Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(113)

“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.