Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “How dare you? How dare you come to my home? This kind of harassment won’t be tolerated. Do you think barging into my home with your badge and your”—he waved a dismissive hand at Roarke—“consultant will intimidate me?”

  “Mr. Cosner, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we have difficult news. Can we come in for a moment?”

  “No, you cannot. And if you’ve found some petty way to attempt to arrest my son or further attempt to implicate him, I’ll deal with you in the morning, as agreed.”

  “Mr. Cosner.” Before he could shut the door in her face, Eve braced a hand against it. His eyes, bright against his rich man’s tan, went molten.

  “That will cost you your badge.”

  “Mr. Cosner, I regret to inform you your son, Marshall Cosner, is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  He reared back. The fury only increased with disbelief whipped across it. “You lie!”

  “No, sir. I examined and identified his body myself, along with the chief medical examiner of New York. Your son died at approximately nine-twenty this evening.”

  “Lowell.” Roarke used his first name when he saw something shatter in those bright eyes. “It would be better if we came inside.”

  “How? You tell me how.”

  “He was exposed to the same nerve agent that killed two other individuals,” Eve told him. “Do you want to hear the rest in the doorway?”

  Lowell simply turned away, walked through the entrance foyer into a living area done in quiet colors and quiet patterns. He sat heavily in a chair where soft sage merged in tiny diamonds with soft cream.

  “He was murdered, like the others. You tried to say he was part of the killing. You—”

  “Mr. Cosner, he was.” Eve decided not to wait for an invitation and sat directly across from him. “Were you aware your son owned a building on Pitt Street downtown, one he set up through a shell company?”

  “No, that’s ridiculous. Marshall wouldn’t begin to know how to create a shell company.”

  “I imagine he had help,” Eve said simply. “He purchased the building, set it up as a residence and workspace for Lucas Sanchez. You know that name,” she said as she saw the knowledge on Lowell’s face.

  “Yes. My son has an … addictive personality. He has a weakness for certain chemical enhancements. Sanchez exploited that weakness. Marshall assured me, his mother, his family that he had cut ties with Sanchez. After Marshall’s accident, after he recovered from his injuries, he assured us…”

  You didn’t believe him, Eve realized. But you hoped. You had to hope.

  “I’m sorry, he didn’t. Moreover, evidence indicates, strongly, Sanchez was paid to create the nerve agent.”

  “You expect me to believe my son was some sort of terrorist?”

  “Your son was part of a conspiracy to murder certain individuals over a long-held grudge. Sanchez and the nerve agent were tools, and when Sanchez had created the agent, he was killed. Mr. Cosner, your son was packing the agent in its receptacle for shipment when he was exposed.”

  Lowell shook his head, just kept shaking it. “He wouldn’t know how. He wouldn’t know.”

  “Lowell,” Roarke interrupted. “Let me get you a drink.”

  His eyes glittered with tears as he turned to Roarke. “I have…” He gestured vaguely. “I was reading, having some bourbon, unwinding when…”

  “I’ll find it,” Roarke told him, and left Eve to continue.

  “You took your son out of Theresa A. Gold Academy after Headmaster Rufty took over for Headmaster Grange.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Why did you take him out?”

  Lowell dropped his head in his hands, sat like that for several moments. “We came to understand Marshall was using, that he was drinking, that his grades had been … inflated. We came to understand his friends weren’t … appropriate. We believed the best solution was to send him to boarding school, to have my wife’s parents help supervise him, to remove him from the situation. We did what we thought best. We tried rehab. He’s my son. I did what I thought best.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Roarke came back, put a glass in Lowell’s hand.

  “His mother—she was so upset about the accusation, the police, the interview, she finally took a tranq and went to bed. How will I tell her our boy’s gone? Why didn’t we find the way to save him?”

  “Did he give any indication he was angry with Dr. Rufty, any of his teachers?”

  “At the time, of course. He was mad at the world. At us, at the school, but he was so young. He seemed to do a little better. Off and on he did better, but … He was always good at hiding things, at pretense. It was often easier just to believe him rather than deal with the drama and disappointment. But I can’t believe, won’t believe he’d do the things you’re saying.”

  “And as I said, he had help.”

  Lowell took a slow pull on the bourbon. “Stephen.”

  “Are you referring to Stephen Whitt, Mr. Cosner?”

  “I am. After it became clear what Marshall had been a part of at TAG, we did what we could to separate him from those influences. Against my better judgment Marshall and Stephen remained friends. Oh, he’s another who’s good at hiding things, at pretense. I don’t believe Marshall lied when he finally broke down and told us Stephen had devised most of the schemes, had served as ringleader. Marshall looked up to him, always had. My wife never liked the boy, always said there was something missing in him. I dismissed that, but agreed we should do what we could to cut the bond.”

  He looked down into his drink, set it aside. “We didn’t, even though they went to different schools in different states, then different colleges, we never broke that bond. Marshall’s a grown man. We can’t forbid him his friendships, even when they’re destructive.”

  Lowell swiped at his eyes.

  “If Marshall had any part in this, you can be sure Stephen was behind it. Marshall would have followed him into hell.” He picked his glass up again. “And now he has.”

  “You know the Whitts,” Eve prompted.

  “We were friendly when the boys were in school together. Now we’re polite. My wife dislikes Brent—Stephen’s father—and has for some time.”

  “Because?”

  “Primarily because he lied to and cheated on his wife, whom my wife was fond of. And more, I suppose, since she learned he carried on an affair with the headmaster of our son’s school.”

  “Lotte Grange.”

  “Correct. My wife happened to be meeting an out-of-town friend, waiting for her in the lobby of her hotel. And she saw the headmaster and Brent come in, check in, and share, we’ll say, a public display of affection on their way to the elevator. It was particularly upsetting, as she had a friendship with Brent’s wife.”

  “Okay.”

  “Neither here nor there now,” Lowell mumbled. “Nothing is now.”

  “Mr. Cosner, are you Stephen Whitt’s attorney?”

  Cosner’s brows shot up in surprise. “No. I would hardly share such information, even under the circumstances, if I represented Stephen.”

  Another lie, Eve thought. Another unnecessary lie.

  “We need to see our son.”

  “I’ll arrange that as soon as possible.” Eve rose. “We need to go into and through your son’s apartment at this time.”

  “We thought having him live in the same building would help. But it didn’t. I need to tell my wife our boy is gone. I need to tell her our boy helped kill people. How do I do that?”

  22

  Eve stood outside Marshall Cosner’s apartment door—pure white again, but a single. Since it had layers of security, she let Roarke work his way through.

  “This kind of lock and alarm system’s overkill in a building like this,” she said.

  “Not if you have something to hide. His father loved him. Didn’t respect him, trust him, but still, loved him.”

  “He didn’t do anything to earn the respect or trus
t. I guess love just comes with the package for most parents.”

  “Most,” Roarke agreed, “and there we are. After you, Lieutenant.”

  Cosner’s apartment didn’t boast a foyer, and its living area was about half the size of his father’s. Still, it wasn’t exactly a dump.

  No terrace beyond the windows, but plenty of city lights. Bolder, more sleekly modern furnishings than his parents’. A lot of hard color against shiny chrome.

  Eve wandered through. “Okay, mostly open—dining area, kitchen over there. That would put the bedroom area on the other side. Let’s start there.”

  She found the master, and a smaller second bedroom that served as a home office. “Take the office, I’ll take the bedroom. If they used drop ’links, Whitt might have missed one, or a notebook, a file on the comp, some communication on the house ’link. I’m going to check in with Peabody first.”

  While she did, Roarke sat at the steel-and-leather desk. It took him less than two minutes to melt through the password on the computer. And hardly more to find Whitt’s work.

  “Darling? Spare a minute?”

  She came back, her ’link pressed, screen down, to her chest. And hissed, “Don’t call me darling when I’m talking to cops.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant Darling.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What?”

  “At seventeen-oh-eight, a number of files on this unit were deleted.”

  “Son of a bitch!” She strode over, scowled over his shoulder. “Can you get any of them back?”

  He merely shifted his gaze up to hers. “Such insults don’t deserve a darling.”

  “Just…” She waved at him, lifted the ’link. “Yeah, tell the e-geeks to contact that science nerd in the lab. Ah, Siler. Once they get the rest unencrypted, he can verify whatever the hell it is.”

  “Dallas,” Peabody said, “it’s after midnight.”

  “It’s— Shit. Get some rack time, everybody. Tag the science nerd at eight hundred. I want somebody to sit on Whitt. I don’t think he’s going to rabbit—not when he thinks he’s free and clear. But I don’t want to risk it.”

  “Got it. Harvo found twelve hundred and sixteen human hairs.”

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “I am not fucking with you. She was revved up, and since it took her for-nearly-ever, the sweepers are really just getting going.”

  “Have them seal up. Rack time.” She clicked off. “Do what you can with that,” she told Roarke. “I’m going to go through the place. We can take the unit with us, log it out. I can get the e-team to finish the recovery in the morning.”

  “No darling for you, she of little faith,” he replied, and kept working.

  She went through the bedroom—the well-situated single man’s motif with deep colors, straight lines, no fuss but a lot of status.

  The goodie drawer by the bed told her he at least had the occasional sex partner. Wardrobe told her he liked to spend money on his duds. All designer, right down to the socks and underwear.

  She found his stash of illegals, noted some of them were hand-labeled just as the ones at the warehouse had been.

  Probably cooked up there, she mused, bagged them, sealed them.

  In the second, smaller closet, she found his sports equipment. The golf clubs, tennis rackets, golf shoes, tennis shoes, and the wardrobe deemed stylish for same. She also found his old uniforms—summer and winter—from Gold Academy.

  And found that oddly sad.

  Even as she thought it, she glanced up. Frowning, she stepped back, rose on her toes, and just caught the edge of a box—dark blue, on the high shelf.

  She had to hunt up a chair, drag it in, climb up to reach. The fine layer of dust told her it hadn’t been opened in some time.

  She climbed down, opened the lid.

  Photos—a lot of them. Photos of Cosner, Whitt, Hayward, others in their younger days. Mugging photos, obviously stoned photos, photos from sporting events. Clippings from same. School bulletins and announcements for dances, events. Bits of memorabilia.

  Sad, she thought again, and dug through.

  Found the thick notebook on the bottom. Not electronic, but the kind you wrote in. And, she realized as she flipped through, Cosner had written quite a bit in his very poor, cramped printing.

  “Eve.”

  “Listen to this,” she said without looking over. “‘We beat the hot shit out of that faggot Rodriges last night. Jerkwad actually believed we wanted him to tutor us, but me and Steve tutored the hell out of him. Talked about finishing him—who’d miss the little fucker? But we decided just to dump his sorry ass, then go have a few brews.’”

  She flipped pages. “There’s more, a whole lot more. Enough to bring Whitt in for a serious conversation.”

  “Eve,” Roarke repeated. “I’ve restored some files. One in particular you need to have a look at.”

  “Okay.” She glanced up, saw his face. “What is it?”

  “A target list, detailed.”

  She took the notebook with her to the home office, then looked over Roarke’s shoulder.

  “I’m still restoring files. I’d say Whitt—as he’s quite obviously your man—knows little about how comps actually work. His delete was standard, and easily countermanded.”

  “Jesus, Cosner actually titled it Payback Time, like they’re still in high school.”

  “And as you see, the targets of that payback are listed in alpha order, with the intended victims attached. There’s more following the list. It’s schedules for the targets, optimum times to schedule delivery for the intended victims, selected drop points and delivery services, even the names chosen for the bogus shop listed as sender.”

  “He wrote it all down,” Eve said as Roarke scrolled through. “The alibis, cover stories. Who made the drops. And he’s dead. It piles on the circumstantial, but he’s not alive to confirm it. But it’s more than enough to get Whitt in the box.

  “Go back to the target list.”

  When he did, Eve ran them through. “Duran, then Flint—Rodriges mentioned him—he’s retired in South Carolina now. Rosalind, the chem teacher. Rufty, then Stuben, art teacher, Woskinski, and Zweck, school nurse now doing private care. That’s seven designated targets, Cosner himself makes three victims. There were only three undamaged eggs left on scene. Either Whitt has the seventh, or it’s already been shipped.”

  “If Whitt always planned to kill his friend—”

  “Not like this. Even an idiot like Cosner could add. Seven targets, seven eggs. You eliminate Cosner the easy way—feed him an OD. This was necessity, do it quick, move on. We can’t risk it.”

  She yanked out her ’link, tagged Peabody.

  “Contact Rosalind and Zweck from the academy’s list,” she snapped. “We need to know if they received any deliveries, we need to know their status. Is McNab with you?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Have him contact Stuben from the academy. I’ll take Woskinski and Flint. They’re all on the kill list Cosner had on his comp.”

  “Well, Jesus. We’re right on it. Wait—that doesn’t add up.”

  “Exactly. There’s very likely another egg out there, very likely loaded. We need to find it. Confirm status first. These individuals’ safety is first priority. Report back when it’s done.”

  “Give me Woskinski’s contact,” Roarke told her. “You take the last. Quicker that way.”

  Once she’d confirmed all remaining targets safe and secure, she shifted to the next priority.

  “We have to find that goddamn egg. How much time do you need for a full restore?”

  “I’ve about got it. As I said, he doesn’t know much. He didn’t even throw in a virus.”

  “Keep at it. Copy that file to my PPC for now. I need to wake up Reo.”

  While he worked, Roarke listened to her with a combination of admiration and amusement.

  Reo, video blocked, said hoarsely, “I hate you, Dallas.”

  “Marshall Cosner is dead,
poisoned by the nerve agent. We have reason to believe another shipment has already been dropped.”

  “What? Wait. God, why isn’t there coffee right here?” There was rustling and thumping. “Details.”

  “We hit the converted warehouse Cosner bought,” Eve began, and filled in those details up to and past the time Reo unblocked video while standing in her kitchen with a giant mug of coffee.

  “We established Whitt came to Cosner’s apartment building—when Cosner was not in residence—tonight. One of the doormen ID’d him, and we have security footage we’ll pick up on the way out. Though files were deleted from Cosner’s home office comp—and other devices that should be here are missing—Roarke was able to restore. We found a kill list. There are seven names on it, with details. Three eggs have been used to kill, three have been taken into evidence. One’s missing.”

  “Any mention of Whitt in those files?”

  “Yes—coordination of cover stories.”

  “That’ll help. But with Cosner dead, won’t ring the bell.”

  Fire flashed, in Eve’s eyes, in her voice. “I’ll ring the damn bell. Right now I need warrants. We have to find that shipment. We have a list of preferred delivery services and drop points. I need warrants for all of them.”

  Reo took a big gulp of coffee. “Send them to me. I’ll get them.”

  “I want a search and seizure on Whitt’s residence and office, and a warrant for his arrest. On tap,” she added. “We find the package first.”

  “I’m going to need more coffee. I’ll work on it. Get me what you’ve got.”

  “Sending now,” Roarke told Eve.

  “Thanks,” Eve said to Roarke. “Get back to me,” she said to Reo.

  Then woke up CI Michaela Junta. “You’re going to need to put teams together,” Eve began.

  “Fully restored and copied,” Roarke announced when she’d finished.

  “Good. I’ll have EDD pick it up. We’ll work better at home. And I want to see the security feed.”

  “I haven’t met this Whitt, but I’m going to make a deduction. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”

  “You’d be right about that.” Eve bagged the notebook, sealed and labeled it. “What he is? Smug, self-important, a sociopath who’s been protected by privilege and money all his life. That’s about to end.”