“This is my son, Marcus, and his wife, Landa.”
“Have you found who did this to my father?” Marcus demanded.
“We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry, and the investigation is active and ongoing.”
“That’s just cop talk.”
“It is cop talk,” Eve agreed. “It’s also true.”
“They aren’t the ones to be angry with, Marcus,” his wife murmured.
He opened his mouth, shut it again. Then took a moment to breathe. “You’re right. I apologize.”
“Not necessary. We have some follow-up questions, Dr. Rufty. Did your husband talk to you about a Ben Ringwold?”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Fifteen years ago, Dr. Abner reported Ben Ringwold for child abuse.”
“Wait, yes, of course—”
“Is that who killed my father?” Tori asked.
“No, no, no.” Rufty spoke quickly, rubbing her hand in his. “I remember Ben very well now. He came to see Kent—several years ago now. He was doing the Twelve Steps. He came to apologize, and in fact, thanked Kent for helping to stop him.”
Nodding slowly, Rufty brought it all back. “He’d made peace with his ex-wife, had reached out to his son. Step Nine—he was doing what he could to make amends, and came to Kent. The three of us talked for some time, I remember.”
He smiled a little. “Ben said he’d started a business. A food truck. We went there once. Kent was so pleased. He said how it renewed his faith in people to see someone turn his life around. You don’t suspect him of hurting Kent?”
“No, not at this time. He has a solid alibi, and appears to have done just what your husband said. He’s turned his life around. He may contact you, Dr. Rufty, to offer his condolences. Did your husband speak of a Thomas Thane?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I know that name.” Marcus spoke up. “I know that name. Dad reported him. He beat his wife and child. We had a discussion about it after he got off—community service or some bullshit like that.”
“Did your father indicate Mr. Thane had made any threats?”
“No.”
“How about Curtis Feingold?”
“Yes, yes, I know that one.” Rufty nodded. “I remember because his wife was a teacher, and I helped her g
et a position at a school in Yonkers. I have some colleagues there. He—Feingold—was an abusive drunk. I know he went to prison.”
“Dr. Milo Ponti?”
“Yes, yes. We all know that name. We had a family dinner, and Kent was late because he’d checked on a patient in the ER at Unger. He gave this Ponti a talking-to because he’d berated a woman who’d brought her young boy in. Kent couldn’t abide seeing someone in pain or distress not being treated with compassion. But you don’t kill a man for giving you a talking-to.”
“We’re looking at every angle.”
When she gave Peabody the nod, Peabody took out her PPC, brought up the reproduction of the egg. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
Rufty frowned over it. “A golden egg—like the goose? I suppose I have, in trinket shops, in drawings, that sort of thing. What does it mean?”
“We were able to reconstruct this from the broken pieces on your kitchen floor,” Eve told him. “In doing so, our forensic specialists were able to determine the inside of this … trinket had been painted with an airtight sealant, and a sealant had also been added to the edges of the open halves. When Dr. Abner opened this container, the toxin inside was released into the air. This caused his death.”
“But—but—that’s diabolical, isn’t it?” Rufty went very pale as his daughter put her arm tight around him. “We don’t know anyone like that. It had to have been meant for someone else.”