Golden in Death(103)

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.”