Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “It’s a big place, Harvo, with cleaning droids, and without any way—at this point—to confirm when the suspect was last inside.”

  Tonight, Eve thought. She’d make book on it, but …

  Harvo angled her head, spread her fingers to examine glossy blue nail polish. “Do you doubt the queen?”

  She’d be a fool to, Eve admitted. “Okay, Harvo, once the specialty team clears the building, you can go in, take a look.”

  “Mag-o!” She hopped down from the hood. “Will you hold off the sweepers, let me have first pass?”

  “I can do that.”

  “Even more mag-o. Can I get a lift to the lab and back? I need some stuff.”

  “McNab,” Feeney said. “Take my ride.”

  When the uniforms arrived, Eve had them set up barricades, start the canvass. Then she waited as the specialty team donned their protective suits.

  When Junta came out a few minutes later, she walked straight to Eve. “The air’s clear, but I need you and your team to stay out. There’s another egg loaded, and there are hazardous chemicals. We need to secure and remove before I can clear you in.”

  “How long?”

  “I’ll let you know. And I’ll tell you something, Dallas. Whoever was living in that place, in the same place we’ve already found and identified sarin, chlorine gas, sulfur trioxide, fricking anthrax? They’re a fucking lunatic.”

  “Were,” Eve said.

  “Yeah. Well, let’s all stay alive.” She replaced her hood, started back.

  21

  It took nearly an hour, but that gave Morris time to arrive on scene. He wore a jacket over a light sweater and jeans, and had his hair in a loose tail rather than a complex braid.

  Which told Eve he’d been at home, relaxing.

  “I appreciate you coming.”

  “The job’s the job.” He glanced around. “You’ve quite the team already assembled.”

  “Just worked out that way. The building’s just been cleared.” She glanced over to where Harvo tucked her green hair into a cap. Not a white one, but like her suit and booties, a hot candy pink.

  Harvo was never boring.

  “Harvo, you can take the first floor. DB’s on the second. Morris and I will take the body, Peabody, Jenkinson, Reineke, standard search. E-team, security and electronics, including droids.”

  She carried her field kit, Morris his medical bag, and, ignoring the people gathered at the barricades, they headed inside.

  “It could be even less tasteful,” Morris commented. “It would take effort, but it could be less tasteful.”

  “It could and is,” Roarke told him. “You haven’t seen the bedroom.”

  Leaving the team to spread out, Eve went up the metal steps with Morris. He studied the body.

  “Some would call it just deserts.”

  “I call it damned inconvenient. I’d have broken him in the box. I’d have this wrapped, he’d be alive to spend many sad decades in a cage.”

  She walked to the body, crouched, took out her pad for official ID while Morris began his exam.

  “Body is identified as Marshall Cosner.”

  “TOD,” Morris announced, “twenty-one-twenty.”

  “Victim is a Caucasian male, age twenty-six, and owner of this building through a shell company.”

  “Severe burning of the eyes, the dermis, inside the mouth,” Morris continued as he used a penlight, “the nostrils. Loss of blood and other bodily fluids through the mouth, ears, eyes, nose. Anus to be confirmed in-house.”

  “No visible defensive or offensive wounds,” Eve added. “The victim is wearing a gold wrist unit…” She emptied pockets. “A ’link, a wallet—cash and plastic—and there are numerous valuables in the building, so no evidence of an altercation or robbery.”

  “We’ll confirm in autopsy, but from this on-site, it appears Mr. Cosner’s COD is the same as the two previous victims. He was exposed to the nerve agent, inhaled same, and would have succumbed within minutes.”

  Leaving him to the body, Eve rose, recorded the room as she studied it.

  “There was a single glass on the table downstairs. So he had a drink—we’ll test it to see if he had alcohol, any illegals. Was he alone? I just don’t think so. He’s not a loner. More eggs.”

  She walked over to the cabinet that held them. “Two here, and one more already loaded and secured. So they planned at least four more. The one he was packing, the one loaded, the other two. Maybe they had extra in case. The fake wood boxes, with sealant and interior padding. Shipping boxes here—standard, strapping tape, packing. Organized well.”

  She turned. “Lab area over here.”

  “Quite a nice one, too,” Morris commented.

  “There were chemicals and solutions, whatever, stored in these temp-controlled units. So they could make more if they wanted. Or had the nerve. Masks, suits, gloves. But he’s not wearing any protective gear.”

  “Which is why he’s dead. There’s some burning here, on the palms, between the thumb and forefinger.”

  She looked back. “Didn’t the other vics have burns on the hands?”

  “Fingers, burning on the fingers.”

  “More on the fingers,” she mumbled and walked back, took one of the empty eggs from a cabinet. “Because they opened this little hinge here—with their fingers, pulled the top up, broke the seal.”

  “That was my conclusion.”

  “But if you take the egg out of the container—airtight container—you hold it like this, carefully if you’re not a complete idiot, because it’s loaded. You think it’s sealed, but it’s not. Or not all the way? It burns, the fumes strike, you drop the egg.”

  She got out her microgoggles to examine the broken pieces. “You’re essentially dead when it hits the ground, but it takes another minute. It’s designed to be contained to a small area. The one who’s killing you has to judge the distance, but he’s not going to risk it. He’d put on protection.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She walked to the steps. “Peabody!”

  “Yo!”

  “Bag that glass on the table. Flag it priority for the lab. I want to know what Cosner drank.”

  “He’s very freshly dead,” Morris said. “I can run a tox when I get him home. I should be able to identify the contents—or if not, put a second flag on it.”

  “Good. Say he had enough of something to impair his judgment. Or he’s just stupid anyway, and he’s doing what he’s told. I’m standing back here, safe distance. ‘Pack it up, Marsh. Let’s get one more delivery.’ And Cosner is turned away, getting the egg. You put on the mask, and you just wait. It doesn’t take long.”

  “No,” Morris agreed, “it wouldn’t take long.”

  “How did he feel, I wonder? His oldest friend—and the first he’d seen die. Did he feel anything?” She shook her head. “Probably not, or not much.”

  She turned back to Morris. “You got this?”

  “I do. I’ll take him in, see to him.”

  She walked over for her kit, crouched again to meet Morris’s eyes. “He’s the last one, I swear to Christ, this bastard puts on a slab.”

  Morris put a hand over hers. Even through the seals, she felt the warmth. “This one, God knows, inflicted misery and was ready to inflict more. And yet, he’s ours now. We’ll both do what we have to do.”

  “Fucking A,” she said, and taking her kit, headed downstairs.

  Peabody intercepted her. “I had a uniform take the glass straight to the lab. We might have better luck that way. Harvo’s doing stuff with weird little lights and whirly-humming things—plus, she took both cleaning droids apart already. I guess that’s okay.”

  “Leave her to it. Put sweepers on standby, but let her do what she does.”

  “Hey, boss.” Reineke came in. “Kitchen and game room ACs stocked with junk food and addict munchies.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Fancy duds—look new—in the bedroom, shoes never been worn, some o
f them. And a lot of porn on the entertainment units. Games and porn, porn games.”

  “Also plays.”

  “We’re still at it, but wanted to pass on we haven’t found any ’links or tablets, and no comm devices. Roarke, he said there was a setup for a data and comm center, and Feeney checks that, but the unit’s not here.”

  “There’s a comp upstairs, but no comm. DB had a ’link on him. I’ll have one of the geeks get on it.”

  She spotted a geek as McNab came in from the back.

  “Security’s tight, Dallas,” he told her, “with the notable exception of cams. Not a single one.”

  “They didn’t want any record of them coming and going.”

  “Right, but there were some cams—interior.”

  “Were?”

  “We found a couple hookups.”

  “Okay. Take the upstairs e’s,” she told him. “There’s a comp, password protected, and the vic’s personal ’link. No communications on it after business hours today. You can check if you think there were cams up there.”

  “He and Whitt probably have drop ’links.”

  She nodded at Peabody. “Bet on it. I need you to stick here, finish up, seal it up. I’m going to notify next of kin and take a pass at the vic’s residence. Harvo’s cleared to do her thing upstairs after the body’s transported.”

  “Got it. On it.”

  “Where’s Roarke?”

  “Back.” McNab jerked a thumb. “He and Feeney are trying to figure the missing cams.”

  She walked back to what she took as the game room—as floridly decorated as everything else—where Roarke stood on a stepladder in a closet while Feeney frowned and watched.

  “Mounted from in here. And the mount itself is still in place. This one appears to have been hastily yanked out. Fingertip hole for the lens.”

  She saw Roarke’s fingertip press against a tiny hole above the frame of the closet.

  “They wanted to watch the mad scientist.”

  Feeney glanced back as Eve spoke.

  “Sure. Make sure he wasn’t fucking up, didn’t bring people in, didn’t start plotting against them. Not a lot of trust.”

  “Since Whitt’s killed both of them, from where I’m standing, not a lot of call for it. I’ve got to do the notification and hit the vic’s apartment.”

  She watched for another minute. “Hell, nearly forgot. I saw Detective Swanson earlier. He’s security at Whitt’s office building.”

  “Well, no shit.” Hands in pockets, Feeney nodded. “Good cop.”

  “He said to give you his best.”

  “He always did.”

  “Do you need the civilian?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Then, Roarke, with me.”

  “All right then.” He came down the ladder, dusted off his hands.

  “Did you seal up?”

  “I know the bloody rules.”

  She gave him a nod, started out. “Peabody, make sure the sweepers check any and all previous cam locations. You’d be careful what you touched, wouldn’t you?” she continued as they went out. “You’d probably wipe down surfaces if you weren’t sure, or even seal up. But would you think of it when you’re pulling out cams from inside closets, behind a wall?”

  “Me personally?”

  “Not you, you think of everything, but the fact is these two are amateurs. Sure, Whitt’s smart, he’s careful, he’s patient, and he plans. But maybe. Just like he’d have been careful to create a solid alibi for tonight. But there’s got to be a hole, even a fingertip hole. I’m going to find it.”

  “You’re so sure he was there?”

  “It doesn’t work otherwise.” While Roarke got behind the wheel, she plugged Lowell Cosner’s address into the in-dash. “Cosner would need Whitt to reassure him about tomorrow. He’d need Whitt to tell him what to do, how to act, what to say. Morris found burns on the palms—different from the other vics. I think Whitt tampered with the seal on the egg, protected himself, then when Cosner took it out of the airtight to pack it, dead.”

  “You said from the beginning it was both cold and personal. That would be both.”

  “He had to be there. Cosner’s ’link was in his pocket, and showed no communications since about sixteen hundred—and none today with Whitt. They would have used drop ’links to discuss anything to do with this. Otherwise, it’s done face-to-face so there’s no trail.”

  “And your estimation of Cosner is he wouldn’t act on his own.”

  “He’s been following Whitt’s lead most of his life.” And she could see it, as if she’d been there. “He’d have been anxious about tomorrow, dealing with his father, those questions and demands. He’d have needed his old pal’s support.”

  “And by staging all this, Whitt not only eliminates his old pal, but heaps evidence against him. It’s efficient.”

  They pulled up in front of the luxury tower, which boasted two doormen.

  “Since you don’t own the place—I checked,” Eve added, “I’ll handle the doormen.”

  She got out, flashed her badge as the one on the right started toward her. “NYPSD, and this is an official vehicle, which will stay where I put it.”

  He looked both displeased and resigned. “How about maybe you pull it down about ten feet, keep my neck off the block?”

  “We can do that.” As Roarke obliged, she turned back to the doorman. “Lowell Cosner.”

  “Yeah, he came in a couple hours ago. What’s up?”

  “Marshall Cosner.”

  “Okay, yeah, he lives here, but I haven’t seen him tonight.”

  Eve pulled out her PPC, brought up Whitt’s ID shot. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Sure, that’s Mr. Whitt. He’s a friend of Cosner Junior.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him here?”

  “I don’t know. Couple of days.”

  The other doorman—female—wandered over, peered at the image on-screen. “That’s Mr. Whitt. He came by earlier.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “You were helping Ms. Troski with all her bags. He breezed in about five, I guess. He breezed out again, maybe five-thirty.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “Ah…” She screwed up her face in thought. “Sure, a briefcase, good-sized one. And, yeah, a fancy messenger bag.”

  “Thanks.”

  She walked into the lobby, quiet as a church. The green marble floor gleamed. Spring flowers in cylindrical vases scented the air. A woman in a pale pink suit sat at a desk with a D and C unit, more flowers, and a gracious smile.

  “Good evening. How can I assist you?”

  The gracious smile turned professionally blank when Eve flashed her badge. “Is Lowell Cosner at home?”

  “I believe so.”

  “We’ll need to be cleared up to his apartment. We’ll also require access to Marshall Cosner’s residence.”

  “I don’t believe Marshall Cosner is currently at home.”

  “No, and he won’t be back. Homicide,” Eve said, tapping her badge. “We’re here to notify Mr. Lowell Cosner his son is dead.”

  “Oh my—my God.”

  “Clear us up, and make sure we’re cleared to access Marshall Cosner’s level and apartment.”

  “Yes, of course. If I could just verify your identification.” She took an ID scanner out of a drawer, ran it over Eve’s badge. “Mr. Lowell Cosner is Penthouse Level Two. Mr. Marshall Cosner is—was—3610, thirty-sixth floor. Is there anything more I can do?”

  “What time did you come on the desk?”

  “Eight.”

  Too late to have seen Whitt. “I’ll need the name and contact of whoever was on the desk at five.”

  “Of course.”

  When she gave it without hesitation, Eve noted it down. “Thanks. We’ll also need the security feed from the front door, the lobby, the elevators, and Marshall Cosner’s floor. From, let’s say, four-thirty to six this evening.”

  “I can
arrange that.”

  “Do. We’ll take it from here.”

  She walked with Roarke to the elevator, waited until they were inside before speaking again. “He came to get rid of anything Cosner might have had in his place to tie him to this. Possibly to plant something that laid the guilt more directly on Cosner. He was always going to kill him.”

  “Always?”

  “Addict, weak sister, loose end. He used Loco until they had what they wanted, disposed of him. He needed Cosner until he’d finished, but with the pressure building, opted to deal with it, cut things short.

  “Breezed in,” she repeated. “I bet that’s accurate. Just breezing in, breezing out again.”

  “Shortsighted not to calculate you’d ask or check security feeds.”

  She shook her head. “He figures he has at least a couple of days if not more before we find the building and the body. By then the feed’s overwritten, and the memories of the doormen questionable. Added to it, the evidence would be so strong against Cosner, he feels he’d be clear.”

  “The building’s in Cosner’s name.” Roarke nodded as they stepped off the elevator. “Valuable property, but he didn’t take any part of legal ownership. Yes, you’re right. He always meant to do for his mate.”

  “People like Whitt don’t have mates in any definition of the word.”

  She stopped outside the pure white double doors of the Cosner penthouse. Pressed the buzzer.

  Seconds later the security comp responded.

  Mr. and Ms. Cosner have retired for the evening.

  “NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge to the scanner. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and civilian consultant. We need to speak to Mr. Lowell Cosner on official police business.”

  One moment while this information is relayed.

  When the door opened, Eve expected a housekeeper or butler type, maybe a droid, but Lowell answered personally.

  He’d shed the business suit she imagined he’d worn through the day, exchanged it for trim pants, a sweater, and had the faintest whiff of alcohol and tobacco around him.

  His face, already sternly handsome with its thick crown of silver-dusted gold hair, showed fury.