by Robb, J. D.
“They mean nothing to me. Not then, not now. I’m a wealthy man from a prominent and respected family. I’m part of a prominent and respected law firm, one of the top firms in the city.”
“I don’t see a law degree on your wall, Mr. Cosner.”
He flushed, a combination of temper and embarrassment. “I’m taking a gap year to gain practical experience. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You learned how to cook illegals, had your own setup. It seems you did better there than you had in school—chemistry-wise.”
“Those charges were dropped.”
“You had to be taught by someone, had to get the supplies and equipment from somewhere. You can help yourself by giving us those names.”
“Those charges were dropped,” he repeated. “I have nothing more to say about them.”
“You may want to rethink that.” Eve rose again. “Because we’re digging in, and we’ll find the answers we need with or without your cooperation. Thanks for the coffee.”
With Peabody, she started for the door. “Oh, and the next time you want to pretend to be on the ’link, being important?” She glanced back. “At least turn it on.”
When they got into the elevator for the ride down, Peabody turned to Eve. “I know one thing for certain about Cosner.”
“What one thing would that be?”
“He’s a lying SOS.”
“Oh yeah. He is that. And for somebody who’s been a lying SOS most if not all of his life, he really sucks at it.”
“Right, that makes two things I know for certain about him.”
Eve shifted when the elevator stopped to let more people on. “The lying’s autopilot with him, and not very skilled. He lies about the obvious and inconsequential, so by the time he gets to the big stuff it’s just red-faced blather.”
A woman in a business suit and sunshades glanced at Eve. “Sounds like my ex-husband. Some people plan a lie. Others?” she continued as the doors opened to let yet more people on. “It’s involuntary instinct, like breathing.”
“Tell me about it,” someone else piped up. “I dated this guy once who’d lie if you asked him his name. He just couldn’t help himself.”
One of the new passengers let out a snort. “It’s worse when they believe the lie—convince themselves it’s true, keep beating you over the head with it until you start wondering if you’re the one who’s crazy.”
“They all sound like my ex,” the first woman commented as the doors opened on the lobby level.
“He gets around,” Eve said, and heard the woman laugh as she and Peabody strode to the doors.
“That was interesting,” Peabody decided as they walked back to the car. “Lying liars unite strangers in elevator. Dateline New York.”
“Everyone knows at least one lying sack.”
“That’s really true. I’ll check his alibis to see if they were a crock, too. Being such a crappy liar, he’s never going to be even a halfway decent lawyer.”
“Add deeply stupid. He’s sitting at a fancy desk with a slew of lawyers all around—plus he has the family name—and he doesn’t stop the interview, pull in a lawyer to run interference?”
“That makes three. A lying sack who can’t lie worth crap, and a complete schmuck.”
“I’ll give you all three,” Eve agreed. “The fact is, he’d have been better off agreeing to meet at Central, with his legal rep. Take time to prepare,” Eve continued when they reached the car. “Have a seasoned mouthpiece with him. So a deeply stupid, terminally arrogant lying SOS schmuck.”
Peabody settled into the passenger seat. “A killer?”
“Yet to be determined. Plug in Whitt’s location, and let’s finish this up. Cosner’s got the grudge going.” Eve watched for an opening in traffic, zipped out. “Rufty equals tyrant because he laid down rules, enacted consequences. Any kids at Gold on scholarships? Just didn’t belong and deserved whatever they got. Cooking and trafficking in illegals, pounding on some other kids? Youthful indiscretions. Killing people responsible, in his twisted, fucked-up mind, could be justified payback.”
“You like him for it?”
“I like his arrogance for it, and the strong possibility he has some knowledge and skill with chemicals, very likely has connections who have more. He is not, remotely, rehabilitated when it comes to illegals.”
“You think he’s still using?”
“Why would he stop? He’s entitled to do whatever the hell he wants, isn’t he? Fuck the law, the law’s for suckers and poor people. You run down the names he gave you as alibis, and I’ll bet you a month’s pay the bulk of them will have illegals busts and/or rehab experience.”
“No bet. But…”
“Keep going.”
“I don’t think he’s cagey enough—that’s the word, cagey—to have planned all this out. Lifting credit data, the shipping, the timing, the research. Or the patience to wait years for the payback. He hits me as more I want it now. The kind who might see Rufty crossing the street and try to mow him down—and any innocent bystanders in the way—with his shiny car.”
“Got it in one, but there are actually two. No, he’s not cagey enough to have planned this out. And he also lacks the ugly instinct to destroy what the enemy loves rather than the enemy. Mowing down the target with his car—just his style. And then it’s all, the vehicle had a glitch, or he stepped in front of me, or I saw a tall, dark stranger push him in front of me and couldn’t stop.”
“So you don’t like him for it?”
“Can’t say yet. But if he’s a part of it, someone else is running the show. He’s a follower,” Eve decided. “He couldn’t lead himself out of a room made of doors.”
The hunt for parking netted zero, so she settled on an overpriced lot—which reminded her she still hadn’t hit a machine for cash. Being overpriced and in the Financial District, the lot had one near its gate.
She dealt with it, stuffed the cash in her pocket, then caught the eye of the guy eyeing her.
She showed her teeth first as he made a move toward her. Then flipped open the topper, the suit jacket, showed her weapon.
“Still want to try for it?”
He turned on his heel, beat feet in his airboots.
“Some muggers like to hang around the machines,” Peabody commented as they walked. “He sees a couple of helpless female types in their mag coats, and thinks easy score.”
“Yeah. If I didn’t want to get this done, I’d’ve let him try to mug me, then he’d be thinking about the error of his ways in a cell. Maybe next time.”
They hiked to another steel-and-glass tower, this one pale blue in the afternoon sun. The lobby here spread wide and deep, offering cafés, boutiques, trendy markets along with its moving maps, a large screen displaying the financial news in various languages.
They crossed the dark blue tiles to the security station.
“Stephen Whitt, the Whitt Group.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.”
“How’s it going, LT? I was on the job at Central when you came on as a rook.”
She judged him as teetering on eighty, and fit. He had a close-cropped cap of gray, a dark face lined like a creased map, steady brown eyes that had plenty of cop in them.
“Detective Swanson. It’s good to see you.”
That lined face creased deeper with a grin. “You got a good memory, if you can pull my name out of your hat.”
“Detective Peabody, the department lost a good cop when Detective Swanson turned in his papers. About ten years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Nine. Got tired of fishing, and my wife got tired of me poking around the house, so I keep out of her hair this way. You want the fifty-second floor.”
“Do you miss the job, Detective?” Peabody asked him.
“Every day. On a hot one, Loo?”
“Might be.” She leaned in. “Do you know Stephen Whitt?”
“Fancy-pants, and snooty with it. Comes by it natural, from
what I see. I’ve been on the desk here six years, and the father hasn’t said so much as kiss my ass to me. If you’re looking at him for something, I can keep a closer eye out.”
“It wouldn’t hurt. I appreciate it, Detective.”
“Not a problem. I’m gonna clear you right up to fifty-two. You give Feeney my best, will you?”
“I will.”
“Take the second bank. That’ll express you to twenty.”
“It meant something that you remembered him,” Peabody commented as they walked to the bank of elevators.
“I remember a good cop who used to sit at his desk making those—what are they—you catch fish with?”
“Lures?”
“Yeah. He said it helped him think. He helped close a lot of cases.” They stepped on the elevator. “If we get a buzz here, it won’t hurt to have him on that desk.”
Unlike the law firm, the financial one didn’t go for subdued.
Pale gold carpet spread over their lobby area with a wide semicircle reception counter in gold—darker, shinier. Six people worked busily at their stations.
It held two waiting areas on either side, both done in chocolates and gold, with all seating fitted with individual screens and comm devices. Flanking the wall of glass with its bird’s-eye view of New York, two ornamental trees speared out of huge gold urns.
Behind the reception counter, the company’s logo showed a bull—again gold—with its hoof on the throat of a brown bear.
No, Eve thought, no sign of subdued here.
Despite the variance of race and gender, those manning the counter struck Eve as the same. Mid-twenties, attractive, sharp-eyed, and pissy.
Still, maybe Roarke had a point about the topper—the whole outfit —as every one of them gave her a look, then a practiced smile. She could almost see dollar signs dancing in their heads.
She walked to the center, and the Asian male.
“Stephen Whitt.”
“Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment, Ms.…?”
“Lieutenant.” She wiped the practiced smile off his face when she held up her badge. “Dallas. Detective Peabody. NYPSD. We need to speak to Mr. Whitt on police business.”
“I’ll need to check with his administrative assistant to see if he’s available. If you’d like to have a seat—”
“We’re fine right here. When you check,” she continued, making sure her voice carried to those in the waiting areas, “be sure to tell the admin we’re here investigating two homicides, and are prepared to wait until Mr. Whitt becomes available.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.”
“Lieutenant.” She tapped her badge, then put it away.
Rather than use the headset, the receptionist swiveled to his comp, used a keyboard.
Texting the admin, Eve thought, and gave him points for finding a way to keep her from hearing the conversation. After a couple minutes of back-and-forth, the receptionist cleared his throat.
“Mr. Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s admin, will be with you shortly.”
“Great.”
It didn’t take long. Eve figured they didn’t want a couple of murder cops despoiling their gilded lobby area.
The man who came through the double frosted glass doors on the right had about two decades on the receptionist. His well-cut suit fit over a compact body. He wore his nut-brown hair brushed back from a sternly handsome face—and didn’t bother with the practiced smile.
“If you’d come with me.”
He led them through the doors—no cubes here. More gold carpet, art framed in gold on the walls, offices with their chocolate-brown doors closed.
Lauder approached an open one.
Two women worked at opposite sides behind glass panels—cubes by another name, Eve thought. Lauder’s desk held the center.
He closed the door, walked to the desk, sat. Gestured, rather imperiously, for Eve and Peabody to take chairs.
They stood.
“I’m Ernest Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s administrative assistant. I’ll need more information regarding the purpose of your visit.”
“As we informed the receptionist, who no doubt informed you, we’re investigating two murders.”
“Yes, and?”
Eve gave him an imperious look right back. “Two dead people aren’t enough for you?”
“It fails to tell me why you’d wish to speak to Mr. Whitt.”
“We have no intention of giving you that information, or any additional information about an ongoing investigation.”
He spread his hands. “Then I’m afraid Mr. Whitt is unavailable.”
“Fine. Detective, contact APA Reo and request a warrant to bring Mr. Stephen Whitt into Central for questioning in regard to two homicides.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Mr.—Lauder, is it? Two people are dead. We will have a conversation with your boss in his house, or in mine. It’s completely up to him. The more you stonewall, the more unpleasant that conversation will be.”
“Wait here.”
He rose, walked to the inner door, slipped inside.
“Should I go ahead and call Reo?”
“No. It won’t be necessary. Whitt just wanted to flex his muscles.”
“Sometimes admins—”
“Nope. This one follows orders.”
Lauder stepped back out. “Mr. Whitt will see you now. Briefly.”
Like Cosner, Whitt sat at his desk—a semicircle of dark gold, a smaller version of the reception counter. He didn’t pretend to be on his ’link, and his workstation showed signs he actually worked.
His hair, nearly the same color as the workstation, streamed back thickly. He had the polished look of a vid star, the perfect profile, tawny eyes, the perfect two-day scruff.
He rose as they entered, and though he skimmed just under six feet, gave the appearance of more height with disciplined posture, lifted chin.
Whether for effect or comfort, he’d taken off the jacket of his midnight-blue suit and stood in shirtsleeves and tie.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting. Ernest is very protective.”
Though he didn’t extend a hand or come around the station, he gestured to the pair of chairs—chocolate again—before taking his seat.
Unlike his schoolmate, Whitt had diplomas gracing the wall. On another a screen ran the financial news from around the world, all holding on mute.
“Can we offer you something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Thank you, Ernest. That’s all for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lauder stepped back, closed the door.
“I’m in the dark here,” Whitt began. “You want to talk to me about someone who’s been murdered?”
“Kent Abner. Elise Duran.”
“Still in the dark.”
“Kent Abner was married to Dr. Martin Rufty and Elise Duran to Professor Jay Duran. Maybe that sheds some light.”
“Not really, no.”
“You did attend Theresa A. Gold Academy here in New York, correct?”
“Now, that’s a name from long ago. Yes, I did, but I don’t understand what…” Eyes narrowing, he sat back. “Rufty, yes, of course. He came in as headmaster right before I transferred. I finished my senior year and graduated from Lester Hensen Prep in East Washington, so we barely crossed paths.”
“Our information is crossing paths is the reason you didn’t graduate from Gold.”
“True enough. My parents didn’t like Rufty’s administrative style, and over my considerable objections at the time, enrolled me at Lester Hensen, where Headmaster Grange had also transferred.”
“You objected?”
“Objected, sulked, raged.” He smiled as he said it. “I was seventeen, and considered my life essentially over. All my friends were here, the girl I loved was here. In the pecking order at TAG, I considered myself high up, and now my parents were sending me to another school in another city, where I’d also board? Life.” He waved his hands. “Over.�
�
“You must have blamed Dr. Rufty.”
“Absolutely. The son of a bitch came in, took over what I considered my turf, threw his weight around, alienated my parents so completely I paid the price. Of course, as is often the case, it turned out to be the best thing for me.”
“How’s that?”
“Without the friends, the girl, the familiar, I focused on my studies to get through. In any case, my life didn’t end. I don’t see how my crisis, as I saw it, at seventeen has anything to do with these murders.”
“Did you also blame Jay Duran for the transfer?” Peabody wondered.
“I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”
“You were in several of his classes when you attended the academy,” Peabody pointed out. “language arts, creative writing, literature.”
“Sorry.” Whitt added a small, dismissive shrug. “I can’t say I remember many of the teachers from back then.”
“This particular one wrote you up multiple times. You and your friends,” Eve added. “The records show he cited you for participating in a cheating ring, for bullying, for physical assault, underage drinking. It’s quite an array. He issued formal complaints about you, about Headmaster Grange among others.”
His eyes stayed even, direct. Empty. “One would assume if any of those accusations were true, Headmaster Grange would have taken appropriate disciplinary action.”
“We don’t assume, Mr. Whitt, as evidence shows Headmaster Grange overlooked accusations, statements, complaints in return for generous monetary donations to the academy.”
“That wouldn’t be on me, would it? Now, will I sit here and claim I never behaved badly as an adolescent or teenager? Of course not. Anyone who does so claim is either a liar or had a very boring childhood. In point of fact, the crowd I ran with while at TAG might have leaned toward the wild side.”
He shrugged that off as well. “But we were harmless, and doing what most of that age do. Exploring boundaries, stretching them, experimenting.”
“Illegals?”
He smiled, slyly. “I’m going to take the Fifth on that. Look, we had parties. A lot of our parents traveled, and we’d have parties. I won’t deny we found ways to get our hands on alcohol. I hope, when and if I have kids of my own, to do a better job of supervising such things, but it’s all really just a rite of passage. And while it’s been amusing to take this little trip back to my youth, I really have work to get to.”
