“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.”
She locked and sealed the apartment. “I’m going to review the security feed in the car, save time. Junta won’t let me near the drops or the search for the nerve agent. Which is a pisser and understandable, as I’d do the same damn thing in her place.”
In the elevator she rocked back on her heels, wanting to move, to move. Once she had the security disc, she plugged it into her PPC even as they walked out to the car.
She scanned through while Roarke drove.
“Doorman had the time right. There he is. Walks right by the desk guy, who greets him. Obviously he comes by often enough nobody questions him.”
She switched to the elevator cam when he got on. “Okay, there he is. Checks his wrist unit. Checking the time. Taking out a ’link—drop ’link. Yeah, yeah, answering a tag from Cosner, you bet your ass. We can get a lip reader on this if we need. Quick convo, puts the ’link away—one he’ll ditch later. Smirks. Oh yeah, that’s a smug fucking smirk.”
She switched to the corridor cam, which showed him strolling straight to Cosner’s apartment, using his own swipe and palm print to gain entrance.
“Doesn’t he realize you’d check the security?”
“Cosner wasn’t killed there—that’s how he sees it. Why would we bother? And again, by the time we found the body, the feed’s overwritten. And here he is, heading back out. He spent thirty-two minutes inside. Whatever he removed—say, spare drop ’links, any other electronics—are inside the briefcase and messenger bag. I need to know where he was tonight, what his cover is.”
“He’d need time to slip away, get to the warehouse, deal with Cosner, get back.” Roarke drove through the gates of home. “So it’s most likely something more public than private. He’d need a crowd, wouldn’t he?”
“Another club, maybe, or a concert, a sporting event, a banquet—business but not a client dinner. This took too long to fake taking a tag.”
“Let me see what I can find out.” Roarke smiled as he opened the door. “I still have my ways.”
“Good. You can use your ways while I check in with Junta, with Reo. I figure to give Feeney a few hours of downtime, then we’re going to hit Whitt with the search. Bright and early.”
“He thinks he’s home free, and is feeling very good about himself right now. Likely sleeping like a baby.”
“Babies are always crying.”
Roarke stopped on the way up the stairs with her. “That’s quite true, isn’t it? I’ll give you that one. He’s sleeping like a sociopath. And he’s bound to have the formula for the nerve agent.”