“He knew Cosner and Whitt.”
“Almost assuredly. I also believe he qualifies as Peabody’s mad scientist. He showed flashes of brilliance with chemistry, earned that scholarship.”
She shoved up. “They bullied scholarship students—not one of them. But he’d have had a leg up if he could cook illegals, supply them. Cosner, another addict—The Facilitator, according to Hayward. Loco might’ve been his supplier, and that may have led to using him to cook up the agent.”
She turned back to Roarke. “How’d you get that out of the financial search?”
“Roundabout. Cosner isn’t so clever as Whitt. They both use casual gambling, purchases to cover payments.”
Eve felt another happy dance coming on. “What payments?”
“I’ll get to it. Cosner, however, slipped twice, and has a transfer of ten thousand to Lucas Sanchez. As Whitt ostensibly had gambling losses of the same amount at the same time, I thought it expedient to look at Sanchez.”
“I know it insults you for me to say you think like a cop, so I won’t say it.”
“Appreciated. There are other similar losses or outlays—such as Whitt listing a painting he claims he bought from a street artist in Paris for twenty thousand—cash—which remains uninsured. There are various and classic laundering schemes, and the outlay was regular, twenty thousand between them, twice a month from last September until January. In January until near the end of March, it doubled to twenty apiece, then nothing. Late March coordinates with Loco’s sudden and violent demise.”
“They had what they needed from him. Enough of the agent, or the formula. Doubled the initial payments—maybe he demanded still more. He got greedy or mouthy, or they just didn’t want to risk keeping an addict in the loop.”
“Agreed.”
She buzzed up more coffee for both of them to go with the cookie. “Hold on, let me tag Jenkinson, see if he can add anything.”
“I’ve more myself, but I’ll just finish my cookie while you do that.”
She tagged Jenkinson, who answered with a distracted, “Loo?”
She could hear chatter in the background, and somebody said, “That’s a full-of-shit bluff.”
Feeney?
“I’ll see that full-of-shit bluff and raise it ten.”
Definitely Feeney.
“Is Reineke in the game?” she asked.
“Yeah, him, Feeney, Callendar, Harvo.”
“Harvo?”
“She’s a killer. Something up?”
“That’s right. I need your attention.”
“You got it. I already folded.” She heard his chair scrape back as he got up, moved away from the table. “I’m losing my shirt to a girl with green hair and the captain of the geeks. It’s humiliating. What you got?”
“Lucas Sanchez. Loco.”
“Yeah, dead cook, addict. Stabbed a couple blocks from the flop he used. Hadn’t been seen around the neighborhood for months, according to every-damn-body. And that same every-damn-body didn’t see anything, hear anything, know anything.”
Scooping a handful of chips out of a bowl, he munched as he talked. “And every-damn-body said he was an asshole, but could cook good shit. Genius shit. No product on him, no cash. Took his shoes, too. Live by the junk, die by the junk. Or that’s how it’s looking.”
“Not anymore.”
Jenkinson’s eyes changed. “How’s it look now?”
“He’s linked to the nerve gas, to my two prime suspects.”