“I’m sure you did.”
Roarke came back, put a glass in Lowell’s hand.
“His mother—she was so upset about the accusation, the police, the interview, she finally took a tranq and went to bed. How will I tell her our boy’s gone? Why didn’t we find the way to save him?”
“Did he give any indication he was angry with Dr. Rufty, any of his teachers?”
“At the time, of course. He was mad at the world. At us, at the school, but he was so young. He seemed to do a little better. Off and on he did better, but … He was always good at hiding things, at pretense. It was often easier just to believe him rather than deal with the drama and disappointment. But I can’t believe, won’t believe he’d do the things you’re saying.”
“And as I said, he had help.”
Lowell took a slow pull on the bourbon. “Stephen.”
“Are you referring to Stephen Whitt, Mr. Cosner?”
“I am. After it became clear what Marshall had been a part of at TAG, we did what we could to separate him from those influences. Against my better judgment Marshall and Stephen remained friends. Oh, he’s another who’s good at hiding things, at pretense. I don’t believe Marshall lied when he finally broke down and told us Stephen had devised most of the schemes, had served as ringleader. Marshall looked up to him, always had. My wife never liked the boy, always said there was something missing in him. I dismissed that, but agreed we should do what we could to cut the bond.”
He looked down into his drink, set it aside. “We didn’t, even though they went to different schools in different states, then different colleges, we never broke that bond. Marshall’s a grown man. We can’t forbid him his friendships, even when they’re destructive.”
Lowell swiped at his eyes.
“If Marshall had any part in this, you can be sure Stephen was behind it. Marshall would have followed him into hell.” He picked his glass up again. “And now he has.”
“You know the Whitts,” Eve prompted.
“We were friendly when the boys were in school together. Now we’re polite. My wife dislikes Brent—Stephen’s father—and has for some time.”
“Because?”
“Primarily because he lied to and cheated on his wife, whom my wife was fond of. And more, I suppose, since she learned he carried on an affair with the headmaster of our son’s school.”
“Lotte Grange.”
“Correct. My wife happened to be meeting an out-of-town friend, waiting for her in the lobby of her hotel. And she saw the headmaster and Brent come in, check in, and share, we’ll say, a public display of affection on their way to the elevator. It was particularly upsetting, as she had a friendship with Brent’s wife.”
“Okay.”
“Neither here nor there now,” Lowell mumbled. “Nothing is now.”
“Mr. Cosner, are you Stephen Whitt’s attorney?”
Cosner’s brows shot up in surprise. “No. I would hardly share such information, even under the circumstances, if I represented Stephen.”
Another lie, Eve thought. Another unnecessary lie.
“We need to see our son.”
“I’ll arrange that as soon as possible.” Eve rose. “We need to go into and through your son’s apartment at this time.”
“We thought having him live in the same building would help. But it didn’t. I need to tell my wife our boy is gone. I need to tell her our boy helped kill people. How do I do that?”
22
Eve stood outside Marshall Cosner’s apartment door—pure white again, but a single. Since it had layers of security, she let Roarke work his way through.
“This kind of lock and alarm system’s overkill in a building like this,” she said.
“Not if you have something to hide. His father loved him. Didn’t respect him, trust him, but still, loved him.”
“He didn’t do anything to earn the respect or trust. I guess love just comes with the package for most parents.”
“Most,” Roarke agreed, “and there we are. After you, Lieutenant.”
Cosner’s apartment didn’t boast a foyer, and its living area was about half the size of his father’s. Still, it wasn’t exactly a dump.
No terrace beyond the windows, but plenty of city lights. Bolder, more sleekly modern furnishings than his parents’. A lot of hard color against shiny chrome.
Eve wandered through. “Okay, mostly open—dining area, kitchen over there. That would put the bedroom area on the other side. Let’s start there.”
She found the master, and a smaller second bedroom that served as a home office. “Take the office, I’ll take the bedroom. If they used drop ’links, Whitt might have missed one, or a notebook, a file on the comp, some communication on the house ’link. I’m going to check in with Peabody first.”
While she did, Roarke sat at the steel-and-leather desk. It took him less than two minutes to melt through the password on the computer. And hardly more to find Whitt’s work.
“Darling? Spare a minute?”
She came back, her ’link pressed, screen down, to her chest. And hissed, “Don’t call me darling when I’m talking to cops.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant Darling.”
She rolled her eyes. “What?”
“At seventeen-oh-eight, a number of files on this unit were deleted.”
“Son of a bitch!” She strode over, scowled over his shoulder. “Can you get any of them back?”
He merely shifted his gaze up to hers. “Such insults don’t deserve a darling.”
“Just…” She waved at him, lifted the ’link. “Yeah, tell the e-geeks to contact that science nerd in the lab. Ah, Siler. Once they get the rest unencrypted, he can verify whatever the hell it is.”
“Dallas,” Peabody said, “it’s after midnight.”
“It’s— Shit. Get some rack time, everybody. Tag the science nerd at eight hundred. I want somebody to sit on Whitt. I don’t think he’s going to rabbit—not when he thinks he’s free and clear. But I don’t want to risk it.”
“Got it. Harvo found twelve hundred and sixteen human hairs.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“I am not fucking with you. She was revved up, and since it took her for-nearly-ever, the sweepers are really just getting going.”
“Have them seal up. Rack time.” She clicked off. “Do what you can with that,” she told Roarke. “I’m going to go through the place. We can take the unit with us, log it out. I can get the e-team to finish the recovery in the morning.”
“No darling for you, she of little faith,” he replied, and kept working.
She went through the bedroom—the well-situated single man’s motif with deep colors, straight lines, no fuss but a lot of status.
The goodie drawer by the bed told her he at least had the occasional sex partner. Wardrobe told her he liked to spend money on his duds. All designer, right down to the socks and underwear.
She found his stash of illegals, noted some of them were hand-labeled just as the ones at the warehouse had been.