Delusion in Death

secure. Where’s Weaver?”
    “I’m not sure. She was upset, naturally. I assume she went home.”
    “Stay inside,” she repeated, then tagged Jenkinson. “Get over to Stevenson Vann’s apartment. Keep it in lockdown until I say different. Nobody in, nobody out. Send Sanchez and Carmichael over toNancy Weaver’s. If she’s home, keep her there. If she’s not, I need to know. Go now.”
    She went straight to Whitney when he came inside. “I need Mira and Reo secured. As well as Chief Tibble and yourself, sir. Gina MacMillon may target the people who took down her grandson.”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    “What do we know about her?” Eve demanded. “Attractive woman in her late seventies, early eighties. Wealthy. Patient. Jesus, she’s like a spider. A trained soldier. More, a kind of operative. Could she have made contact with Menzini while he was alive?”
    “I can’t say.” Again, Teasdale looked mildly distressed. “I would doubt it.”
    “Why wasn’t he executed? They still did that back then. He was a war criminal, a mass murderer, a child abductor, a rapist. Name it.”
    “My guess? He was useful.”
    “Making chemical and bio weapons?”
    “It’s possible. His mind was twisted, but he had brilliance in certain areas.”
    “Enough he’d have found a way to get word to her. To keep the fire going. The world didn’t end, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Or shift focus. He made his living selling chem weapons. Maybe that’s how she makes hers.”
    Teasdale’s face lit. “I’ll start a search for known dealers in her age span.”
    “Bugger that.” Roarke sat back, pulled the tie out of his hair. “I’ve got her.”
    “How? Jesus.” Eve all but leaped on him. “Let me see.”
    “There was a painting in Callaway’s office. The only piece of any taste or style in the whole place. It struck me at the time, but Ididn’t think much of it. It took me some time, but I found it. On screen.”
    Eve frowned at the image of long, flower-decked steps, a fountain at their feet. They led to an old building, looked European to her.
    “I don’t get it.”
    “It’s the Spanish Steps, in Rome.”
    “Menzini hit Rome, and was taken there.”
    “So I recalled, a bit belatedly. This painting was done just prior to the war, by an Italian artist who died in Menzini’s attack.”
    “Too much coincidence, and coincidence is bogus.”
    “So I thought. I’ve managed to track the owner through insurance. It’s a very nice piece, and part of a collection. Owned by Gina M. Bellona. Bellona is the ancient Roman goddess of war. On screen.”
    “There she is,” Eve murmured.
    Attractive, yes. Strong bones, smoothly covered by olive skin, a sweep of dark hair liberally, artistically streaked with silver. It listed her as the widow of a Carlo Corelli.
    “Find out what happened to Carlo Corelli,” she ordered Peabody when her partner came back in. “And do it on the move. We’ve got a fucking New York address. Upper East Side—good call there, Callendar. Teasdale, I’d like you to stay back, monitor any transmissions Callaway requests to make. And use whatever magic you have to locate any private transportation she may have, and have gearing up. If she’s trying to poof, let’s block her.”
    “I’ll make sure of it. And have a biohazard team in place at her condo.”
    “Set it up, but hold them back until we get there. You can freeze her accounts faster than we can. Do that.”
    “Consider it done.”

    “I’m ordering a SWAT team,” Whitney said. “I want that building secure.”
    “Yes, sir. I’m going to pull in Baxter and Trueheart. I think that’s enough to take down one old lady.”
    “You’ll have one more. I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her.
    “You earned it. Let’s move out.”

21
    Eve worked as she went, her mind clicking through steps and strategies. “Peabody, keep digging on Gina Bellona. I want to know if she has any other homes, properties, and if so, we want the locals there to obtain warrants for search and seizure. I want any and all vehicles—ground, air, water. I want relatives, employment or businesses. I want the names of her frigging pets.”
    She pulled out her own ’link, grateful that for once the elevator had a little breathing room. “Reo,” she began without preamble when the APA came on screen. “Are you and Mira secured?”
    “Yes, we’re in the conference room. What—”
    “Don’t talk, listen. I need a