“He wouldn’t be the first to destroy what he loved. But this is so damn stupid, so careless. Steal the serum by unlocking the cabinet rather than busting it up. Then just leave one of the murder weapons in your work locker?”
“A frame-up? It makes more sense to me,” Peabody said. “I know I did the interview, and I hate thinking I missed anything, but a frame-up makes more sense.”
“He’s got this in the locker, but doesn’t use it. Kills Billingsly, and unless he’s really stupid, knows we’ll search the lockers, knows we’ll question the fact the serum cabinet was opened with its lock code. He’s unstable, and the drug makes him more so, but he’s organized. Takes care not to be seen coming in—but does murder, then shows himself.”
“Because he wanted us here,” Peabody concluded. “Following the bread crumbs to Gupta. No, not crumbs. Big, chunky hunks of bread.”
“Reads that way. Seal it up, get the weapon taken to the lab for processing. And let’s have all our players picked up, brought in.”
She walked out with Roarke. “A frame-up, if that’s what it is, that’s human. So’s screwing up and leaving evidence where it can be found, if that’s what it is. Either way, with the weapon, the DNA, we’ll lock it down.”
“I have every faith. I’m going into the office.”
“Now? It’s . . .” She checked the time as they stepped outside. “It’s shy of five a.m.”
“Should I point out you’ve been working since shortly after two? I’ll get my own jump on the day, and as I’m curious enough, I may come down to Central later, watch you lock it down.”
“If you need the car, I could—Guess you don’t,” she added when a dark limo glided smoothly to the curb. “I’m going to hit the lab first, give Dickhead a push. A DNA match will save the innocent bystanders from a round in the box. Thanks for the bribe.”
“Never a problem.” He touched her cheek. “Take care, will you? This one gives me a very uneasy feeling.”
“Too many old horror vids, and an Irish nature. I think I can handle some murderous scientist.”
“Try not to punch him. You’ll set the healing on that arm back.”
She watched him drive away, then went back in to talk to the head sweeper and get Peabody for the trip to the lab.
Dick Berenski’s ink black hair was slicked back over his eggshaped head. Rather than his usual lab coat, he wore a multicolored floral shirt that would have made even McNab wince.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“Clothes. It’s five-fucking-a.m. I’m not officially on yet. And I want a bottle of single malt scotch for the game.”
“We already agreed to terms.”
“That was before.” He shot her a sour look, and since the last time she’d seen him he’d been scarily sweet—and in love—she assumed there was trouble in paradise.
“Before what?”
“Before I got here and found Harpo pulling an all-nighter.”
“Why is that my problem?”
“She’s on your hair—first murder—and you’re not going to like it.” He played his spider fingers over his comp. “She’ll come out here.”
“What about my skin?”
“She goes first. And I want that scotch.”
“Fine, fine, if you give me something I can use.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something.”
Harpo, all spiky red hair and tired eyes, walked out from her section into Berenski’s. “Yo,” she said to Eve and Peabody, then dropped onto a stool. “You tell her?” she asked Berenski.
“I said you’d do it.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. So,” she said, swiveling to Eve. “On one hand this is totally iced. On the other, it’s majorly fucked.”