Delusion in Death (41 page)

“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.

“Not much of a window,” Eve noted.

“It’s much enough. It’s a busy place. Maybe send a couple guys in, soft clothes, to plow the road. We do that right, we should be able to get off a clean shot.”

“She’s got a weapon on Weaver. Can’t see it, but has to be. Plus, she’s got that shit with her. You drop her from here, she could take out Weaver before she goes down. And she could release the poison.”

Considering, Eve lowered the glasses. “Maybe we get everybody out before it takes effect, or maybe we end up stunning a bunch of delusional civilians trying to kill each other over their ravioli. Or maybe she mixed up some other shit, and we can’t be sure what the fuck it’ll do.”

“That’s a problem,” Lowenbaum said in his easy way as he pulled down his sniper goggles to look at Eve. “Let’s work the problem.”

“Straightforward. You wire me up. I go in, talk to her.”

“And if she’s got a blaster under the table and takes you out?”

“I don’t think so.” Eve could all but hear Roarke’s furious objections behind her. He didn’t have to voice them, the air sizzled with them. “I get to the booth, sit, she knows we’ve got the place locked. She’ll want to negotiate.”

“Rules of play, Dallas. We don’t give her another hostage, much less a cop.”

“I know the rules of play, and sometimes they have to flex. Think of it as a showdown. A—what is it—Mexican standoff.”

“Seriously? It’s an Italian place, but this ain’t gonna be a Roman holiday.”

He made her smile. “Weaver’s just a step for her, a slap. She’s got bigger plans, and central is getting her boy out. She’s got an emotional investment in him, and we can use that. I can use that. I get in, wired, you’ll know what she’s got on her. And I’ve got a better chance of taking her out, close up, without any hazard to civilians. Wire Mira in. She can help me with this.”

“We’ll cover the exits, move in through the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there. But somebody’s got to get up close and personal, draw her off Weaver and the man, keep her from releasing the agent.”

“I’m putting my best man—which would be me—on the target. She makes a wrong move, I’m giving myself the green. We got about seventy people in there—unknown number in the kitchen. If necessary, we’ll do a broad range stun, make them all go nighty-night.”

“Let’s see if we can avoid that.”

“She’d know your face.” She turned as Roarke spoke, and saw the hard anger in his eyes. “If she’s got a weapon, as she surely does, what stops her from using it on you while you’re ten feet away?”

“I’m working on that. Peabody, take off those idiot boots.”

“My boots? But—”

“Do you really think a pair of pink cowboy boots disguises you?”

“It’s just the start,” she told Roarke. “Dig out those silly rainbow sunshades,” she told Peabody. “And that scarf.” She tugged on Peabody’s madly striped scarf. “Wrap it around my head or something. Call out the Free-Ager.”

“A moment, Lieutenant.” Without waiting for assent, Roarke took her arm, pulled her aside. “This is foolish.”

“It’s not. I’ve got my magic coat.”

“It doesn’t cover your hard head.”

“Okay, look, we can’t see what she’s got under that damn table-cloth. Maybe she got her hands on a blaster. It’s more likely a knife. She could slice Weaver open any time, but again, it’s more likely she’ll hurt or disable Weaver enough to keep her in there, use the substance and get out. I can draw her attention off Weaver, get her talking. She’ll bargain to get Callaway out. He’s her legacy, her hope for the future.”

“The bargaining can be done from out here.”

“Roarke, there are kids in there. If she releases that shit, we don’t know how fast it works on kids, but it’ll be faster. They’re smaller,
lighter. I don’t know, and I’m not risking standing out at a safe distance while kids get poisoned and maybe hack up Mommy’s face with a pasta fork before we can control the situation.”

“Bloody fucking hell.”

“We can get some of them out. Her back’s to the kitchen. We can move some of them out, quietly, while she’s focused on me. I’m the game changer. Right now she thinks she’s in charge. I change the balance, it throws her off. She has to rethink.”

“You go in, I go in.”

“Listen—”

He took her face in his hands. “You go, I go. That’s non-negotiable. If we’re to get blasted to hell or poisoned into lunatics, we do it together.”

“Crap. Crap. You have to look less rich and gorgeous.”

God help him, she made him grin. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Wire him up, too,” she told Lowenbaum. “Peabody, give me those stupid boots.”

“They’re not going to fit you.”

“I’ll manage.”

She stood while Lowenbaum’s e-man fit her with mic and earbud. And shoving her feet into the pink boots learned Peabody was right. They were miserably tight from toe to heel, awkwardly wide. She’d manage.