Page 21 of Bonded in Death

“I get it. Easier ways.”

“And plenty you can get—pest control, right, industrial uses, textiles. I figure you got yourself a mad scientist.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Anything else you can tell me?”

“I gave you the murder weapon. You want more, bring me more.”

Berenski looked back at his screen, shook his head. “He’s a goddamn loose cannon using that shit.”

“What would he need to make it?”

“Balls. That’s first because you’d want white phosphorous, and that’s a killer right there. Add that to boiling water with sodium hydroxide, and you got phosphine gas.”

“The gas was released in a limo.”

“You asked. Made a canister, maybe got his hands on one from thirty years ago or whatever. That’s your deal. Wouldn’t mind knowing when you do.”

“What about his clothes?”

“You don’t get residue with this—that was an advantage. Harvo’ll let you know if different, but with this?” He pointed at the screen again. “Not happening.”

Dickhead or not, Berenski knew his science.

“All right. Appreciate the quick work.”

Berenski continued to study the screen as Eve moved off.

“Badass, fucker’s a crazy son of a bitching badass,” she heard him say.

At the moment, Eve’s main concern was the crazy.

“He wanted that,” she said as they walked out of the maze. “That reaction, Dickhead’s reaction. A kind of admiration. A little horrified, but admiration.”

She paused, frowned at the hive.

“Let’s see how far they’ve gotten with processing the limo.”

They took the interior walkway to the next building, then the elevator down to the garage level.

She badged a tech with goggles around her neck and her hair bundled under a clear cap.

“Spooner brought in a limo early this morning.”

“Bay four, and it’s on lockdown. Potential toxic substance.”

“I need to talk to Spooner, or whoever’s in charge of bay four.”

The tech, short, curvy, barely old enough to buy a legal drink, stopped herself before she completed a full eye roll. “All the way down.” She gestured. “Locked down,” she repeated. “You can talk to Spooner through the intercom until it’s clear.”

“All right, thanks.”

Though it echoed here, too, unlike the morgue it smelled—faintly—of bad coffee and someone’s spiced-up veggie hash.

At the door to bay four, theNO ENTRYlight burned red.

Eve looked through the thick glass, saw a team of sweepers in hazmat suits and breathing masks.

She pressed the intercom. “Spooner, Dallas. Can we suit up and come in?”

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