Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“I appreciate you coming.”

“The job’s the job.” He glanced around. “You’ve quite the team already assembled.”

“Just worked out that way. The building’s just been cleared.” She glanced over to where Harvo tucked her green hair into a cap. Not a white one, but like her suit and booties, a hot candy pink.

Harvo was never boring.

“Harvo, you can take the first floor. DB’s on the second. Morris and I will take the body, Peabody, Jenkinson, Reineke, standard search. E-team, security and electronics, including droids.”

She carried her field kit, Morris his medical bag, and, ignoring the people gathered at the barricades, they headed inside.

“It could be even less tasteful,” Morris commented. “It would take effort, but it could be less tasteful.”

“It could and is,” Roarke told him. “You haven’t seen the bedroom.”

Leaving the team to spread out, Eve went up the metal steps with Morris. He studied the body.

“Some would call it just deserts.”

“I call it damned inconvenient. I’d have broken him in the box. I’d have this wrapped, he’d be alive to spend many sad decades in a cage.”

She walked to the body, crouched, took out her pad for official ID while Morris began his exam.

“Body is identified as Marshall Cosner.”

“TOD,” Morris announced, “twenty-one-twenty.”

“Victim is a Caucasian male, age twenty-six, and owner of this building through a shell company.”

“Severe burning of the eyes, the dermis, inside the mouth,” Morris continued as he used a penlight, “the nostrils. Loss of blood and other bodily fluids through the mouth, ears, eyes, nose. Anus to be confirmed in-house.”

“No visible defensive or offensive wounds,” Eve added. “The victim is wearing a gold wrist unit…” She emptied pockets. “A ’link, a wallet—cash and plastic—and there are numerous valuables in the building, so no evidence of an altercation or robbery.”

“We’ll confirm in autopsy, but from this on-site, it appears Mr. Cosner’s COD is the same as the two previous victims. He was exposed to the nerve agent, inhaled same, and would have succumbed within minutes.”

Leaving him to the body, Eve rose, recorded the room as she studied it.

“There was a single glass on the table downstairs. So he had a drink—we’ll test it to see if he had alcohol, any illegals. Was he alone? I just don’t think so. He’s not a loner. More eggs.”

She walked over to the cabinet that held them. “Two here, and one more already loaded and secured. So they planned at least four more. The one he was packing, the one loaded, the other two. Maybe they had extra in case. The fake wood boxes, with sealant and interior padding. Shipping boxes here—standard, strapping tape, packing. Organized well.”

She turned. “Lab area over here.”

“Quite a nice one, too,” Morris commented.

“There were chemicals and solutions, whatever, stored in these temp-controlled units. So they could make more if they wanted. Or had the nerve. Masks, suits, gloves. But he’s not wearing any protective gear.”

“Which is why he’s dead. There’s some burning here, on the palms, between the thumb and forefinger.”

She looked back. “Didn’t the other vics have burns on the hands?”

“Fingers, burning on the fingers.”

“More on the fingers,” she mumbled and walked back, took one of the empty eggs from a cabinet. “Because they opened this little hinge here—with their fingers, pulled the top up, broke the seal.”

“That was my conclusion.”

“But if you take the egg out of the container—airtight container—you hold it like this, carefully if you’re not a complete idiot, because it’s loaded. You think it’s sealed, but it’s not. Or not all the way? It burns, the fumes strike, you drop the egg.”