* * *
About the time Eve briefed Jenkinson, Marshall Cosner paced the elaborately furnished living space in the converted warehouse.
He wore a hooded sweatshirt, dark jeans, black high-tops—all designer label though he believed they helped him blend into the neighborhood.
Stephen Whitt, on the other hand, wore a fresh business suit, one he’d changed into for his dinner speech at a financial event at a Midtown hotel.
He knew he’d timed it well—he was good at timing. He’d made certain he’d mixed, mingled, made conversation before he’d jammed the cameras on a service entrance to slip out.
He’d had the scooter he’d “borrowed” from a cousin parked in another hotel lot a block away, and had made it downtown in ten minutes. Ten minutes back, he thought, ten minutes or so here, and he’d simply blend back into the post-dinner dancing and bar scene with no one the wiser.
Despite his panic, good old Marsh had delivered the next package to the drop. But he’d never hold up to the pressure that was coming. Steps had to be taken, Whitt thought, so he’d taken them.
Time to cut ties. Old school ties.
“Dad doesn’t believe me.” Cosner paced, paced. “He practically grilled me like a fish.”
“You denied everything.”
“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot, Steve, but he doesn’t really believe me.”
“You’re going in with a platoon of lawyers, Marsh. You’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Yeah, Whitt thought. It really was.
“I can’t figure out why she’s zeroed in on me. We did everything right, didn’t we? We’ve got alibis. We did everything right.”
“She’s bluffing, trying to get to you. We’re good as gold. Look, I’ve got to get back before somebody misses me. You just need to relax.”
“Jesus, you try to relax when you’ve got cops on your ass.” Pacing, Cosner wrung his hands. “Maybe I should take off. Head to Europe.”
“We don’t run. Come on, Marsh, take a dose. You’re jonesing.”
“Why’s she looking at us? We barely knew Rufty, TAG was years ago. She shouldn’t have looked at us. You said the cops would never look at us.”
Calmly, Whitt walked to the tacky mirrored bar Loco had demanded, picked up a vial, poured it into a lowball glass, added a good two fingers of unblended scotch.
“She’s got nothing. She’s fishing. Loco’s dead and cold, and that hasn’t come back on us, right? We’ve got the formula now. When we’re done here, we’ll do just what we talked about.”
“Take it overseas, sell it for billions.”
“That’s right.” And all mine, Whitt thought as he handed his oldest friend the glass. “Drink up.”
Cosner knocked it back, sighed.
Just enough, Whitt thought, to make him happy, and a little sloppy.
“Did you get the last egg ready?”
“Yeah. I’m glad we decided it’s the last, Steve. I thought this would be more fun, but it’s been a lot of work. What say when we’re done, you and me, we take a little vacay? Hit the tropics.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t you show me the egg, Marsh, just to make sure. Then you can come back with me. We’ll hit the bar, pick up a couple live ones.”
“Now there’s a plan.”
He was already cruising as Whitt steered him out of the living area and up the iron steps to the lab. Across from the white counters, the burners, the refrigeration, the scopes, computers, containers, ranged an organized shipping and packing area.
Three golden eggs remained on shelves, one in a clear, airtight container—and Whitt regretted he wouldn’t be able to have the other two filled and all three delivered. A fourth sat in another clear container waiting to be packed.
“Looks good. You know, why don’t we pack it up, drop it off tonight. A twofer. Then we’d be done.”
“Done.” Glassy-eyed, Cosner smiled. “I’d really like to be done.”
“Yeah, shit, why wait? We’ll take that vacay,” he added, and made Cosner grin.
“Real ready for that.”
“Pack it up, drop it off, hit the tropics. Pack it up, Marsh.”
“Pack it up, get it done. Naked women on the beach. Whoo!”
Whitt stepped back, well back, drew on the air mask.
And when Cosner opened the airtight container, the egg, with its seal already broken, released the agent.
Staggering, Cosner dropped it so it shattered on the floor. He clawed at his throat as he stumbled, fell, stared up at Whitt.
“What?”
“Sorry, bro.” Whitt’s voice rumbled through the mask. “I gotta do what I gotta. I’ll miss the hell out of you.”
As Cosner’s system revolted, as he tried to crawl, Whitt checked the time. “Wow, I have to book.”
He jogged down the stairs, tossed the mask back in a storage room.
Ten minutes back, he thought as he let himself out, as he took some solution out of his pocket to clean the sealant off his hands.
He zipped uptown without a care in the world.
* * *
Since it made no sense for her suspects to take risks when one of them had a date in the box the following morning, Eve expected to find an empty building.
She had a search warrant—thanks to Reo and the sheer stupidity of naming the shell company The Golden Goose—and had figured to enter, go through, possibly turn a more comprehensive search over to her detectives.
But when they pulled up, she saw lights shining behind privacy screens.
“Could be on timers,” she mused as she and Roarke got out of the car. “Could just be careless about turning them off.”
“Could.”
“Or we could have the extra-special bonus of finding one or both of those assholes in there.”
“Possibly along with a supply of deadly nerve agent.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She’d thought of that, too, which was why she contacted Peabody, told her to log out masks from Central and meet her.
Now she paced the sidewalk.
“There’s only one reason I can think of for one of them, or both of them, to be in there.”
“Preparing the next shipment.”
“And make the drop tonight. That’s just the sort of thing the smug sons of bitches would do. We need to spread out, cover any possible exits. Box them in.”
Roarke studied the building as the thief he’d been might have. Considering security, best ways in, best ways out, vehicular and pedestrian traffic flow.
“They’d be idiots to work with that substance without protection of their own.”
Couldn’t argue with that, she thought. “So we’ll be even. Except there’ll be more of us, with badges and weapons.”
She recognized Jenkinson’s car as it rolled up, then saw Feeney’s roll up behind it.
Couldn’t hurt, she thought, then watched, surprised, as her two detectives, the EDD captain, Callendar—Jesus—Harvo, Peabody, and McNab all piled out of the two vehicles.
“What the hell is this?”
“More cops the merrier.” Jenkinson grinned as he walked up, and she was baffled enough not to notice he didn’t have a tie.