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.”