He reared back. The fury only increased with disbelief whipped across it. “You lie!”
“No, sir. I examined and identified his body myself, along with the chief medical examiner of New York. Your son died at approximately nine-twenty this evening.”
“Lowell.” Roarke used his first name when he saw something shatter in those bright eyes. “It would be better if we came inside.”
“How? You tell me how.”
“He was exposed to the same nerve agent that killed two other individuals,” Eve told him. “Do you want to hear the rest in the doorway?”
Lowell simply turned away, walked through the entrance foyer into a living area done in quiet colors and quiet patterns. He sat heavily in a chair where soft sage merged in tiny diamonds with soft cream.
“He was murdered, like the others. You tried to say he was part of the killing. You—”
“Mr. Cosner, he was.” Eve decided not to wait for an invitation and sat directly across from him. “Were you aware your son owned a building on Pitt Street downtown, one he set up through a shell company?”
“No, that’s ridiculous. Marshall wouldn’t begin to know how to create a shell company.”
“I imagine he had help,” Eve said simply. “He purchased the building, set it up as a residence and workspace for Lucas Sanchez. You know that name,” she said as she saw the knowledge on Lowell’s face.
“Yes. My son has an … addictive personality. He has a weakness for certain chemical enhancements. Sanchez exploited that weakness. Marshall assured me, his mother, his family that he had cut ties with Sanchez. After Marshall’s accident, after he recovered from his injuries, he assured us…”
You didn’t believe him, Eve realized. But you hoped. You had to hope.
“I’m sorry, he didn’t. Moreover, evidence indicates, strongly, Sanchez was paid to create the nerve agent.”
“You expect me to believe my son was some sort of terrorist?”
“Your son was part of a conspiracy to murder certain individuals over a long-held grudge. Sanchez and the nerve agent were tools, and when Sanchez had created the agent, he was killed. Mr. Cosner, your son was packing the agent in its receptacle for shipment when he was exposed.”
Lowell shook his head, just kept shaking it. “He wouldn’t know how. He wouldn’t know.”
“Lowell,” Roarke interrupted. “Let me get you a drink.”
His eyes glittered with tears as he turned to Roarke. “I have…” He gestured vaguely. “I was reading, having some bourbon, unwinding when…”
“I’ll find it,” Roarke told him, and left Eve to continue.
“You took your son out of Theresa A. Gold Academy after Headmaster Rufty took over for Headmaster Grange.”
“That was years ago.”
“Why did you take him out?”
Lowell dropped his head in his hands, sat like that for several moments. “We came to understand Marshall was using, that he was drinking, that his grades had been … inflated. We came to understand his friends weren’t … appropriate. We believed the best solution was to send him to boarding school, to have my wife’s parents help supervise him, to remove him from the situation. We did what we thought best. We tried rehab. He’s my son. I did what I thought best.”
“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.”