Another stint in rehab, physical this time, after he busted himself and his vehicle up while under the influence.
Some addicts liked to cook their own, she considered. Maybe Cosner had learned more chemistry on the street than in the classroom.
She studied a handful of names, paused again on Rufty’s personal notes.
She took a hard look at Stephen Whitt. Hayward’s high school boyfriend, Cosner’s good pal, and according to Rufty, a ringleader of troublemakers.
Like Cosner, he transferred during Rufty’s first weeks, but in his case to—interesting—Lester Hensen Prep. She sat back, let that roll around. He’d transferred to the same school where Grange took over as headmaster.
He graduated in the top 10 percent of his class, went on to study international finance at Northwestern, another family tradition. He worked at his family’s small, exclusive firm on Wall Street while he worked in tandem on his master’s degree.
No criminal that showed which, given his history, she found suspicious.
She wondered if the trio from Gold kept in touch, then glanced over as Roarke came back.
“Miguel Rodriges,” he began. “He’s worked in my system for about two years, and has taken advantage of our program for continuing education. He’s working on his doctorate through MIT online, and should have it by year-end.
“His supervisor considers him a strong asset, a young man with interesting ideas, a flawless work ethic, and serious skills. We recruited him straight out of grad school. He requested the New York location, though we had offered him Madrid, because his family lives here.”
He sat on the edge of her command center. “Again, according to his supervisor, he’s destined to move up. He’s bilingual, steady, currently in mad love with another young engineer, but he’s too shy to ask her out.”
“You got that?”
“We wanted to be thorough. In any case, you’ve only to let me know when you want to talk to him and we’ll have him come into Central.”
“I’ve been working that out. One of the mean girls who ganged up on your guy now lives in East Washington, so we’ll talk to her while we’re there. Then I’ve got two more names that pop for me out of Rufty’s notes, both in New York. And one of them transferred to Grange’s school after Rufty came on board.”
“Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yeah, I think it is. Did he follow Grange, did Grange make a pitch to the parents and their deep pockets? How’d he feel about being shipped off? Another one got shipped off to Vermont, boarding prep school, with his grandparents on watch. Wouldn’t be as much fun. Vermont and the mean girl skimmed by on the education scale. The other got into Northwestern, and is now part of the family finance firm. International finance.”
“What’s the firm?”
“The Whitt Group.”
“I know it, and Brent Whitt, who’s likely your suspect’s father.”
“More of a person of interest at this point, but yeah, that’s the father.”
“The father, grandfather, and an uncle—along with, now, the son and I believe a cousin—form the core of the group. Very exclusive. Their minimum investment to take on a client is, to my recollection, fifty million.”
Eve sat back. “Are you with them?”
“I’m not, no.” He lifted her coffee, sampled, put it down again, as it was stone cold. “After all, there was a time I could barely scrape together a few thousand to invest.”
“And seeing that what you had would be from a fence.”
He only smiled. “And that, of course. In any case, I prefer a more broad-based approach for my investment teams. Added to it, I didn’t have—why not stick with it—chemistry with Brent Whitt when he and his team brought me a proposal.”
“What was it that put you off?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I’m having a whiskey—and if you’re going to drink coffee, at least heat it up.” He walked over, opened a section of the wall where he chose a bottle, a short glass. “He’s a smug, entitled sort, one who’s always been wealthy and privileged and one who enjoys riding on it.”
After pouring three fingers, he walked back to her. “It was his great-grandfather who made the first bundle, and with his son turned the bundle into a substantial fortune. So when Brent came along, he had a silver spoon well up his arse.”
She knew the tone, however subtle. “You really don’t like him.”
“I don’t, nor his type. He flaunts, and pontificates, condescends to his own team, who would have done the lion’s share of the work on a very extensive proposal. My impression was—no,” he corrected, took a sip of whiskey, “he very clearly demonstrated his firm very much wanted to acquire my portfolio, even though the source was far from ideal.”