Probably cooked up there, she mused, bagged them, sealed them.
In the second, smaller closet, she found his sports equipment. The golf clubs, tennis rackets, golf shoes, tennis shoes, and the wardrobe deemed stylish for same. She also found his old uniforms—summer and winter—from Gold Academy.
And found that oddly sad.
Even as she thought it, she glanced up. Frowning, she stepped back, rose on her toes, and just caught the edge of a box—dark blue, on the high shelf.
She had to hunt up a chair, drag it in, climb up to reach. The fine layer of dust told her it hadn’t been opened in some time.
She climbed down, opened the lid.
Photos—a lot of them. Photos of Cosner, Whitt, Hayward, others in their younger days. Mugging photos, obviously stoned photos, photos from sporting events. Clippings from same. School bulletins and announcements for dances, events. Bits of memorabilia.
Sad, she thought again, and dug through.
Found the thick notebook on the bottom. Not electronic, but the kind you wrote in. And, she realized as she flipped through, Cosner had written quite a bit in his very poor, cramped printing.
“Eve.”
“Listen to this,” she said without looking over. “‘We beat the hot shit out of that faggot Rodriges last night. Jerkwad actually believed we wanted him to tutor us, but me and Steve tutored the hell out of him. Talked about finishing him—who’d miss the little fucker? But we decided just to dump his sorry ass, then go have a few brews.’”
She flipped pages. “There’s more, a whole lot more. Enough to bring Whitt in for a serious conversation.”
“Eve,” Roarke repeated. “I’ve restored some files. One in particular you need to have a look at.”
“Okay.” She glanced up, saw his face. “What is it?”
“A target list, detailed.”
She took the notebook with her to the home office, then looked over Roarke’s shoulder.
“I’m still restoring files. I’d say Whitt—as he’s quite obviously your man—knows little about how comps actually work. His delete was standard, and easily countermanded.”
“Jesus, Cosner actually titled it Payback Time, like they’re still in high school.”
“And as you see, the targets of that payback are listed in alpha order, with the intended victims attached. There’s more following the list. It’s schedules for the targets, optimum times to schedule delivery for the intended victims, selected drop points and delivery services, even the names chosen for the bogus shop listed as sender.”
“He wrote it all down,” Eve said as Roarke scrolled through. “The alibis, cover stories. Who made the drops. And he’s dead. It piles on the circumstantial, but he’s not alive to confirm it. But it’s more than enough to get Whitt in the box.
“Go back to the target list.”
When he did, Eve ran them through. “Duran, then Flint—Rodriges mentioned him—he’s retired in South Carolina now. Rosalind, the chem teacher. Rufty, then Stuben, art teacher, Woskinski, and Zweck, school nurse now doing private care. That’s seven designated targets, Cosner himself makes three victims. There were only three undamaged eggs left on scene. Either Whitt has the seventh, or it’s already been shipped.”
“If Whitt always planned to kill his friend—”
“Not like this. Even an idiot like Cosner could add. Seven targets, seven eggs. You eliminate Cosner the easy way—feed him an OD. This was necessity, do it quick, move on. We can’t risk it.”
She yanked out her ’link, tagged Peabody.
“Contact Rosalind and Zweck from the academy’s list,” she snapped. “We need to know if they received any deliveries, we need to know their status. Is McNab with you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Have him contact Stuben from the academy. I’ll take Woskinski and Flint. They’re all on the kill list Cosner had on his comp.”
“Well, Jesus. We’re right on it. Wait—that doesn’t add up.”
“Exactly. There’s very likely another egg out there, very likely loaded. We need to find it. Confirm status first. These individuals’ safety is first priority. Report back when it’s done.”
“Give me Woskinski’s contact,” Roarke told her. “You take the last. Quicker that way.”
Once she’d confirmed all remaining targets safe and secure, she shifted to the next priority.
“We have to find that goddamn egg. How much time do you need for a full restore?”
“I’ve about got it. As I said, he doesn’t know much. He didn’t even throw in a virus.”
“Keep at it. Copy that file to my PPC for now. I need to wake up Reo.”
While he worked, Roarke listened to her with a combination of admiration and amusement.
Reo, video blocked, said hoarsely, “I hate you, Dallas.”
“Marshall Cosner is dead, poisoned by the nerve agent. We have reason to believe another shipment has already been dropped.”
“What? Wait. God, why isn’t there coffee right here?” There was rustling and thumping. “Details.”
“We hit the converted warehouse Cosner bought,” Eve began, and filled in those details up to and past the time Reo unblocked video while standing in her kitchen with a giant mug of coffee.
“We established Whitt came to Cosner’s apartment building—when Cosner was not in residence—tonight. One of the doormen ID’d him, and we have security footage we’ll pick up on the way out. Though files were deleted from Cosner’s home office comp—and other devices that should be here are missing—Roarke was able to restore. We found a kill list. There are seven names on it, with details. Three eggs have been used to kill, three have been taken into evidence. One’s missing.”
“Any mention of Whitt in those files?”
“Yes—coordination of cover stories.”
“That’ll help. But with Cosner dead, won’t ring the bell.”
Fire flashed, in Eve’s eyes, in her voice. “I’ll ring the damn bell. Right now I need warrants. We have to find that shipment. We have a list of preferred delivery services and drop points. I need warrants for all of them.”
Reo took a big gulp of coffee. “Send them to me. I’ll get them.”
“I want a search and seizure on Whitt’s residence and office, and a warrant for his arrest. On tap,” she added. “We find the package first.”
“I’m going to need more coffee. I’ll work on it. Get me what you’ve got.”
“Sending now,” Roarke told Eve.
“Thanks,” Eve said to Roarke. “Get back to me,” she said to Reo.
Then woke up CI Michaela Junta. “You’re going to need to put teams together,” Eve began.
“Fully restored and copied,” Roarke announced when she’d finished.
“Good. I’ll have EDD pick it up. We’ll work better at home. And I want to see the security feed.”
“I haven’t met this Whitt, but I’m going to make a deduction. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”
“You’d be right about that.” Eve bagged the notebook, sealed and labeled it. “What he is? Smug, self-important, a sociopath who’s been protected by privilege and money all his life. That’s about to end.”