Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She locked and sealed the apartment. “I’m going to review the security feed in the car, save time. Junta won’t let me near the drops or the search for the nerve agent. Which is a pisser and understandable, as I’d do the same damn thing in her place.”

  In the elevator she rocked back on her heels, wanting to move, to move. Once she had the security disc, she plugged it into her PPC even as they walked out to the car.

  She scanned through while Roarke drove.

  “Doorman had the time right. There he is. Walks right by the desk guy, who greets him. Obviously he comes by often enough nobody questions him.”

  She switched to the elevator cam when he got on. “Okay, there he is. Checks his wrist unit. Checking the time. Taking out a ’link—drop ’link. Yeah, yeah, answering a tag from Cosner, you bet your ass. We can get a lip reader on this if we need. Quick convo, puts the ’link away—one he’ll ditch later. Smirks. Oh yeah, that’s a smug fucking smirk.”

  She switched to the corridor cam, which showed him strolling straight to Cosner’s apartment, using his own swipe and palm print to gain entrance.

  “Doesn’t he realize you’d check the security?”

  “Cosner wasn’t killed there—that’s how he sees it. Why would we bother? And again, by the time we found the body, the feed’s overwritten. And here he is, heading back out. He spent thirty-two minutes inside. Whatever he removed—say, spare drop ’links, any other electronics—are inside the briefcase and messenger bag. I need to know where he was tonight, what his cover is.”

  “He’d need time to slip away, get to the warehouse, deal with Cosner, get back.” Roarke drove through the gates of home. “So it’s most likely something more public than private. He’d need a crowd, wouldn’t he?”

  “Another club, maybe, or a concert, a sporting event, a banquet—business but not a client dinner. This took too long to fake taking a tag.”

  “Let me see what I can find out.” Roarke smiled as he opened the door. “I still have my ways.”

  “Good. You can use your ways while I check in with Junta, with Reo. I figure to give Feeney a few hours of downtime, then we’re going to hit Whitt with the search. Bright and early.”

  “He thinks he’s home free, and is feeling very good about himself right now. Likely sleeping like a baby.”

  “Babies are always crying.”

  Roarke stopped on the way up the stairs with her. “That’s quite true, isn’t it? I’ll give you that one. He’s sleeping like a sociopath. And he’s bound to have the formula for the nerve agent.”

  She turned to him as they walked into her office. “What would you do if you were a sociopathic bad guy and had the formula for a chemical weapon that can kill in a kind of pinpoint way, in minutes, before it dissipates?”

  “Sell it. If I wasn’t a complete berk as well as a sociopathic bad guy, I’d wait several months first. A year, maybe two.”

  “He won’t wait a year or two, but he’ll wait awhile. I’m betting he’s already doing some due diligence on where to sell for the best return.”

  She went straight for coffee.

  “You won’t give him the opportunity. Let me see what I can find out.”

  He stopped by her board. “Will you update this tonight?”

  “It’s routine for a reason.”

  “He had everything going for him,” Roarke said as he studied Marshall Cosner’s ID. “Wealth, privilege, education, opportunities. All wasted.”

  “Now he’s in the morgue.” She sat at her command center, got to work.

  She touched base with Junta, with Reo, wrote up her report, then yes, updated her board. As she finished, Roarke came back.

  “The Whitt Group had a major client seminar, dinner, with entertainment following tonight at the New York Grand Hotel. Whitt was a featured speaker.”

  “Where is it? What time did he speak?”

  “He was the dinner speaker, scheduled for eight. As for where, let’s do this.”

  He leaned over her, did a few keystrokes to bring a map of New York onto the wall screen. “Here’s the Grand.” He highlighted it. “And the warehouse.”

  “Too far to walk, not enough time for that. Or to run even if you were a speedy naked marathoner.”

  “A what?”

  “Later,” she said. “He had to have transpo.”

  “Agreed. Even with that it would take several minutes.”

  “Wouldn’t get a cab.” She got up to pace. “Wouldn’t risk that, certainly wouldn’t risk the subway. He’d have his own—not a driver because that adds another person in. Does the Grand have parking?”

  “It does, but valet only.”

  “That won’t work. So he needs to park somewhere close, where he can get out then back in easy, fast. What’ve we got within a block?”

  More keystrokes. “You’d have the Hubble Hotel, which has an accessible parking garage, a block away. The next closest parking would be three blocks more.”

  “We need the security cams for both hotels.”

  He turned to her. Fired up, yes, he thought, but running on fumes nonetheless.

  “And I imagine there are cops capable of doing that who are actually on duty at near to two in the morning. You need to get some sleep.”

  “I don’t…” She realized she was revved by the movement in the case, and that it wouldn’t last. She needed to be sharp to go up against Whitt in the morning. “You’re right. He’s not going anywhere, the rest of the targets are secure, and Junta’s team will find the package. I’ll get someone to handle the hotels.”

  Roarke brushed a hand over her hair. “Well now, that was easy.”

  “Because it’s either some rack time or I have to take a booster before I take Whitt down. I hate those things.”

  She made the arrangements, then tried to turn her brain off as they walked to the bedroom.

  “I wonder who he’d targeted next?” she said as she undressed.

  “Whoever it was, they’re safe.”

  “You had a big part in seeing they are.”

  “We can both rest easy for a few hours knowing we did our part.”

  She slid into bed where the cat already stretched out, tried again to let the long day go as Roarke drew her back against him. She took Roarke’s hand.

  “They had everything we didn’t. Now one’s in the morgue, and the other will spend the rest of his life in a cage.”

  He kissed the back of her head. “And here we are. Sleep now.” Knowing it lulled her, Roarke rubbed her back. “Morning comes soon enough.”

  * * *

  Morning came at five-twelve when her communicator signaled. “Block video,” she mumbled as she groped for it.

  Already up, Roarke ordered the lights on at ten percent.

  “Dallas.”

  “Junta. We’ve got the package. It’s secured.”

  She shoved a hand through her hair as she rolled out of bed. “Where?”

  “They went Allied again, made the drop at nineteen-forty. Kiosk’s just a couple blocks from the warehouse. We tracked it to the shipping port, confiscated it. They got cute with the bogus sender. Duck, Duck, Goose. It was addressed to Lilliana Rosalind.”

  “The chemistry teacher’s wife. Good work, Junta.”

  “All around. Finish him off, Dallas.”

  “That’s the plan. I’ll get back to you.”

  When she clicked off, Roarke handed her coffee. “Thanks. You were already up. Mostly dressed.”

  “’Link conference shortly.” He stood in black suit pants, a dove-gray shirt while he flawlessly knotted a tie that blended those tones with a sharp red in tiny checks. “What’s next, Lieutenant?”

  “Check in, get teams together, set things up. I want Mira observing my interview with Whitt. I can coordinate most of that from here. I’ll grab a shower and get moving.”

  “I’m in my office if you need anything. It was good work, all around,” he added before picking up his suit jacket.

  So far, she
thought as she headed to the shower, and he went out.

  With Cosner disposed of, evidence removed, Whitt considered himself in the clear, she calculated as the hot jets pummeled her system awake. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to disabuse him? Still, she had to take care on where and how to apply the pressure.

  Debating her options, she hopped in the drying tube.

  More coffee, she decided, and grabbed that before going into her closet. She started to grab whatever at random, thinking how much easier that chore had been when she’d had maybe six choices. She didn’t have time to think about stupid style and horseshit image.

  Giving a passing thought to spring weather, she opted for a vest rather than a jacket, grabbed sturdy ankle boots, and walked out to strap on her weapon harness. As she grabbed her ’link, her communicator, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Stopped. Thought: Hmm.

  Maybe she hadn’t realized she’d given it any thought, but she’d managed to pair black leather pants with the black leather vest over a straight-lined black shirt and the thick-soled black boots.

  Good for running after bad guys, and kicking asses.

  All in all, she came off just a little mean. Which she considered perfect.

  She went straight to her office, her command center, and her third cup of coffee.

  She tagged Peabody first, gave her partner the update and instructions while she checked for any incoming reports from Harvo, Morris, the sweepers.

  Nothing yet, but she had to consider it was still shy of six hundred.

  From Peabody to Jenkinson, from Jenkinson to Feeney, from Feeney to Reo. Rather than wake up Mira and Whitney, she sent memos.

  Forty minutes after her comm sounded, she had her teams set, her plan in place, and was ready to roll.

  When she walked over to Roarke’s office door, he held up a finger for her to wait. She saw a group of people at a conference table on-screen, and … yeah, that was Big Ben outside the glass wall.

  “Once we receive those changes, we’ll look over the paperwork. We should be able to have this done by the end of your business day. Thank you.”

  Once he’d finished, he turned to Eve. “It only lacks a whip, and since I expect you want the hard-ass image today, well done.”

  “He’s going to get more than the image. I’ve got a no-knock warrant coming through and a whole bunch of no-bullshit cops ready to go through the door.”

  “Hard-ass playing hardball.” He rose, walked over to set his hands on her hips, kiss her. “Eat something. Coffee and adrenaline aren’t actual fuel, and you’ll need it,” he added when she rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll pull up something in the car.”

  “Good enough. You should wear your long black coat—finish off the look. He’s a bad one, Lieutenant.” He kissed her again. “So you take care of my cop.”

  “I’m a lot badder than he is.”

  Trusting she was, he watched her go, then sat down to take the next conference.

  At oh-six-thirty, Eve stood outside the uptown townhouse. She’d have pegged Whitt the type for a fancy penthouse in a building chock-full of fancy amenities. But she realized this made sense.

  No real neighbors, fewer people who might notice his comings and goings, no one in charge of security but himself.

  As ordered, Peabody had pulled in four uniforms, Jenkinson had drafted Baxter and Trueheart, and Feeney added on McNab and Callendar.

  Overkill, sure, but she wanted the show.

  “One heat source,” Callendar announced. “Second floor. He’s still beddy-bye, Dallas.”

  “Then this should fulfill my quota of waking people up this morning. Can you get through the locks and alarms, Feeney?”

  “We’re getting it,” he muttered as he and McNab worked. “You wanted this quick, you should’ve brought Roarke.”

  “I’ve got the battering ram for quick.”

  “Couple minutes,” Feeney griped.

  “We’re starting to draw some early-morning attention. Officers?”

  The uniforms snapped to, moving people along as Feeney and McNab exchanged fist bumps. “You’re clear.”

  “On my lead then. We announce as we enter. Keep announcing as we move through as outlined.”

  She drew her weapon—considered that mostly show as well—nodded to Peabody. Went through the door.

  “This is the police! NYPSD. We have a warrant to enter. This is the police,” she repeated and aimed for the stairs. “We have a warrant. We are armed. Stephen Whitt, you’re ordered to come out, to show yourself. Show your hands.”

  He came out of a bedroom, and since he was naked, showed more than his hands.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Stephen Witt, we have a warrant to enter and search these premises. We have an additional warrant for your arrest on suspicion of conspiracy to murder, two counts, possession and distribution of chemical weapons, suspicion of murder, one count.”

  “You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

  “You have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to put on pants before I cuff you and have you taken into Central.”

  “You keep your hands off me, keep them off my things. I’m contacting my lawyer.”

  “Also your right, and we’ll get to the rest of your rights and obligations. But really, Steve? Pants. Baxter! Come on up here and assist Mr. Whitt in getting dressed. Mirandize him while you’re at it.”

  Inside those empty eyes Eve saw flickers of a dark, deadly heat. “You’re going to pay for this.”

  “I’m standing here looking at you naked, with bed hair and a bad disposition. I’ve already paid.”

  23

  Whitt contacted his lawyer. Eve imagined he’d have a fleet of them when they got down to business at Central. But for now, she had two burly, hard-eyed uniforms escort him out to the waiting black-and-white.

  “You’re finished.” While his eyes stayed cold, empty, his cuffed hands balled into fists. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I’ll finish you.”

  She only smiled as the uniforms perp-walked him out.

  “No smirk,” she commented. “Not so smug. Pissed more than scared, but not so smug.”

  She looked around the perfectly ordered living area, more showroom than home to her eye, with its navy gel sofa, its white accent chairs, polished steel tables, and splashy modern art.

  “We’re going to find something,” she mumbled. “Something he thinks he’s stashed away where we won’t find it, but didn’t think he needed to get rid of or hide somewhere else.”

  “He didn’t even ask about the charges,” Peabody pointed out. “Especially the last one. The third murder.”

  “That’s right. He’s trying to work out how we found Cosner so fast. He thinks he’s covered on that. He’ll have a safe, at least one. We’ll get into that. But he’s got some hidey-hole, something a little trickier. Let’s find it.”

  She started in the bedroom, as she found people generally considered that their safe space. She found the safe, spent several tense and sweaty minutes bypassing the locks, only to find nothing of particular interest inside. Man jewelry, some cash, his passport.

  Feeney walked into the closet. “That’s a decent safe. You bypass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re picking things up, kid. And speaking of Roarke, you said how he said Whitt didn’t know much about comps? I’m here to tell you, he don’t know dick. Had the unit in his home office passcoded so weak Mavis’s toddler could’ve gotten through. A couple of basic filters you can poof just giving them a hard stare.”

  “I take it you’re in.”

  “Oh, we’re in.” Feeney took a bag of candied almonds from his baggy pocket, offered some. “Mostly business on it. Financial gobbledygook for clients. Roarke could figure it, or we’ll bring in a forensic accountant, but it looks legit. Here’s what’s not on there. Any of his personal finances.”

  “Roarke looked at those. Suspects some money launderi
ng. Cash outlays that don’t make sense.” Frowning, she sat back on her heels. “You’re saying he doesn’t have any personal stuff on there?”

  “Not money-wise. I’m guessing he didn’t know enough to keep two sets of books.”

  “Add arrogance. Hidey-hole.” She scanned the closet. “There has to be one. Maybe a false wall. Let’s—”

  “I’ve got it! Woot!”

  At Peabody’s call, Eve scrambled up, and found her partner on her hands and knees at the foot of Whitt’s bed.

  Obviously pleased, Peabody actually wiggled her butt. “That rug was over it. I thought, well, you never know, took a peek under, and hey, I did know. Secret compartment in the floor. It’s really well done, custom work. With a thumbprint lock.”

  Eve calculated how much time it would take to bypass, walked to the door, shouted, “I need a crowbar.”

  Pleased shifted to seriously distressed as Peabody pressed a hand to her heart. “Aw, Dallas, the flooring’s gorgeous.”

  “Suck it up.”

  And she rolled her shoulders, imagining the pleasure of prying up floorboards.

  * * *

  By nine Eve sat in her office with Reo, going over the evidence gathered. Reo sat back in Eve’s desk chair, enjoyed the very fine coffee.

  “I don’t believe the PA’s office will be inclined to offer any sort of deal to Mr. Whitt, and in fact will push, and push hard, for the maximum on all charges.”

  “I should fucking hope so.”

  Reo only smiled. “He’s got three high-powered criminal attorneys just waiting to tear the arrest to shreds. They’ve already filed to have the charges dismissed, and filed for false arrest. They’ll be pulling strings while we’re in Interview. That’ll be Kobast, Broward Kobast, in Interview. I’m going to join you and Peabody, and I’m going to enjoy— No,” she corrected. “Let me say I’m going to relish being part of knocking them down, several pegs.”

  “Gone up against them before?”

  “Two of the three. You win some, you lose some.” Reo shrugged. “This one’s a win.”