by J. D. Robb
Peabody came to the door. “Whitt and his attorney are in Interview A. His other attorney’s up with the commander. I don’t know where number three is.”
“She’s probably arguing for the dismissal.” Reo rose, faked dusting off her navy suit. “Let’s go disappoint all of them.”
Eve hauled the evidence box off her desk and led the way.
Peabody opened the door to Interview A.
“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, Reo, APA Cher, entering Interview with Stephen Whitt and his designated legal representative Broward Kobast. This interview is re charges against Mr. Whitt stemming from case numbers H-4945-1, H-4952-1, H-4963-1.”
“My client will exercise his right to silence, so you will speak to me. He also, of course, disputes all of these injurious charges. We’ve filed for their immediate dismissal, and have filed charges of harassment and false arrest against the NYPSD and you personally, Lieutenant.”
Kobast looked like an elder statesman, with his shock of white hair, his trim white beard, the contrasting slash of black brows over crystal blue eyes.
Eve said, “Okay,” and took her seat. “Maybe your client would like to state his whereabouts last night from eight to ten P.M.”
“He doesn’t have to, as I can verify them myself, as I attended the same event. The Whitt Group dinner at the New York Grand Hotel. Stephen was the dinner speaker.”
Eve nodded as if that was news to her. “And at what time did he speak?”
“It would have been about eight.” With a small, smug smile, Kobast nodded back. “He was quite informative and entertaining.”
“I bet. And how long did he speak?”
“Perhaps twenty minutes.”
“Until about eight-twenty. That doesn’t cover the full time period in question.”
Now Kobash sighed. “Lieutenant, dozens of people will verify Stephen was at the Grand, in their main ballroom. If one of your ludicrous charges hinges on this—”
“It does. Yes, it does, as Marshall Cosner’s time of death was twenty after nine.”
“Marsh?” Whitt sucked in his breath, jerked as if slapped. He did both well, but couldn’t quite bring the horror into his eyes. It couldn’t penetrate the slight sneer. “Marsh is—is dead? How— What happened to him?”
“He succumbed to the same nerve agent you and he hired Lucas Sanchez to cook up so you could punish some old enemies.”
Making an effort to look shaken, Whitt turned to his attorney, gripped Kobast’s arm. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Broward. My God, Marsh was one of my oldest friends.”
“Quiet now, Stephen. My client couldn’t be in two places at once.”
“He didn’t have to be. Peabody.”
Peabody opened the evidence box, took out a disc. “This is a copy of the security feed from the Grand, the Fifty-third Street service door, followed by the security feed from the Hubble Hotel garage on Fifty-second. Note the time,” Peabody added as she cued it up.
“You missed the cam on the gift shop, Steve,” Eve said as at twenty-thirty-two he strode quickly past. “Further note the feed on the exit door skips eighteen seconds. Our EDD confirms this skip was caused by a jammer.”
“So I walked by the gift shop. Is it against the law to hunt up a bathroom now?”
At the outburst, Kobast signaled Whitt to silence.
“Switching to the garage cam at the Hubble,” Peabody announced. “Time stamp twenty-thirty-five. Freezing at twenty-thirty-eight.”
It froze on the image of a man in a suit on a black scooter. The helmet and visor hid his face.
“Are you kidding? That’s not me. You can’t see his face, for God’s sake. I don’t own a scooter.”
“Ms. Reo.” Kobast turned to her, and his voice dripped pity and derision. “This is hardly identifying evidence. I expect better of you.”
“Oh, I’ve got better. First, unless you’ve suddenly lost the power of sight, Mr. Kobast, you can clearly see the man on the scooter is wearing the same suit, same tie, same shoes as Mr. Whitt wore in the Grand Hotel feed. Added to it, while he doesn’t own a scooter, his cousin James Cutter does. In fact, that very scooter with that plate is registered to Mr. Cutter. Mr. Cutter confirms that your client has the codes to the garage where said scooter is kept, and the codes to said scooter.”
“It’s not me.” Whitt folded his arms over his chest. “I never left the Grand. I was there from seven until after eleven.”
“No, you weren’t,” Eve countered, “but let’s skip that for now and go back in time. How about five that same evening? Five yesterday.”
Whitt merely shrugged. Kobast folded his hands. “Was another crime committed? Another murder you’ll try to hang on my client?”
“Not a murder, but a crime. How about if we rephrase and ask your client what he was doing entering Marshall Cosner’s apartment—when Mr. Cosner wasn’t in residence—at five last evening? And before he works up a denial, we also have that security feed.”
Peabody took another disc out of the evidence box.
“This is ridiculous. Marsh was my friend. He borrowed a set of my earbuds to try out, and I wanted them back. He told me to go on by and get them, so I did.”
“Did you take anything else out of Mr. Cosner’s apartment?”
“Of course not. It’s all right, Broward,” he said before his attorney could interrupt. “It’s simply a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake that several items were missing from Mr. Cosner’s apartment.”
“How would you know?”
“Stephen—”
“Well, how would she know?” The arrogance was back, in full. “She’s just throwing things against the wall, desperate for something to stick.”
“Okay, let’s throw this.” Eve rose, took a tablet, a mini-comp, and a drop ’link out of the evidence box. “These items belonged to Mr. Cosner and were retrieved by me and my partner from the hidey-hole in the floor at the foot of your bed. We know this drop ’link, not yet activated, was Mr. Cosner’s, as he left his fingerprints on it. These other two.” She took them out. “Those are yours. Now, what’s an upstanding financial adviser doing with drop ’links, and his dead friend’s devices in a hidden area under his bedroom floor?”
Whitt turned to his lawyer. “She’s lying, of course. They obviously planted those. For some reason she’s got it in for me.”
“Mr. Kobast.” Reo spoke up. “You’re aware that, by law and regulation, Lieutenant Dallas and all police officers who entered Mr. Whitt’s residence, fully warranted to enter and search, wore body recorders. The entire search is on record, which we can provide for you here if you require it.”
“A safe, concealed area isn’t against the law,” Kobast returned. “Neither is holding some electronics for a friend, or acquiring a drop ’link.”
“Got me there.” Eve enjoyed Whitt’s smirk as she reached into the box again. “And neither is possessing five hundred thousand in cash.” She set the stack of bagged, banded bills on the table. “Though, boy, a money guy ought to know keeping cash under a metaphorical mattress doesn’t earn dividends. But what is illegal?” She tossed the jammer, a bagged passport, driver’s license, ID card on the table. “Acquiring a jammer, acquiring false ID.”
“This is bullshit! They’re trying to railroad me. I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”
“Sit down!” Eve snapped as Whitt started to rise. “You’re under arrest. It’s sit down or sit in a cell.” Deliberately, she angled her head. “I bet this feels as frustrating to you as being yanked out of Gold, pulled away from your sycophants and girlfriend.”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Kobast maintained his calm, but Eve had seen the surprise when she’d tossed down the fake IDs. “I want to speak with my client.”
“Sure.” She repacked the evidence box. “We’ve got a few more surprises in here.” She winked at Whitt. “You know what they are. Dallas, Peabody, Reo exiting Interview. Re
cord off.”
“Well, Kobash knows he’s got a liar for a client,” Reo said cheerfully once the door closed behind them. “And he’s wondering if he’s got worse. So … cold drinks? I’m buying.”
“Tube of Pepsi,” Eve said.
“Diet of same, thanks.”
Reo started toward Vending, met Mira as the doctor stepped out of Observation. After a quick word, Mira continued toward Eve and Peabody on canary-yellow heels that matched her slim dress and jacket.
“His lies aren’t holding.” Mira glanced toward the interview room door. “So he’ll shift them. I suspect he’ll shift any blame to Cosner. After all, Cosner can’t contradict him.”
“Yeah, I’m with you there.”
“He feels entitled to lie, as he was entitled to punish those who offended or betrayed him—or who simply became inconvenient. He doesn’t fully recognize, certainly doesn’t respect, your authority over him. And it infuriates him. He has no feelings of guilt or remorse, even doubt, to trip him up. It’s his anger that will.”
“Piss him off. That’s a win-win for us, right, Peabody?”
“Like winning the lottery and having crazy sex with Tiger Bellows.”
“Who the hell is Tiger Bellows?”
“He’s a vid star,” Mira supplied, smiling. “And he is dreamy.”
“Oh, did you see him in Surrender?” Carting tubes, Reo sighed.
“Those eyes.” Peabody closed her own. “You just want to melt.”
“Great, good to know.” Eve snatched her tube. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, segue back to nailing this murdering bastard.”
“I can tell you the IDs threw Kobast off his stride, and he’s pushing Whitt to explain.” Reo passed out the rest of the tubes, including Mira’s cold tea.
“He won’t tell his lawyer the truth,” Mira said.
“Oh, we’re used to being lied to. Kobast is a vet.”
“And Whitt’s a lying, murdering, homicidal sociopath,” Eve added. “He’s also the spoiled, pampered, rich son of an important family. People are supposed to clean up his messes.”
Eve pulled out her signaling ’link. “I’ve got some incomings.” She stepped away to take them, paced as she read. Walking back into a discussion on where Mira got the canary-yellow shoes didn’t dim her smile.
“Did you win the lottery?” Peabody wondered.
“The forensic lottery, yeah. Here’s what we’ve got, and how we’re going to use it.”
The twenty minutes Kobash spent conferring with his client gave Eve plenty of time to outline the strategy. She walked back into Interview, restarted the record, set down the evidence box.
“My client,” Kobast began, “in a mistaken yet understandable attempt to protect his oldest friend, one he’s just learned has died, has shaded the truth on certain matters.”
“Lied?” Eve supplied, and Kobast ignored her.
“He will make a brief statement, explaining how certain items in evidence came into his possession.”
“Well, we’re all ears.”
“I noticed Marsh was acting strange,” Whitt began. “Nervous, excited, angry, all over the map. I thought … well, it’s no secret Marsh had an illegals issue. I suspected he was using again, even tried to talk to him about it. He blew me off. When I found out he had some sort of deal going with Sanchez, I tried to talk to him again. Sanchez had been supplying Marsh with illegals since high school.”
“Only Marsh?”
Whitt cast his eyes down. “I’m not going to deny I experimented a little in high school, but I don’t use. But Marsh…”
He broke off as if overcome. Breathed out as if to gather himself.
“When I met Marsh at the club the other night, he was really whacked-out. He was talking about TAG, and how he got a raw deal, shipped off to boarding school, hounded by his grandparents. How smooth everything had been until some of the teachers started pushing in, pushing at the headmaster, how everything went to shit after Rufty came in. And…”
Whitt looked down again, folded his hands together. “How he’d found a way to pay them back, pay them all back.”
He looked up then. Eve imagined he believed he’d worked horror into his eyes, but he didn’t have the skills. They stayed ice-cold. “I didn’t know—I never imagined he meant to hurt anyone. I thought it was just bullshitting. I even got into it some, just joking around. When you came to my office and told me … I never put it together. I never even considered it was Marsh.
“Could I have some water?”
Without a word, Peabody rose, started out.
“Peabody exiting Interview,” Eve said for the record.
“Then he tagged me. We had drop ’links. It was just a kind of gag since school. Just our thing. But he tagged me, and in a real panic. He told me the cops were closing in. I didn’t know what he was talking about, thought he was high. But he begged me to go by his place, get his tablet, his mini, his drop ’links, the jammer. He said he had something to finish, and wouldn’t tell me what. I finally said I’d do it to calm him down. It’s the last time I talked to him. The last thing he said was ‘You’re my best friend, Steve. I’m doing this for both of us.’”
If he tried to work up tears, he failed, but he did manage to make his voice crack a bit at the end.
Eve let the silence hang for a couple of beats. “You stated you’ve been to Mr. Cosner’s apartment many times. In fact, had his codes, and your palm print was programmed for access.”
“Yes. We were close friends.”
“I expect you knew where to find the items he asked you to remove—or he told you where to find them.”
“Yes, sure.”
“It wouldn’t take long, a few minutes, to locate the items, place them in your briefcase and messenger bag. So why did you spend more than thirty minutes inside Mr. Cosner’s apartment?”
Hadn’t thought it through, Eve concluded as Whitt hesitated, calculated.
“Peabody entering Interview.”
Peabody set the water in front of Whitt. He drank deep.
“Keep going,” Eve urged.
“I had the event to attend, didn’t see the point in going home first … And, to be truthful—”
“Yes, let’s.”
“I was worried about Marsh. I looked through his place for illegals. I was going to try to do an intervention, get him back in rehab.”
“Just thinking about your friend. Your best friend, who obviously trusted you. Did you find the illegals?”
“No.”
“Funny, we found his stash in the top left-hand drawer of the master bathroom vanity in about three minutes.”
“My client is not the police,” Kobast began.
“In the bathroom drawer,” Eve repeated, let that hang a moment. “You didn’t explain the false identification, Steve.”
“I found it when I was looking for the illegals. I—I didn’t know what to think. I just grabbed it, stuffed it in my bag. I put everything in the floor safe when I got home, and planned to talk to Marsh about it all today. But he’s … he’s gone.”
“He sure is. So during your thirty-minute search, where you failed to find quite the stash of illegals in a bathroom drawer, you stumbled across false identification that your friend had made for you?”
“Yes, I was baffled. Shocked.”
“But you didn’t find any for him? No fake IDs for Marsh?”
“No, I didn’t.” Whitt stared through her. “Did you?”
“We did not, which means you actually expect us to believe your dead friend, out of his own pocket—a considerable expense—out of the goodness of his heart, purchased false identification for you, but not himself. And you have no idea he’d done so, or why he’d done so.”
“That’s right. I’m telling you all I know.”
Eve leaned forward, locked eyes. “You’re not nearly as good a liar when you don’t have time to plan it out.”
“Lieutenant!” Kobast objected.
She flicked hi
m a glance. “You’re not buying this any more than I am. But let’s move on. Were you aware Mr. Cosner owned a building downtown, a converted warehouse?”
“No he didn’t.” Whitt let out a laugh. “I helped Marsh with investments. He didn’t own any real estate.”
“Well, gee.” Peabody knitted her eyebrows, pursed her lips. “You helped him with investments, communicated with him on drop ’links, had the codes to his really well-secured apartment. Your palm print was registered on the same. All that, and you didn’t know where he kept his stash, didn’t know he’d laid out considerable money for a false ID—for you. Didn’t know he owned a building downtown.”
She sent Eve a wide-eyed, incredulous look. “It doesn’t sound like a balanced relationship.”
“You’re right. Maybe Marsh didn’t trust Steve as much as Steve thought.” From the evidence box, Eve took the paperwork on the building, laid it on the table.
“I don’t understand this. He would have told me.”
In a snap, Peabody switched from incredulous to sympathetic. “I guess it’s hard to find out all this, but addiction can make you do strange and destructive things,” said Sympathetic Peabody. “If he’d been thinking straight, he would have told you—a friend, a financial adviser. He’d have wanted you to see the property, and yeah, advise him.”
“Of course he would.”
“But he didn’t.” Eve slid the paperwork toward Kobast so he could study it. “So you never knew about it. Never went there.”
“No, never. What in the world was he doing with a warehouse? And in that neighborhood.”
“He set up a place for Sanchez to live, set up a lab for Sanchez to work. That is until Sanchez created the formula, the agent—and was murdered.”
“Loco’s dead?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, why would I? I haven’t seen Loco in years. I know he supplied Marsh, but I didn’t associate with him. This, all this, had to have been Loco’s idea. Marsh would never have done something like this on his own. He had to have Marsh whacked on illegals.”
“Lieutenant, Ms. Reo, as your evidence—and my client’s cooperation in this matter—clearly points to Mr. Cosner’s culpability, we demand the charges against Mr. Whitt be dropped.”
