Golden in Death(81)

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.”