Golden in Death(48)

“He—or she—is also a coward.”

“Yes.” Mira offered the smallest smile. “Not only because you’d find them so, but in none of the statements is there any mention of any sort of physical confrontation or argument. No threats, no rivals or enemies. This rage, however cold, has been bottled up, hidden, and hidden well. When you find him, those who know him will be shocked.”

“Yeah, the typical, he seemed like a nice, normal guy.”

“And a fastidious one, that will factor in. The way he packed the shipment, so carefully. The strapping tape perfectly straight. You’ll find his residence, his work area immaculate.”

Now Mira sat back, recrossed her legs. “I’d pondered over the egg—until you found the connection.”

“Gold egg, Gold Academy. That didn’t just happen. It’s a message.”

“Yes, a reference back to what lit the very long fuse. And there’s killing the goose that laid the golden egg, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, all that glitters isn’t gold, and so on. It’s a cheap trinket, like the box—but he painted the interior painstakingly, added the sealant.”

“Both the box and the egg were dirt cheap, and available from half a million places online. We’ll never trace them, but we will track them back to him once we have him.”

“It’s the economy of it. He didn’t want to waste money on them. The chemicals had to have cost considerable, and the equipment unless he’s able to access it from a workplace.”

“Nothing we’ve found so far, but there are thousands of medical and research and educational labs in New York and New Jersey.”

Sipping tea, Mira considered. “The economy tells me he values money, respects it. He spent it where necessary.”

“But he sends them a cheap trinket because why waste good money.”

“Very good,” Mira said approvingly. “He lives alone. If he’s working on the agent in his workplace, he has some autonomy. If he’s working at home, he’d want privacy. He’s driven, Eve. There’s no time or room in his life for real relationships. He’s not one to confront or debate directly, but to retreat where he can work toward his revenge. He may have done so many times before, in less lethal ways. Undermining a colleague or rival while carefully staying out of the fray.”

“And observing, documenting. Keeping an account.”

“Yes. He’ll have everything documented. He’s a scientist, whether by trade or inclination. Everything he’s done and will do, all the data he’s accumulated on his targets and his victims—as they are separate things—will be documented.”

“So far his targets and victims have families. Grown children with children in the first hit, younger children in the second.”

“It may be satisfying for him to shatter a family. If he had one, he no longer does. Why should they have one, intact and happy? Somewhere, at some time, in some way, they caused him grief. And now he gives them grief.”

“Back to the school. Rufty first—he was in charge, he made the changes.” Eve checked the time. “My interview with him’s coming up.”

She rose, paused. “Could he be on the young side? Say, somebody who was a student when Rufty took over? Maybe got booted out, or disciplined, or failed some classes after Rufty came on?”

“I nearly said doubtful, as the planning, the time gap shows maturity, patience. But think of the egg—and the name used for the return address. They’re a kind of ugly joke, aren’t they? I’d say the high intelligence and lack of genuine emotion or empathy are more solid factors than age.”

“I think of Rayleen Straffo. She was a crafty little killer, and hadn’t hit her teens. I’ll talk to Rufty about students, too. Thanks for the time.”

“When you find him, he’ll have a cover, perhaps even seem to cooperate. But he’ll be planning on how to strike back.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She took the glides back to give herself time to think, and found herself amused as some cops heading in the same direction discussed the Crazy Naked Guy.

“Son of a bitch made it twenty blocks, just sailing along, dick swinging. Patrinki says he’s barely winded when they finally caught him. Claimed he was exercising his constitutional right. Freedom of religion, ’cause he was just giving his thanks to the god of spring. And clothes were a whatsit—societal construct or some shit.”

“It takes all kinds,” his companion commented.

Eve got off the glide at Homicide, walked into the bullpen. She tried to avoid looking at Jenkinson’s tie, saw Carmichael and Santiago debating, hotly, some point of a case, Peabody deep in her research and guzzling a fizzy.

Yeah, it took all kinds, she thought, and went into her office to prep for the interview.

She booked a conference room. She didn’t want Rufty to sit in the box, wanted more private than the lounge.

She updated her board and book, sat contemplating both before calling Peabody in.

“Give me what you’ve got on Grange.”

“Mixed-race female, age seventy-two, two marriages, two divorces, no offspring. Currently headmaster at Lester Hensen Preparatory School, East Washington.”

Peabody sent a hopeful look toward the AutoChef, got a nod.