“I’m not sure a replay of that will work in Interview. I’m going to push him with Menzini, the backstory.”
“My sense is he finds the religious overtones absurd,
even a little embarrassing.”
“Yeah. I can push there. His grandfather was a fuckhead. Maybe you should take him first. Tell him you convinced me he should have the opportunity to get in touch with his insane brat of an inner child or whatever. String him out awhile—can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
“It’ll give the search team more time.” She checked her wrist unit, calculated. “I’d like to trip him up with the parents, then kick him when he’s off balance with something they’ve found. He’s smart, smart enough to know when I lay it out I’ve got enough to cage him. He may want to wrangle a deal.”
“The PA will never deal on something like this, and HSO will come at him once you’re done.”
“Yeah, but even some guy sliding off a cliff hopes he’ll snag a handhold. Give them a couple minutes to settle him in. I want to put my boards back.”
“One thing I found particularly telling,” Mira said. “He called two mass murders ‘accomplishments.’”
“Yeah, I got that. Can you use it?”
“Definitely.”
“Me, too.”
While Eve put her boards back in order, the search team combed through Callaway’s apartment.
Roarke found it too trendy, far too studied, and utterly impersonal. Black, white, and silver dominated the open living area and kitchen. Occasional blots or streaks of some bold color—a purple cushion, a red tabletop, only served to accent the starkness.
Sharp lines, he thought, cold lighting, and an array of stylish gadgets. It struck him like a photo of decor rather than a place to live.
“Do you want to start on the electronics out here?” Feeney asked him.
“Do you mind if I wander about a bit first, get a feel?”
“I got a feel.” Rumpled, Feeney looked around. “Feels like a showroom display put together by somebody who’s never taken a couch nap or watched a ballgame on screen.”
“But it doesn’t feel like somewhere you plot mass murder.”
“What else you gonna do? Sit on one of those damn chairs for five minutes, your ass’ll be numb for a week.” Feeney sniffed at them. “Might as well kill somebody.”
“I’ll be sure not to sit in one of the chairs. Just in case.”
“Yeah. You wander. I’ll start on this ’link and comp.”
Roarke moved into the master bedroom where Reineke and Jenkinson were already systematically going through the closet, the bureau.
Callaway chose gray here, Roarke thought. Every shade of gray from palest smoke to deepest slate. He supposed Callaway read gray soothed, and was this season’s hot color choice, when in reality, in this unrelieved palette, it depressed.
Might as well kill somebody, Roarke mused.
“Must be like sleeping in a fog bank,” Reineke commented. “Can’t see a guy getting lucky in here.”
“I’d say being fashionable is more important to him than getting laid,” Roarke suggested.
Reineke just shook his head. “Sick fuck.”
Amused, Roarke moved toward the closet and Jenkinson.
“Got plenty of clothes. Shoes never been worn. Everything all nice and tidy.”