Golden in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  Then she did a run on Kendel Hayward—cheater, bully, high school bad girl. Eve knew her type—it wasn’t exclusive to fancy private academies. It ran rough in public and state schools, too.

  It seemed Hayward graduated, did a couple years, general studies, at the University of Maryland, dropped out to work with her mother in event planning.

  And now lived and worked in—happy coincidence—East Washington. Her engagement to a congressional aide, who appeared to have money, a family name, and aspirations, had been announced the previous summer.

  She’d plan on a twofer, Eve thought, and make the trip down even more worthwhile.

  And she culled through Rufty’s notes from back in the day, scanned troublesome students who’d been suspended or been pulled by parents.

  She paused at one, as Rufty mentioned a friendship with Hayward. Marshall Cosner. Transferred from Gold to complete his last semester at Bridgeport Academy in Vermont—where his maternal grandparents lived. He’d gone on to study law, making him the fourth generation in his family to do so. But he hadn’t, as his ancestors had, gotten into Harvard.

  Cosner currently clerked at his family’s law firm—in New York—and had not yet completed his law degree.

  From the looks of it, he had a ways to go. Part of the problem, she thought, might be time off for rehab in a very pricey and exclusive facility. After two illegals busts, with no time served.

  Another stint in rehab, physical this time, after he busted himself and his vehicle up while under the influence.

  Some addicts liked to cook their own, she considered. Maybe Cosner had learned more chemistry on the street than in the classroom.

  She studied a handful of names, paused again on Rufty’s personal notes.

  She took a hard look at Stephen Whitt. Hayward’s high school boyfriend, Cosner’s good pal, and according to Rufty, a ringleader of troublemakers.

  Like Cosner, he transferred during Rufty’s first weeks, but in his case to—interesting—Lester Hensen Prep. She sat back, let that roll around. He’d transferred to the same school where Grange took over as headmaster.

  He graduated in the top 10 percent of his class, went on to study international finance at Northwestern, another family tradition. He worked at his family’s small, exclusive firm on Wall Street while he worked in tandem on his master’s degree.

  No criminal that showed which, given his history, she found suspicious.

  She wondered if the trio from Gold kept in touch, then glanced over as Roarke came back.

  “Miguel Rodriges,” he began. “He’s worked in my system for about two years, and has taken advantage of our program for continuing education. He’s working on his doctorate through MIT online, and should have it by year-end.

  “His supervisor considers him a strong asset, a young man with interesting ideas, a flawless work ethic, and serious skills. We recruited him straight out of grad school. He requested the New York location, though we had offered him Madrid, because his family lives here.”

  He sat on the edge of her command center. “Again, according to his supervisor, he’s destined to move up. He’s bilingual, steady, currently in mad love with another young engineer, but he’s too shy to ask her out.”

  “You got that?”

  “We wanted to be thorough. In any case, you’ve only to let me know when you want to talk to him and we’ll have him come into Central.”

  “I’ve been working that out. One of the mean girls who ganged up on your guy now lives in East Washington, so we’ll talk to her while we’re there. Then I’ve got two more names that pop for me out of Rufty’s notes, both in New York. And one of them transferred to Grange’s school after Rufty came on board.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Yeah, I think it is. Did he follow Grange, did Grange make a pitch to the parents and their deep pockets? How’d he feel about being shipped off? Another one got shipped off to Vermont, boarding prep school, with his grandparents on watch. Wouldn’t be as much fun. Vermont and the mean girl skimmed by on the education scale. The other got into Northwestern, and is now part of the family finance firm. International finance.”

  “What’s the firm?”

  “The Whitt Group.”

  “I know it, and Brent Whitt, who’s likely your suspect’s father.”

  “More of a person of interest at this point, but yeah, that’s the father.”

  “The father, grandfather, and an uncle—along with, now, the son and I believe a cousin—form the core of the group. Very exclusive. Their minimum investment to take on a client is, to my recollection, fifty million.”

  Eve sat back. “Are you with them?”

  “I’m not, no.” He lifted her coffee, sampled, put it down again, as it was stone cold. “After all, there was a time I could barely scrape together a few thousand to invest.”

  “And seeing that what you had would be from a fence.”

  He only smiled. “And that, of course. In any case, I prefer a more broad-based approach for my investment teams. Added to it, I didn’t have—why not stick with it—chemistry with Brent Whitt when he and his team brought me a proposal.”

  “What was it that put you off?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. I’m having a whiskey—and if you’re going to drink coffee, at least heat it up.” He walked over, opened a section of the wall where he chose a bottle, a short glass. “He’s a smug, entitled sort, one who’s always been wealthy and privileged and one who enjoys riding on it.”

  After pouring three fingers, he walked back to her. “It was his great-grandfather who made the first bundle, and with his son turned the bundle into a substantial fortune. So when Brent came along, he had a silver spoon well up his arse.”

  She knew the tone, however subtle. “You really don’t like him.”

  “I don’t, nor his type. He flaunts, and pontificates, condescends to his own team, who would have done the lion’s share of the work on a very extensive proposal. My impression was—no,” he corrected, took a sip of whiskey, “he very clearly demonstrated his firm very much wanted to acquire my portfolio, even though the source was far from ideal.”

  “You, the Dublin street rat who made good, being the source.”

  “Precisely.”

  “When was this?”

  “I couldn’t tell you exactly. A few years ago. Five, six.”

  “So before the youngest family member came on board. Just wondering if he’d been part of the team, if you’d met him.”

  “I doubt it. As I remember, the youngest who attended was female, mid-twenties, I’d say. The cousin of your person of interest, whom Whitt treated like an underling.”

  “How about his wife—or ex-wife?”

  “I can’t recall her, but then we’d have had no reason to meet. I heard, as one hears, there was some acrimony. But divorce rarely doesn’t have acrimony. And she took a rather substantial settlement and relocated to Paris.”

  He frowned into his whiskey. “Or it might have been Florence.”

  “A long way from her only son,” Eve commented.

  “Now that you mention it. In any case, I should say that the Whitt Group, and Brent among them, know what they’re doing. They have a fine reputation, a sterling list of clients.”

  “But not you.”

  “I’m more than satisfied with the firm I work with.”

  “Okay, since you know one of the families, let’s try another.” She had to check her notes. “Lowell Cosner and Marilyn Dupont—both lawyers with Cosner, Dupont, and Smithers.”

  “I’ve met them. So have you.”

  “I have?”

  “At a couple of charity functions. She’s very active in good causes. I believe she has her own foundation. Another wealthy family—they’d be second or third generation. Corporate law, estate law, tax law, and so on, though they also handle criminal and domestic. I know her—that would be Marilyn—slightly better, as she’s appealed to me directly for donations and sponsorships. It mu
st be her parents in Vermont.”

  He held up a finger, took another sip. She could see him flipping back through his extensive memory files. “I recall hearing bits of gossip about a son, and some trouble there. Illegals, and something … an accident that landed him in the hospital.”

  “You got it right. He did the rehab route, which didn’t take enough to keep him from juicing up and wrecking his car. Single car accident, so he only busted up himself. No law degree yet, and he’s currently doing drone work for the firm.

  “Let’s go with the last. Benson Hayward, Louisa Raines.”

  “Ah, Louisa Raines—top-tier party planner, socialite. Wealthy family again. The Raines own a chain of those warehouse stores. I believe Hayward was another Wall Street type.”

  “They’re divorced, about six years now. He gave up Wall Street and headed south. He runs a dive shop in Jamaica. That’s the island, not Queens.”

  “I assumed, as there’s little call for dive shops in Queens.”

  “Nothing about the daughter?”

  “I think I read or heard something about an engagement to former Senator Bilby’s grandson. The Bilbys would be another prominent family, deep in politics. Patience Bilby-Scott, the senator’s daughter and the fiancé’s mother, is currently serving as secretary of education. Odds are high she’ll make a run for president next election.”

  “You sure know how to fill in some blanks.”

  “We do what we can. And what do those filled blanks tell you?”

  “It tells me none of these families are going to want the offspring involved in a murder investigation, so I’m going to be pushing back on a bunch of lawyers.”

  She picked up her fresh coffee, put her boots on the desk while she studied the board.

  “It also tells me you think Whitt is a dick. I suspect his offspring was a cheating bully in high school, and it got covered up. I wouldn’t be shocked if it turns out he had some cheating bully in him when he started in college. And the fact his record’s pristine leads me to believe more got covered up.”

  “I love you for your cynical mind.”

  “Who wouldn’t? It tells me the Cosner kid liked getting a buzz on more than studying, and probably didn’t have the guts to bully and cheat once he lost his cohorts. He’s a loser.

  “And for Hayward, it tells me she had at least one parent who made her stick it out, then at least pretend to work for a living. That could be a pisser when all that money’s just there, and now you’re hooked up with a rich boy whose mom might be president one day. You’ve got an image to maintain.”

  She drank some coffee. “All of them do.”

  “It doesn’t seem like motive for murder.”

  She gave him a bland stare. “Didn’t spend much time in high school, did you?”

  “We don’t have high school, so to speak, in Ireland.”

  “Whatever it’s called there.”

  “I went when I couldn’t get out of it.” Smiling, he sipped more whiskey. “There are a lot of ways out of it.”

  “Not in state school, so I can tell you grudges and resentments formed in high school root deep. And plenty of people—you have to know some—never fully leave high school, either because they were the big deal, or because they were less than nobody.”

  He glanced back at her board. “You’re right about that, aren’t you? So, persons of interest or suspects?”

  “We’ll keep them as POIs for now. But that rounds back to me being very interested in talking to Rodriges. It’ll be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll tag you when I have a better handle on the when.”

  “Good enough. I’m going to finish up a bit of work while you set up your tomorrow. Then, since apparently we had a fight this morning, we need to make up.”

  “I thought we already did.”

  “You’re the one with the Marriage Rules.” He toasted her before he finished off the whiskey. “There must be a notation on makeup sex.”

  “Maybe.”

  “If not, write it down,” he advised, and strolled into his office.

  14

  She woke in slow, easy layers, and decided that makeup sex definitely promoted a solid night’s sleep.

  Roarke and Galahad watched the morning financial reports across the room. Over her head, the sky window showed a bold blue sky.

  A pretty good deal all around.

  She rolled out, headed straight for coffee. Because makeup sex meant she hadn’t had the energy to get up for a sleep shirt, she drank the first sips naked.

  “That’s a fine sight in the morning,” Roarke commented.

  “I figure naked’s a fine sight for you any hour of any day.”

  “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

  She studied him in his perfect suit, perfect tie. “Since I can’t go through the day naked, you pick out what I need to wear.”

  Fingers still lazily scratching the cat, he studied her in turn. “Are you quite well, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m going to start the day with a memorial, go down to East Washington and take on a nasty-assed headmaster, shift over to deal with a pampered mean girl before coming back, working on a couple of bullies. And very likely a whole bunch of high-priced lawyers.”

  She walked toward the bathroom for a shower. “You’ll figure it out quicker.”

  While the shower woke her the rest of the way, she rolled through her day’s schedule. She’d meet Peabody at the memorial to kick it off. Would the killer make an appearance or resist that moment of satisfaction?

  A former student, a parent, a teacher, another administrator.

  He or she would be in that pool. Nothing else made sense.

  She tossed on a robe, walked back into the bedroom to find Roarke had, as predicted, figured it out faster.

  But still.

  She frowned at the jacket and slim-cut pants set out on the bed. “What color is that?”

  “I believe it’s called fog.”

  “But it has, like, a shine.”

  “Sheen,” he corrected. “A faint sheen. That’s called power. And for today, a suit rather than separates adds another step of power. The monochromatic shirt and boots give you a sleek, unbroken look. You’ll wince and wear these little sapphire studs—subtle, understated—to polish it off.”

  She did wince. “Maybe it’s too fancy.”

  “It’s not at all fancy, but again, powerful. And with a simple, elegant cut that will serve as an excellent contrast when you begin kicking asses.”

  “Hmm.” She hadn’t thought of that part, and found it appealing.

  “Have your breakfast first. I’ve gone for a full Irish, as you’ll have a long day.”

  She liked a full Irish, especially with another cup of coffee.

  “You know, dealing with this whole school thing, getting a sense of how Grange ran it, how Rufty’s running it, it’s got me thinking about what you’re doing with An Didean.”

  “What we’re doing.”

  “I haven’t done jack compared—”

  “Not at all true,” he interrupted. “You had input, and you gave me very important ideas on what not to do based on your experience. On what should be done.”

  “Well, anyway. Other than the scholarship kids, or kids from parents who saved like maniacs, Gold’s a school for the privileged. Maybe more diverse economically since Rufty, but a private academy’s primarily for rich kids whose parents want the status and the potential leg up into Ivy League. Nothing wrong with that, but…”

  She thought about it as she ate. “An Didean’s for kids who’ve probably already had some hard knocks, kids who wouldn’t have a chance at the scope of the education and experience. Not just the, you know, math and science and language, all that, but the music, the arts, the nice rooms, the counseling. Scope’s the word. It’s a big scope. It’s not going to take for some of them. That’s not my cynical mind,” she added. “It’s just reality.”

  “I know it.”

  “But it will for most of them, and for a lot of the mos
t it’s going to change their reality. And I’m going to have that in mind when I talk to some of these spoiled rich kids today.”

  “I’ve met some rich kids in my time, some trust-fund babies. Not all of them are gits or greedy bastards. Some do good works, and even if some of the some do it for image or tax breaks, the results are the same.”

  She considered as she munched on bacon. “Bella’s going to grow up a rich kid, but with parents like Mavis and Leonardo, she’ll never be a dick about it.”

  “She won’t,” Roarke agreed. “Nor will the one they have coming along.”

  She polished off the full Irish. “That’s why I’m also going to look at the parents of the rich kids.”

  “The apple and the tree?”

  “What about them?” she asked as she got up to dress.

  “How the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “If you want an apple, you’d pick it before it fell.” She shimmied into her underwear. “Otherwise it’ll just lie there and rot.”

  “Not if you pick it up. That’s why they call them windfalls.”

  She frowned at him as she buttoned on her shirt. “They call apples windfalls?”

  “It’s the concept of something falling at your feet, often unexpectedly.”

  “Somebody tossed off a roof can fall unexpectedly at your feet. How’s that a windfall?”

  He watched her pull on her pants. “We’ll clarify by something worthwhile falling at your feet.”

  “The body might have a solid-gold wrist unit and pockets full of cash, so pretty worthwhile.”

  “Only you,” he murmured. “And I obviously haven’t yet had enough coffee to sort this out.”

  “Anyway.” She strapped on her weapon harness, which Roarke thought added another brilliant contrast to the sleek and elegant cut of the shirt and pants. “One line, a parent might still be pissed about the way their precious got spanked when Rufty came on. Second line, parents who protect fuckhead kids from fuckhead behavior often promote fuckhead adults.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “I’ve seen it go both ways. A good, solid, caring family produces a vicious killer. Vicious, violent people produce…” She looked over at him as she slipped into the jacket. “Cops and gazillionaires. So you could say the apple that falls from the tree might be full of worms, or it can end up making a damn good pie.”