Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(44)

“No,” Eve repeated, “not suicide. He’s out there. He came in.”

She moved back to the door, imagined the noise, the color and movement, the tables of people, the crowded bar. “He’s been here before, knows the place. He doesn’t particularly stand out. He’s one of the type who comes here after work, before heading home. Wears a suit, carries a briefcase or a file bag, a purse. Something normal, and it serves to carry the substance.

“He’s not alone.”

“But—”

“You stand out more alone,” Eve said before Peabody could finish. “He’s got to figure there’s a good probability there’ll be at least a couple survivors. Maybe more. This is the first, so he can’t be absolutely sure. Stop off for a drink with friends from the office, or meet a client, grab a table or a seat at the bar, order drinks. Get some finger food, talk shop, talk business. Blend in.”

“Pretty damn cold.”

“Cold, sure. But cool, too. Cool-headed. Controlled, detail-oriented. He’s excited, has to be. He talks to the bartender or the waitress, maybe both. And he thinks, ‘Soon you’ll be dead. I’ll kill you soon and I won’t so much as smear the shine on my shoes. Today I’m God.’”

“Oh, man,” Peabody mumbled.

“And the same with the people he works with every day. You’re not going into the office tomorrow, he thinks, or coming in for your shift. You’ll never get that raise or promotion you’ve been busting your ass for. And I’m the reason. I’m the power here.

“His pulse may be racing at the thought of it, but it doesn’t show. Not enough. He looks around at all the people—the suits, the drones, the eager beavers, the overworked. It ends for them here, over half-priced drinks and free salsa.”

“God,” Peabody breathed, because she could see it, too.

“It’s so f**king funny when you think about it, and he thinks about it. But he doesn’t laugh. He just has his drink, talks shop, eats a spring roll, bitches about the workload or the client or the boss—whatever the topic of the day might be.”

She wandered, glanced up, over. “At the bar or a table close to it. This area, most likely. He wants to cover as much ground as he can—this space, the kitchen, down to the restroom. Ventilation’s right overhead here.”

She studied the bar, pictured the nearby tables.

“Purse or briefcase or bag on the lap, take out the substance, the container. What does he do? What does he do? Under the chair, the table, the barstool? Drop something, bend down to pick it up. Set it down? Who’d notice? Could have your hand sealed, coated with it. Shake someone’s hand, friendly slap on the back, whatever—spread it around some.”

“If it started spreading wouldn’t he be infected?”

“That’s the sticky,” Eve muttered. “It works fast, so he’d have to get out fairly quick. Into the air. Or if he concocted this, he could’ve concocted an antidote, a preventative. But either way, he can’t hang around and see how it goes.

“Gotta go. See you tomorrow. I’ll e-mail you that file when I’m finished. Easy-breezy, and out the door.”

She walked to it, opened it. Stepped out.

Traffic, noise, movement again. More of it when the killer had stepped outside. Slide right into the flood of people heading home, to other bars, to shops.

“Offices,” she said to Peabody, looking up at the towers with countless windows. “But apartments, too. A lot of people like to live close to work. They can walk in the good weather. Plenty of buildings with a good view of the bar. He can’t stay inside, can’t risk planting a camera, but wouldn’t it be fun to stand at one of those windows, look down here and know what was happening inside? Timing it, waiting for it, watching throngs of people walk right by the door, unaware, oblivious to the fact that you’re committing murder right now.”

“I’ll start a cross-search for anyone with a residence in eye-line with the crime scene.”

“Worth a shot,” Eve agreed.

“There are a couple cafés, street level, with street views. He could’ve walked across the street, sat down, and watched from there.”

“Start some uniforms on a canvass, showing photos of everyone who’s marked for another round of interviews to whatever waitperson had window tables during that shift. Yeah, he might’ve enjoyed having a bite to eat or a fancy coffee right across the street, watching the whole damn aftermath. All those cops swarming the place, checking out his work. He might.”

While Eve stood on the sidewalk, considering a killer’s entertainment, the lunch rush at Café West was in full swing. They served good, simple food with table and counter service. Customers sat ass to elbow, talking over the clatter of dishes.

The air carried the appealing scent of fall with today’s pumpkin soup. Most of the crowd looked for a quick, easy meal that didn’t consume the entire lunch hour, so they could pop out again to handle an errand, or linger over coffee before scrambling back to offices and cubes.

Lydia McMeara picked at her tiny, undressed salad between sips of spring water. She was on a diet—again. She nibbled hungrily at lettuce, struggling not to hate Cellie for her perpetually svelte figure. Then there was Brenda who couldn’t claim svelte but owned smoking.