Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(43)

“Dickhead would have people.”

Eve sighed. “Yeah, he would. Copy him on the request, further requesting Dickhead handpick two of his people to examine Lester’s records, his lab—and I want reports on same in plain English.”

“I talked to McNab for a minute.”

“I don’t want to hear your perverted sex chats,” Eve warned as they got into the car.

“We only spent like ten seconds on that part. They’ve about finished with the ’links. They got a couple more who were on when they were infected, and a couple more who made calls directly after becoming infected. It’s ripping, he said, listening to it. They’ve been going over any and all recovered electronics. Memo books, notebooks, PPCs. Some of them were in use, too. It doesn’t look as if they’ve got anything that’s going to help. Nothing that pops as a communication with or from the perpetrator. But it shows, again, how fast and how strong the vics were affected.”

“How about the door surveillance?”

“They went back forty-eight hours. There’s no break in the time scan, no anomalies. They ID’d some of the vics—I guess regulars— who went in and out the day before approximately the same time frame, and they’re working on a search for any of the people who connect to vics or survivors to see if any showed up within the last couple days. They’ll have those for you at the briefing. Some coworkers. The after-hours activity is just what you’d expect. Staff leaving, either alone or in groups. Last one out the two nights before the incident was Devon Lester, and that coincides with the work schedule for the week.”

Normal day-to-day, Eve thought. Until the world ends.

“Whoever’s responsible knew about the door cam, which means anybody as it’s right there in plain sight. If they didn’t jam it, then they just walked in as staff or customer, and left the same way.”

“McNab says no jamming. They’ve run it through every analysis, including Roarke’s. Feeney’s also put a couple of his uniforms on listening detail. They’re monitoring sites globally, and off-planet. Listening for any chatter on the incident. Any hint of any individual or person with prior knowledge, or claiming credit. Lots more chatter—it’s the big buzz—but nothing that stands out.”

“He/they? There’s going to be a reaction to the media conference. Lots of chatter and buzz, but Whitney’s statement, and his delivery? It’s going to strike as a challenge. Whitney’s confident, stoic, steady. He might let some of the anger show, but that’s just juice for this type.”

“You think he’ll make some sort of contact.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” But not what she feared.

When they got to the bar, Eve broke the seal, then took a moment to clear her mind. She stepped in, scanned the dimly lit space.

The ugly and all too familiar scent of blood and chemicals, of death and sweepers’ dust, clung to the air. She cleared her mind of that, too.

“Lights on full,” she ordered, and imagined what it would have looked like at opening. Rather than broken chairs and tables, shattered glass, floors and walls stained with blood and gore, there would have been the shine and clean of closing mopping.

“Devon took us through the opening routine,” she said to Peabody. “Be Devon. Walk through it.”

“Office first, check receipts and drawer.”

“Temp controls first,” Eve corrected.

“Right.”

While Peabody ran through the checklist, Eve stood back, watched.

Whoever opened moved through every area of the space—office, kitchen, storeroom, restrooms, behind the bar.

“He sees what he sees every day,” Eve said out loud. “Sometimes people miss, in a routine, don’t see what they don’t expect to see. But Devon Lester’s meticulous. He thinks of this as his place. I’d say the bartender followed suit, or he wouldn’t stick as assistant manager.”

“No criminal on the bartender,” Peabody told her. “I talked to the fiancée. Tough one. She said he thought of the bar as his home away from home as much as a job.”

“I saw the report.” And she’d read Roarke’s background checks on the bartender, and the other employees. Nobody popped out.

“The substance or device had to be handy if it was used by a customer,” she considered. “If it was staff, there aren’t that many hidey-holes Lester, the bartender, or one of the other staff wouldn’t see at some point during the day.”

“They’re open for lunch,” Peabody pointed out.

“Yeah. Why risk leaving a dangerous substance on the premises, where it can be found or accidentally triggered before you’re ready? You bring it with you, keep it with you.”

She moved to the bar, behind it, crouched, rose again.

“Not suicide.”

“Why?” Peabody wondered.

“All the next of kin have been notified. A good chunk of friends and coworkers have been interviewed. It’s taking time, but vics’ residences and places of employment are being searched. This was a big statement.”

She saw it again, like a film over the room. The blood, the bodies, the battlefield.

“If you’re using it to self-terminate and take a bunch of people with you, where’s your announcement, your statement in your words? Suicides typically want people to know. And murder/suicides? They’re not just depressed, they’re pissed off. It’s not impulse, so where’s the mission statement?