out. Yeah, it’s clear, she thought. She’s cleared out, and taken her poison with her.
Roarke came in behind her. “I count two droids, both with their circuits destroyed. An empty safe, left open.”
“She left this out for us to find. A big fuck-you.” She shoved her weapon back in its holster. “She’s got money, fake ID, and I’m damn sure the means and contacts to change her face. She’s either out of the city, or holed up until she can shift appearance and ID.”
“Maintenance exit,” Roarke concluded. “She slipped out that way. Either undetected or she greased a palm or two on the way.”
“Her shuttle’s locked down. She can’t get out that way.” She yanked out her ’link. “McNab, have you located MacMillon’s other vehicles?”
“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? Ambi
tion.
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.
At the bar Gina slid a hand into her bag, trailed her fingers over the three vials she’d prepared—and the combat knife Menzini had given her a lifetime before.
Another life, she thought, coming full circle.
She would do this, here, tonight, for her grandson. The bitch who’d held him back from his happiness, his potential, would pay the price, while the police fumbled around in the apartment—if they’d gotten that far.
They’d freeze her accounts, too, no doubt. But she had more, she had plenty. Including the cash, the jewelry, the identification and passports now locked in the car she’d stolen.
She hadn’t lost her touch there.
And once the city was again reeling toward panic, once this small bloodbath washed through, and this personal score was settled, she’d have the upper hand.
She would claim credit for all three incidents in the name of Red Horse. Guiseppi would be proud. She would demand the immediate release of Lewis Callaway or there would be another strike. More people would die.
If they remained stubborn, she’d strike again. They’d surrender, she knew it. The police, the government, were all weak, all shivered in the cold glare of public opinion.
She would level New York if need be to secure the release of her grandson, of her family. Of Menzini’s legacy.
She had enough to make more, and only required a quiet place to do so.
She’d have to change her face, of course. But that was easily done, and wouldn’t be the first time.
Once Lewis was free, she’d decide how to proceed. There were still people she could count on, threats she could make, havoc to be wreaked.
But payback first.
She considered waiting until Weaver went to the restroom. Idiot females such as she always went to the restroom to check their lip dye, their hair. Perhaps she’d just slit her throat. She could imagine it, all but feel the warm gush of blood on her hands.
It had been a very long time since she’d felt that warm flow of blood on her hands.
But that wasn’t the way, however satisfying. She wanted Weaver to kill and be killed, to scream out her fear, her rage. To die Menzini’s way.
But she had to know. She had to die knowing why and who. Yes, Lewis was owed that.
She uncrossed her legs, set down her glass. Elegant and predatory, she wound through the restaurant to Weaver’s table, once again slipping a hand in her purse.
As she slid into the booth beside Weaver, she jabbed the point of the knife lightly against Weaver’s side.
“I have a knife against this woman’s guts,” she said conversationally to Marty. “If you try anything, I’ll carve those guts out before anyone can stop me. You’re to smile, both of you. Smile at me, at each other.”
“What do you want?” Weaver tried to edge away, froze when the knife increased pressure.
“I want both of you to put your hands on the table. When the waiter comes by, you’re to ask for another glass for your old friend. Your good friend Gina. And smile.”
“Why are you doing this. Do you want money?” Marty demanded.
“People like you, people with petty powers always think of money. Your money means nothing and will mean less when the Red Horse rides again.”
“I don’t understand.” On the table Weaver’s hands trembled. She fought a bitter battle to steady them.
“I’m Lewis’s grandmother. I
’ll gut you like a fish,” she murmured at Weaver’s instinctive gasp. “And cut off your balls,” she warned Marty. “I’m very good with a knife, and very fast. Now smile. You’re so happy to have run into an old friend.”
Weaver called on every ounce of control, forced her lips to curve as the waiter stopped at the table.
“Tony, would you get us another glass? My friend’s going to join us.”
“Of course. Right away.”
“Good girl. I do feel like we’re old friends. Lewis told me so much about you. How you’ve slept your way to power, and held him back at every turn. And this restaurant, your favorite. It made it easy to find you.”
“You called, said you were my assistant.”
“Lewis wouldn’t sleep with you, so you’ve done everything possible to sabotage his career, to hold him back. So typical. So female.”
Under the table, Weaver pressed her foot to Marty’s. “He frightened me—all that intelligence, his ideas, so innovative. You must be so proud of him.”
“Do you think you can play me, bitch?” She turned off the ferocity, turned on charm as the waiter brought her glass. “Oh, thank you! This is just the most delightful chance, running into you tonight.” She beamed at the waiter as he poured wine into her glass. “We must have a toast.”
“Gina.” Marty spoke quietly. “Nancy was only following orders and directives. She had no choice. I’m the chief executive officer of Stevenson and Reede. If you need to blame someone, it should be me.”
“Marty—”
“Isn’t that sweet—and revolting. He’s trying to play the hero. Have a drink. Both of you. We’re just three friends sharing a bottle of wine.” She picked up her own, sipped. “Salute.”
22
“I see her.” From across the street, Eve focused the field glasses through the narrow glass on the restaurant door. “Rear booth, west corner. She’s got Weaver boxed in. Male, brown and brown, late forties, seated on the other side of the booth.”
“Yeah, I got them.” Lowenbaum scanned, judging the crowd, the movement. He glanced left, right. Cops already worked to close off the block, reroute street and foot traffic. Satisfied, he closed his eyes a moment to feel the wind on his cheek, judge the direction and speed.
