Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “God, the students. I left—”

  “You’re not to worry. I’ll take care of everything here. You take whatever time you need, and you contact me if there’s anything you need from me, anything I can do.”

  “Dennis.” Jay squeezed his eyes shut. “She was the glue. Our boys…” He opened his eyes again, looked at Eve. “They’re good boys, growing into fine young men. We built a good home, a good life together. But she was the glue. And I … Did I kiss her goodbye this morning? I think so, I think I did. But I don’t think I told her I loved her. I don’t think I did. Why didn’t I?”

  “Mr. Duran, from everything you’ve told me, there’s no question in my mind, she knew you loved her. Please, if you think of anything, however insignificant it might seem, contact me.”

  Peabody stepped back in. “Mr. Duran, your transportation’s coming. Why don’t I walk you out to it?”

  “Yes, thank you. Yes.” He got to his feet, took a moment to gather himself.

  Dennis rose, hugged him. Not the one-armed, pat-on-the-back man hug, but a full one.

  “Anything you need, Jay. Anytime you need it.”

  Duran nodded, went with Peabody.

  Dennis lowered to the chair again. “I know how often you do this, how often you have to tell someone the life they had five minutes before is gone. You’re such a strong, brave girl, Eve.”

  “It’s the job, Mr. Mira.”

  He shook his head. “A strong, brave girl. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

  “No. You did everything right.”

  “You’ll talk to Charlie about this?”

  It always took her a moment to think of the elegant Mira as Charlie. “Yes, when I get back to Central.”

  “Between you, you’ll figure this out. She’s another strong, brave girl.” He rose, and as he had with Duran, hugged her. And when he did, she felt every ounce of tension just slide out of her.

  “Now, I’ll go take care of things here for that poor man.”

  “Thanks for your help here.”

  He patted her cheek, had her heart melting. “We all do what we can.”

  And what some did, she thought when he left, was take lives, and destroy others.

  * * *

  Peabody met her by the car.

  “Mr. Mira really helped. Duran told me when he came to Columbia, Mr. Mira was the first to take him out for coffee.”

  “That’s how he’s built. It’s going to come from the school, Peabody,” she said as they got into the car. “That’s the springboard. We need to track down this Lotte Grange.”

  “I’ll get on that. When I talked to Rufty, he said he could come in if you needed him to. He’s finalizing the arrangements for a memorial. He’s having it in the park in the morning, where Abner liked to run.”

  “Set it up.” While she did, Eve contacted Mira’s office. For a change she got no grief from the admin, who told her the doctor would be available when she got back to Central.

  “He needs an hour,” Peabody told Eve.

  “That works. Targeting spouses,” Eve continued. “Or loved ones, as it’s possible not everybody on his payback list is married. Would a chemistry teacher at a private school have enough skill to pull this off?”

  “It seems way above pay grade, but who knows? And it looks like we’re talking close to eight years of research and development time. Still, it didn’t sound like Duran caused any big waves while he was there.”

  “People, especially homicidal people, have different perspectives. He did something, said something, was something that put him on that list. He’s not going to remember it right off, not while he’s in this first stage of shock. He may later.”

  “And Rufty, being brought in—it really sounds like to clean up a mess, or at least that’s how Duran saw it—is going to have a wider overview. If he sat down and talked with an instructor who was leaving, he sat down and talked with everybody. He may have nudged somebody out. Or somebody saw his coming in as pushing Grange out. Still…”

  “Yeah, she landed another position, another big school with rich kids and influential parents,” Eve finished. “So what’s the beef? We’ll find out.”

  Just as she started the turn into the garage at Central, Eve had to hit the brakes to avoid mowing down a naked guy. He ran like the wind, his hair flying, his dong swinging merrily, with a handful of uniforms in hot pursuit.

  Pedestrians scrambled clear as he loped along like a gazelle.

  “Well.” Eve watched another moment. “Even in New York that’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “He’s really fast,” Peabody observed. “We could probably cut him off with the car.”

  “Probably.” Instead she just drove into the garage. “The uniforms need to get the lead out. Of what?” she wondered when she pulled into her slot. “Just what do you get the lead out of? Why would anybody haul lead around anyway? Language is ridiculous.”

  “I always thought it was your ass—not literally,” Peabody added before they went down that road. “Just like you’re slow because you’ve got the lead ass.”

  “What kind of ass do you have if you’re fast?” Eve countered as they walked to the elevator. “What’s the opposite of lead? Feathers? Hey, you’re a real feather ass. Nobody says that.”

  They got into the elevator. “But they could,” she continued, “because people just make shit up, then other people say it, and then it’s a thing. I’m heading straight to Mira,” Eve continued while Peabody was still processing. “Start digging into Grange so we have solid data before we talk to Rufty.”

  She rode up a handful of floors, then started to jump off to take the glides.

  “Helium,” Peabody called out. “Maybe because it’s light it’s sort of the opposite of lead.”

  “Well, those cops weren’t helium asses, not the way they were running.”

  Eve continued on and, unlike her partner, who would ponder it for some time, she forgot the entire conversation.

  Mira’s admin gave her the hard eye, but cleared the way.

  Mira sat behind her desk in a suit of pale lavender with a little flouncy thing at the waist. She signaled Eve to wait while she finished her ’link call.

  “No, of course. Don’t worry about that. I know, honey, I do. We’ll eat whenever you get home, and talk about it. You did, but it’s nice to hear it again. And I love you, too. I’ll see you at home. Bye now.”

  She clicked off, sighed. “Dennis.”

  “I kind of figured.”

  “He’s taking Jay Duran’s Shakespeare Club meeting at five,” she said as she rose and crossed to her AutoChef on purple heels. Their open fronts revealed toes with nails painted the exact shade of the suit.

  How did anyone think of that? Eve wondered.

  “This has hit him very hard.”

  “He was great with Duran,” Eve told her. “He helped, a lot.”

  “I barely remember Elise.” The air filled with the scent of flowers as Mira took cups of tea from the AC. “I didn’t even have a clear picture until I brought up her data.”

  “You didn’t really socialize.”

  “No.” She handed Eve a cup, took a seat in one of her blue scoop chairs. “I don’t get to many of Dennis’s faculty functions. Work interferes. But I did meet her a few times. There are two teenage sons.”

  “Yeah. I had Baxter and Trueheart get them out of school, take them to their grandparents. The victim’s mother found her.”

  “What a terrible day for them. I’ve read the data on the murders, the forensics, the timelines. Tell me what you know.”

  “The school—the Gold Academy—has to be the link. Duran had accepted the job at Columbia when Rufty came on as headmaster, but they worked there together for a semester. According to Duran, the previous headmaster had let a lot of things slide. More interested in courting parents with deep pockets than handling staff issues or problems with bullying, cheating, disciplinary problems. A group of teachers—including Duran—made
a formal complaint to the board.”

  Mira sipped tea. “Was action taken?”

  “I can’t confirm that as yet, but the previous headmaster—Lotte Grange—transferred to a high-toned prep school in East Washington, and Rufty came on board at the Gold Academy. Duran states that Rufty changed the tone, took action, made changes. For the better, in Duran’s opinion. I figure somebody didn’t share that opinion.”

  “And you theorize someone is killing the spouses of those he had grudges against at Gold?”

  “It’s what plays. Duran claims he didn’t have any serious problems or enemies, but—”

  “What’s a momentary annoyance or past issue for one is a deep and abiding insult to another,” Mira finished. “And Rufty?”

  “I’m meeting with him again shortly. I’ll take him back to that first semester. With Duran in this, it has to go back to that timeline. Before, no Rufty, after, no Duran. Potentially we could have someone who developed a hard-on for Duran before Rufty came along, and got going on Rufty after Duran left. But I start with that timeline.”

  “Yes, I’d agree. What do you know about Grange?”

  “Peabody’s digging into that now.”

  Mira nodded, sipped her tea. “To kill the innocent in order to strike at the ones he’s determined are guilty. He wants them to suffer, to mourn and grieve and live with great loss. He may perceive they caused him to suffer, grieve, and live with loss. There may be a personal as well as professional tie with Grange, or someone else who was pushed out—student or staff—during that timeline.”

  “And if that timeline’s right, he’s had about eight years to stew over it, to plan it, to create or access the agent.”

  “It’s not impulse,” Mira agreed, “but calculated. Highly organized and intelligent, and at the same time dispassionate. The kill is dispassionate,” Mira corrected. “A painful death, yes, but quick—and calculated so no one else is harmed. That element must have taken extra time, more work, so it matters that only the person addressed is killed.”

  “He knows when to send the package,” Eve added, “so it arrives when the target’s alone. Or is scheduled to be alone.”

  “Again, a calculated risk.” Considering that, Mira tapped a finger on the side of her pretty teacup. “Accidents happen in shipping, mistakes are made, plans change. But it’s a carefully calculated risk, and what would he lose if something happened, someone else opened the package, or it was damaged? Nothing really.

  “He has knowledge and skill,” she went on. “He’s certainly worked with toxic chemicals.”

  “Or is working with someone who has.”

  Mira angled her head. “Yes, very possible. He or they must have a lab where he can create the agent. He’s loved,” Mira added. “Or believes he’s loved. Whether or not he’s experienced it himself, he understands the pain of loss. He uses it.”

  “He may have lost a spouse?”

  “Possibly, or a child, or a parent, someone he loved or believes he loved. Even the removal of the person he loved—a breakup, moving away. But I see him as an observer. Someone who watches, documents—scientifically—more than participates. Again, if your timeline is correct, he’s patient. He knows good work and positive results take time. Or she, of course. Poison’s often a female weapon. Most of us, present company definitely excepted, lack the physical strength and skill to confront an opponent physically.”

  “He—or she—is also a coward.”

  “Yes.” Mira offered the smallest smile. “Not only because you’d find them so, but in none of the statements is there any mention of any sort of physical confrontation or argument. No threats, no rivals or enemies. This rage, however cold, has been bottled up, hidden, and hidden well. When you find him, those who know him will be shocked.”

  “Yeah, the typical, he seemed like a nice, normal guy.”

  “And a fastidious one, that will factor in. The way he packed the shipment, so carefully. The strapping tape perfectly straight. You’ll find his residence, his work area immaculate.”

  Now Mira sat back, recrossed her legs. “I’d pondered over the egg—until you found the connection.”

  “Gold egg, Gold Academy. That didn’t just happen. It’s a message.”

  “Yes, a reference back to what lit the very long fuse. And there’s killing the goose that laid the golden egg, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, all that glitters isn’t gold, and so on. It’s a cheap trinket, like the box—but he painted the interior painstakingly, added the sealant.”

  “Both the box and the egg were dirt cheap, and available from half a million places online. We’ll never trace them, but we will track them back to him once we have him.”

  “It’s the economy of it. He didn’t want to waste money on them. The chemicals had to have cost considerable, and the equipment unless he’s able to access it from a workplace.”

  “Nothing we’ve found so far, but there are thousands of medical and research and educational labs in New York and New Jersey.”

  Sipping tea, Mira considered. “The economy tells me he values money, respects it. He spent it where necessary.”

  “But he sends them a cheap trinket because why waste good money.”

  “Very good,” Mira said approvingly. “He lives alone. If he’s working on the agent in his workplace, he has some autonomy. If he’s working at home, he’d want privacy. He’s driven, Eve. There’s no time or room in his life for real relationships. He’s not one to confront or debate directly, but to retreat where he can work toward his revenge. He may have done so many times before, in less lethal ways. Undermining a colleague or rival while carefully staying out of the fray.”

  “And observing, documenting. Keeping an account.”

  “Yes. He’ll have everything documented. He’s a scientist, whether by trade or inclination. Everything he’s done and will do, all the data he’s accumulated on his targets and his victims—as they are separate things—will be documented.”

  “So far his targets and victims have families. Grown children with children in the first hit, younger children in the second.”

  “It may be satisfying for him to shatter a family. If he had one, he no longer does. Why should they have one, intact and happy? Somewhere, at some time, in some way, they caused him grief. And now he gives them grief.”

  “Back to the school. Rufty first—he was in charge, he made the changes.” Eve checked the time. “My interview with him’s coming up.”

  She rose, paused. “Could he be on the young side? Say, somebody who was a student when Rufty took over? Maybe got booted out, or disciplined, or failed some classes after Rufty came on?”

  “I nearly said doubtful, as the planning, the time gap shows maturity, patience. But think of the egg—and the name used for the return address. They’re a kind of ugly joke, aren’t they? I’d say the high intelligence and lack of genuine emotion or empathy are more solid factors than age.”

  “I think of Rayleen Straffo. She was a crafty little killer, and hadn’t hit her teens. I’ll talk to Rufty about students, too. Thanks for the time.”

  “When you find him, he’ll have a cover, perhaps even seem to cooperate. But he’ll be planning on how to strike back.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She took the glides back to give herself time to think, and found herself amused as some cops heading in the same direction discussed the Crazy Naked Guy.

  “Son of a bitch made it twenty blocks, just sailing along, dick swinging. Patrinki says he’s barely winded when they finally caught him. Claimed he was exercising his constitutional right. Freedom of religion, ’cause he was just giving his thanks to the god of spring. And clothes were a whatsit—societal construct or some shit.”

  “It takes all kinds,” his companion commented.

  Eve got off the glide at Homicide, walked into the bullpen. She tried to avoid looking at Jenkinson’s tie, saw Carmichael and Santiago debating, hotly, some point of a case, Peabody deep in he
r research and guzzling a fizzy.

  Yeah, it took all kinds, she thought, and went into her office to prep for the interview.

  She booked a conference room. She didn’t want Rufty to sit in the box, wanted more private than the lounge.

  She updated her board and book, sat contemplating both before calling Peabody in.

  “Give me what you’ve got on Grange.”

  “Mixed-race female, age seventy-two, two marriages, two divorces, no offspring. Currently headmaster at Lester Hensen Preparatory School, East Washington.”

  Peabody sent a hopeful look toward the AutoChef, got a nod.

  “Thanks. You?”

  “Yeah, fine. Keep going.”

  “Okay. Going by her data, she’s stuck with private schools since she started—forty-nine years ago—in Baltimore, Maryland, worked her way to assistant dean of faculty, transferred to a school in Columbus, got the divorce, moved up to assistant headmaster there, transferred here as assistant headmaster, got married again, moved up to headmaster, got divorced, transferred as headmaster to East Washington. She averages about ten years at a school.”

  Peabody passed the coffee to Eve. “No particular interest or skill in science shows up. To me, it reads like she used teaching as a stepping-stone to administration and the hierarchy.”

  “The second divorce. When and who filed for it?”

  “Ah…” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “The spouse—Reginald P. Greenwald—this was also his second. He filed in … January of 2053.”

  “The same year she transferred to East Washington. Reginald P. Greenwald. Sounds like a rich name.”

  “And you’d be correct. Second son of Horace W. Greenwald and CEO of All Fresh, which was started last century by Philip A. Greenwald—grandfather. They make home and commercial cleaning supplies and tools.”

  “Cleaning supplies.” Eve felt a little buzz. “You’d need chemists on staff.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure you would. Labs for research and development, testing new products. You could buy a mad scientist with your take of a multibillion-dollar company. But why kill the spouses of a headmaster—who came in after your ex transferred—and a teacher who was about to transfer?”