Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(71)

She leaned toward Eve, aggressive, fierce. “It’s not Wayne’s fault.”

“No, it’s not. You may be able to help us find the people who are at fault.”

“Wayne’s dead.” The aggression died as she sat back. “We were the Best People at his wedding, Joe and I. We started this place together. We made it into something.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t expect him for a couple more hours. We had everything in place. Just a matter of loading in. We’d already diagramed where we were placing the paintings, the sketches. I was in the front with Cista, and we were going over where we’d set up the bar, the refreshments. Angelo, the artist, was in the gallery left—with Trent and Dustin. They’d removed the art we’d had displayed there, had begun placing Angelo’s work. Joe was in the office.”

“Were you open to the public?”

“The Salon’s closed on Wednesdays. We try to schedule openings for Wednesday nights so we can do the loading in. The show would run for four weeks, but the opening’s when you draw the biggest crowd, and the media, the art critics. We’re—we’re known for our Wednesday night openings. Wayne came in.”

Her voice began to shake. “He came in, and he looked pale, sick. I started to say something, and he snapped at me. He never snapped, but he did. “‘Stay out here. You and Cista stay out here.’”

She blew out a breath. “I just stood there, so stunned because he had snapped and looked sick. Angry, too. Then I got a little angry myself. What the hell was this? And I started across the room. The explosion—it was terrible. It was like being picked up and thrown by some huge, hot wave. I just flew, then I felt this awful pain. My arm. And Cista was on the floor, too. I could see fire, smell it. I was so scared. I yelled at her to get out, to call for help, and I started to run back for Joe.

“He came running out. The sprinklers didn’t come on. Joe said, ‘We have to put the fire out,’ and he ran back. We have an emergency fire suppression tank in the back. He put out the fire. He walked right through the arch and put out the fire. But . . .”

“It was too late,” Kotler whispered. “Too late. I didn’t know Wayne was . . . I didn’t know until Ilene told me. Dustin. I knew Dustin was . . . My nephew. He’s only nineteen. Gap year. He just wanted to work here before he started college. My nephew Dustin.”

He began to weep, harsh, gulping sobs. Aceti put her good arm around him, drew him against her. Then she, too, began to weep.

Eve gestured to Peabody, moved with her to the door.

“See if you can get any more out of them. About the artist. If they sold any of his earlier work, who bought it. You know what to ask.”

She stepped out, took a breath of air that wasn’t thick with grief. Roarke tucked away his PPC, moved to her.

“Remotely compromised, the fire suppression system and its alarm. Nothing else. They never tried for the locks, or the cameras. The suppression system’s been off since early this morning. About five A.M.”

He glanced toward the door, and the sound of weeping. “Nothing shatters lives like violent death.”

“No. I need to talk to Salazar.”

She walked to the archway, and with a word to one of her people, Salazar came out. “The morgue’s picking up their pieces. We’re picking up ours. And I can tell you, just by the eyeball, it’s going to be the same bomb maker. Military grade. We’ve got his signature now.”

“Can you trace the components?”

“We can try. The fricking black market on this is a maze. And if he’s got any brains, he’s not getting everything from one source. I think he’s got brains. I’ll push on my end the same as you’ll push on yours. You know the thing about making bombs, Dallas?”

“They go boom.”

“Yeah, and the juice of making the go-boom, the intricacy, even the risk it goes boom on you? It’s addicting. He’s got two under his belt—at least. He’s going to build more.”

“I know it. He’s having a hell of a good time, and making a steady profit.” She took a last hard look as the morgue team bagged parts of human beings. “He’s going to have a fucking downturn. I swear to God.”





15

Eve went by the Denby residence, the expected single-family home in the West Village. All three floors already swarmed with sweepers.

No basement, she noted, but a large utility area. And there they’d bound the battered, terrified pregnant woman, tied her to the exposed pipes under a work sink.

Eve crouched down, examined the blood smears on the pipes. And the scratches—fresh—along the thick joint. She found a screwdriver, also blood-smeared, on the floor.

“Got her hands on this somehow.” Curious, Eve opened a drawer on an old cabinet beside the sink. “Out of here. A few household tools in here. She must’ve gotten it out, tried to use it to hack through the pipe.”

“If her hands were bound to that pipe, she must’ve used her foot. Her feet.”

Eve nodded as she straightened. “Yeah, managed to get the screwdriver out of the drawer, nudge it over, over until she could reach it with her hands. Had to take time and a lot of sweaty, uncomfortable effort.”

She stepped out, into the kitchen, and found Feeney walking in.