Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Siler sniffed his, blinked his sleepy eyes, sipped. Closed the sleepy eyes and said, “Gooooood.”

  “I got started on the egg. You take it, but don’t get all technical. They’re cops. Science is like a foreign fucking language.”

  “Sure. So. We put the egg together—made in Mexico, according to the stamp. You’ll probably find a couple dozen shops in New York have them in stock for under twenty bucks. Cheap, gaudy. You could use them to put candy in or whatever. Bigger than a chicken egg, but maybe for like an Easter egg hunt or whatever.”

  “That’s their job, Siler.”

  “Right. The interior was coated with sealant, not unlike what you’d have in your field kit, but with a lead base. And a secondary seal, with an adhesive, was added around the edges of both sides of the egg to make it completely airtight. The fabricated wood box, which we assume held the egg, was also sealed, same method. The interior padding, that woulda been added to the box, woulda cushioned the egg.”

  “So whoever did it was careful.”

  “You bet. Mmmm.” He drank more coffee. “Padding inside the shipping box, inside the wooden box to protect the egg in case the package got dropped. It would probably work unless it got slammed or crushed. But it didn’t.”

  “What was inside the damn egg?” Eve demanded.

  “That’s the really frosty part.”

  “Keep it simple, Siler,” Berenski warned.

  “I want to say it wasn’t simple—it was pretty damn brilliant, and took some serious skill. What you had in there, probably in crystalline form—before it hit the air and vaporized—was sulfur trioxide.”

  “Why is that brilliant?”

  “Because that was mixed with sarin. With— What’s the word I want? A soupçon of sarin. And that? That was mixed with an agent that kills them both—but it kills them about fifteen minutes after the whole shebang hits the air.”

  “So,” Eve deduced, “the agent had a … like a shelf life once released.”

  “Exactamundo!” Siler gave her a happy look, a friendly slap on the arm she decided to let pass. “See, oxygen triggers the whole thing—releases the toxins that, merged together, are going to kill the shit out of you within like five minutes, and the clearing agent that’s going to kill the toxins inside about fifteen. Biowarfare-wise, it’s total mag because you can target specific, and anybody outside say, twenty feet’s not going to feel a thing, and anybody coming along a few minutes later, same deal.”

  “Military?” Eve pressed.

  “If it is, they’ll deny it because it violates all sorts of conventions and treaties and interplanetary laws. That’s why I went CIA—because, you know, covert. Because CIA. You’re sure it’s not?”

  “Doubtful. How would you get those agents?”

  “You gotta figure we’ve got bioweapons stashed away in some secret locations. Getting one out? I don’t know, man. And they’re unstable on top of it. It’s going to take steel balls, and some crazy with it.”

  “How do you make it?”

  “You’d need a seriously controlled lab, special containers, glassware, a fume hood. And yeah, a bunch of skill, a whacked-out brain. The whacked-out because if you screw up even a little, you’re gone, gone, gone. I can get you all the substances and precursors that go into it. I was going to write it all up after I got some shutdown, but the coffee’s got me revved, so I’ll have it for you in a couple hours. You’re going to need somebody who gets the science. You’re looking for somebody who gets the science or can pay somebody who does.”

  “All right. Copy the ME on the report.”

  “The body was clean, right? Organs gone, eyes all burned, like that, but the agent was dead?”

  “That’s right.”

  Siler drank more coffee. “Brilliant.”

  Outside, on the sidewalk, Peabody stopped, turned her face up to the sky.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Blue sky, pretty day. I’m reminding myself the world isn’t a completely fucked-up place. I did just okay in chemistry, like I said, but I know enough to get that somebody spent a lot of time, took a lot of risks to create something to kill a good man. Overkill, it seems to me.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Eve jerked a thumb toward the car. “And back to specific. Just Abner—adding the kill agent in there proves that. He didn’t want Rufty, for instance, running back home. Forgot something, whatever, and being exposed. He didn’t want anybody to die but Kent Abner.”

  “Unger Memorial?”

  “That’s right. Maybe Dr. Ponti’s brilliant.”

  * * *

  Middle of the morning, Unger’s ER was busy but not insane. Eve suspected a good portion of the people waiting had put off going to a doctor for whatever ailed them until they hit desperate.

  She could relate.

  Others looked like a mix of falls, bumps, fights, kitchen mishaps.

  She went to the check-in counter, pulled the woman on the stool’s attention away from her comp screen.

  “We need to speak to Dr. Ponti.”

  “Dr. Ponti’s with a patient. You’ll need to sign in here, then—”

  “We need to speak to Dr. Ponti,” Eve repeated, and held up her badge. “Police business.”

  “He’s still with a patient.”

  “Where?”

  She checked her comp screen. “He’s in Exam Three—and if you try to go in while he’s with a patient, I’ll call Security whether you have a badge or not.”

  “We’ll wait. Outside of Exam Three.”

  With Peabody, she hunted it up, stationed herself outside the door.

  “The other three on the list,” Peabody began, studying her PPC. “There’s nothing to indicate they’d have the knowledge or skill to create the toxin. Or have access to something like we’re dealing with. Or, for that matter, the financial means to pay for somebody who did.”

  “Blackmail, force, like minds,” Eve reeled off.

  “Yeah. Still, it has to cost. I’ll start going down levels on the financials.”

  “Do that. And military or paramilitary backgrounds or associates. Spouses, family members. Same with science and medical.”

  As she spoke, the door opened. “Change that dressing tomorrow. You should see your regular doctor within the week.”

  “Okay.” The man with the bandaged arm and sour expression kept walking.

  “And you’re welcome,” Ponti muttered.

  “Dr. Ponti.”

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. NYPSD. We need to speak to you.”

  Though he looked pretty fresh—Eve figured the three-day scruff was a fashion statement—he gave them the weary eye. “If this is about the stabbing a couple nights ago, I gave the officers all the information I had.”

  “Something else. Would you like to talk here, or somewhere more private?”

  He sighed, a man in his late thirties with streaky blond hair to go with the scruff and good high-tops, pressed jeans, a pale blue shirt, and a white doctor’s coat.

  He wagged a thumb, started down the hall. “I can’t take ten unless I get a buzz. What’s this about?”

  “Dr. Kent Abner.”

  “Who? Oh, right, right.” Now he rolled his eyes, pushed a door open into a small lounge. He walked straight to the coffeepot. “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Ponti paused in pouring the coffee, and the eyes that had shown no interest whatsoever narrowed with it now. “Police dead? What happened?”

  “It’s odd you wouldn’t have heard, as Dr. Abner had privileges here. I would think some of the staff would mention it.”

  “I just came on at eight. I’ve been busy. This is my first break.”

  “Your wife’s a surgical nurse here?”

  “That’s right.” Interest turned to wariness. “What is this? What happened to Abner?”

  “Poison.”

  He finished pouring the coffee, sat. “Not accidental, I take it.”

&n
bsp; “No. You and Dr. Abner had a disagreement.”

  “You could call it that, or you could call it him pushing his weight and opinion in where it didn’t belong and undermining me with a patient, and with the chief resident.”

  “It pissed you off.”

  “Damn right it did. And if I poisoned everybody who pissed me off, the ER would be overflowing. Look, I was on the last leg of a double. I was tired, and maybe a little short-tempered. The woman brings in her kid—bronchitis—and he’s filthy. He’s got a couple of scrapes, infected from not being cleaned properly or treated. I’m telling her what needs to be done, and granted maybe I wasn’t polite about it, then Abner’s letting me have it and taking over. We had words, and my supervisor took his part of it. I got a wrist slap and a day off. That was months ago.”

  “Had you seen Dr. Abner since that incident?”

  “I’ve seen him around. I stay out of his way. He comes in here from his private practice. I’m in the trenches. I didn’t appreciate what he said or did, and said so. This brings the cops to my work?”

  “That’s right. Where were you night before last, about ten o’clock?”

  “Out there, dealing with a teenager with three holes in him from a sticker. I was supposed to be off at ten, they brought the kid in at nine-forty-five. I triaged him for surgery, gave a statement to the cops. I didn’t get out of here until at least ten-thirty.”

  “And then?”

  “I went home, where my wife was waiting for me. We drove to the Hamptons. We have a friend with a beach house, and they’d told us we could have it for a couple nights. We both had the next day and night off, so we spent it there. Slept, had sex, ate, drank, slept some more. We drove home early this morning. Jesus.”

  “Did you see or speak to anyone while there?”

  His temper rose, visibly—the heat in the eyes, the tightening of the jaw.

  “No. The whole point was quiet, solitude, relax. We walked on the beach a few times, but we weren’t being sociable. Look, I have to get back. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Who owns the house?”

  He hissed out a breath. “Charmaine and Oliver Inghram. Ollie and I went to med school together. He’s private, too. Cosmetic surgery, so he can afford a beach house. We borrowed my brother-in-law’s car, as we don’t own one. He’s a lawyer, and if you come back on me again, I’ll be contacting him.”

  He stormed out, and Eve angled her head.

  “Bad attitude, bad temper, resents not having a pot of money. He stays on the list—along with the wife.”

  “She could’ve made the drop,” Peabody agreed. “Then they drive to the Hamptons for cover. It’s not bad.”

  “Yeah. We’ll keep looking at them. Now let’s go talk to men who liked to smack little kids around.”

  “The fun never ends in Homicide.”

  They tracked down Ben Ringwold at his food truck in a primo spot a block off Fifth. Though not yet open for the lunch crowd, he answered the door at their knock.

  Incredible scents poured out.

  He wore a splattered white bib apron, had his hair shorn close to his scalp. His face was as splattered with freckles as his apron was with sauces.

  “Sorry, ladies, we need about fifteen minutes.”

  The “we” included a second man, as black as Ringwold was white, working at the stove where all those spicy smells came from. The second man—also an ex-con, from Peabody’s search—had a head full of dreads covered with a cook’s cap.

  Eve just held up her badge—and watched Ringwold’s face tighten with stress.

  “We have our licenses, our permits.” He pointed back in the truck where they were displayed.

  “We’re not here about your license, Mr. Ringwold. We’re here to talk to you about Dr. Kent Abner.”

  “Kent Abner?” He didn’t pretend not to know the name. “What about him?”

  “He’s dead. He was poisoned yesterday morning.”

  “Poisoned? Jesus. Look, you better come in—it’s tight, but if we have the door open, people are going to start lining up.”

  “What time in the morning?” Ringwold’s partner, one Jacques Lamont, spoke with a musical accent that explained the name on the truck.

  CAJUN BON TEMPS

  “About nine-thirty,” Eve said as she and Peabody crowded in.

  Stains and splatters might have painted both aprons like crazed art, but the cook and prep surfaces were shining clean.

  “We already prepping by nine,” Lamont said. “Getting our supplies for the day. You can check.”

  “How about ten o’clock the night before?”

  “I was at a meeting. Addicts Anonymous, at Blessed Redeemer Church—we use the basement. From about eight to about nine, nine-thirty. Then I had coffee and some pie with the kid I’m sponsoring. We left about eleven, I guess, to head home.”

  “How long have you been clean?” Peabody asked him.

  “Nine years, eight months, two weeks, and four days. I’m not going to give you the kid’s name, but I’ll give you the diner where we had coffee—and some pie. I’ll give you the waitress’s name. I’m a regular, Susan knows me. We were there until about eleven. It’s only a couple blocks from my place, and I walked home, went to bed. It’s the Bottomless Cup, on Franklin. Susan Franco waited on us.”

  “What about you, Mr. Lamont?”

  “Nobody calls me mister.” He rolled his enormous dark eyes at them as he stirred something in a huge pot. “Me? Night before last I’m with my girl, Consuela. Ten? We were naked and busy.” Now he grinned, but there was worry in those big eyes. “I’m a cook. Who’s gonna eat my food I go poison somebody?”

  “It’s about me, Jacques. Kent’s the one who reported me for hurting Barry.”

  “Long ago, cher. Under the bridge now.”

  “Never all the way. I haven’t seen Kent for a couple of years. He came by the truck, that’s the last time I saw him. But it’s been close to nine years since I made my peace with him. I didn’t feel that way when I went inside, or when I got out, but I got to it. I used, a lot, back when I hurt my boy, his mother. I’ve done what I can to make peace with them, too, to make amends.”

  “And you done good,” Jacques assured him.

  “Still got a ways to go. Barry’s still a little unsure—can’t blame him—but we see each other every few weeks. Carly—his mom—she’s forgiven me, and I’m grateful to her. I came to be grateful to Kent. It took me longer.”

  “My man goes to meetings like clockwork,” Lamont said. “He got me going to them. Me, I wouldn’t have Consuela I wasn’t clean.”

  “How long for you?” Eve asked.

  “Seven years. I went in for the junk, and stealing to buy the junk. My man here got out first, and he starts pushing at me to go to meetings. I want to get the truck, make some money. I’m a good cook, always was—my grand-mère, she taught me. I shamed her. Now she’s not shamed no more.”

  “We’ve got a good thing going here, and we work hard to keep it that way,” Ringwold put in. “We wouldn’t have it if we hadn’t cleaned up. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten clean if Kent hadn’t reported me. Maybe, and it’s kept me up at night more than once, I’d have done worse to Barry and Carly. I’m sorry about what happened to Kent. I know he was a good man—and he forgave me.”

  She believed them—the alibis were too easy to check, and they’d have a hell of a lot to lose to kill a man over a fifteen-year-old grudge.

  But she got all the contact information.

  “You taste this.” Lamont scooped up some rice, coated it with red beans and sauce. “You see we don’t kill nobody when we can serve the best Cajun food in New York City.”

  “I don’t—”

  But Lamont pushed the plate at Eve, pushed forks on Peabody.

  “Better eat some,” Ringwold said with a quick grin. “He’s real proud of his red beans and rice. His grandmother’s recipe.”

  Peabody went first, took a forkful. “Okay. Okay. This is r
eally, seriously good.”

  Because she had to respect a couple of ex-cons and recovering addicts who tried to walk the line, Eve took a forkful. Peabody was right.

  “You’ve got a good thing going here. Don’t screw it up.”

  “No way we doing that! I make my own hot sauce—gives this a kick, right? We get enough going, I’m gonna bottle it up, we gonna sell it and make ourselves millionaires. N’est-ce pas, cher?”

  “Bet your ass.”

  Since lines had formed before the partners opened the serving window, Eve figured they had a decent shot at it.

  “They do have a good thing,” Peabody said as they walked back to the car. “Hard to see them in this.”

  “We’ll talk to the ex and the son, get a sense there, but no, they’re not in this. Let’s hit the exec, see how he plays.”

  6

  Thomas T. Thane had a modest office in the advertising firm called Your Ad Here. At forty-two, apparently glued to the designation of junior exec, he carried an extra fifteen pounds and a sour expression.

  The rundown in his online data made Your Ad Here his fifth employer since college. His division handled ad blimps—a fact that Eve had to push aside to maintain any semblance of objectivity.

  He didn’t help his own cause by being a dick right off the mark.

  “Yeah, I heard about Abner. What’s it to me? I don’t like cops coming to my place of work. And unlike you, apparently, I’m busy.”

  “Then we won’t waste any more of the valuable time you spend thinking up blather to blast out of blimps than absolutely necessary.”

  Okay, maybe she hadn’t pushed it all the way aside.

  He bared his teeth at Eve. “You can kiss my ass—and talk to my lawyer. Get out.”

  “Fine. We’ll expect you and your legal representative in Interview at Cop Central at…” She glanced at her wrist unit. “One this afternoon. Reserve the room, Peabody.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Talk to us here, talk to us there.” Eve shrugged. “We’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Now Eve just lifted her eyebrows. “Maybe you’d prefer us to obtain a warrant and escort you from the building in front of your employers and coworkers. It really isn’t any skin off ours.”