Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“What time did you come on the desk?”

“Eight.”

Too late to have seen Whitt. “I’ll need the name and contact of whoever was on the desk at five.”

“Of course.”

When she gave it without hesitation, Eve noted it down. “Thanks. We’ll also need the security feed from the front door, the lobby, the elevators, and Marshall Cosner’s floor. From, let’s say, four-thirty to six this evening.”

“I can

arrange that.”

“Do. We’ll take it from here.”

She walked with Roarke to the elevator, waited until they were inside before speaking again. “He came to get rid of anything Cosner might have had in his place to tie him to this. Possibly to plant something that laid the guilt more directly on Cosner. He was always going to kill him.”

“Always?”

“Addict, weak sister, loose end. He used Loco until they had what they wanted, disposed of him. He needed Cosner until he’d finished, but with the pressure building, opted to deal with it, cut things short.

“Breezed in,” she repeated. “I bet that’s accurate. Just breezing in, breezing out again.”

“Shortsighted not to calculate you’d ask or check security feeds.”

She shook her head. “He figures he has at least a couple of days if not more before we find the building and the body. By then the feed’s overwritten, and the memories of the doormen questionable. Added to it, the evidence would be so strong against Cosner, he feels he’d be clear.”

“The building’s in Cosner’s name.” Roarke nodded as they stepped off the elevator. “Valuable property, but he didn’t take any part of legal ownership. Yes, you’re right. He always meant to do for his mate.”

“People like Whitt don’t have mates in any definition of the word.”

She stopped outside the pure white double doors of the Cosner penthouse. Pressed the buzzer.

Seconds later the security comp responded.

Mr. and Ms. Cosner have retired for the evening.

“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge to the scanner. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and civilian consultant. We need to speak to Mr. Lowell Cosner on official police business.”

One moment while this information is relayed.

When the door opened, Eve expected a housekeeper or butler type, maybe a droid, but Lowell answered personally.

He’d shed the business suit she imagined he’d worn through the day, exchanged it for trim pants, a sweater, and had the faintest whiff of alcohol and tobacco around him.

His face, already sternly handsome with its thick crown of silver-dusted gold hair, showed fury.

“How dare you? How dare you come to my home? This kind of harassment won’t be tolerated. Do you think barging into my home with your badge and your”—he waved a dismissive hand at Roarke—“consultant will intimidate me?”

“Mr. Cosner, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we have difficult news. Can we come in for a moment?”

“No, you cannot. And if you’ve found some petty way to attempt to arrest my son or further attempt to implicate him, I’ll deal with you in the morning, as agreed.”

“Mr. Cosner.” Before he could shut the door in her face, Eve braced a hand against it. His eyes, bright against his rich man’s tan, went molten.

“That will cost you your badge.”

“Mr. Cosner, I regret to inform you your son, Marshall Cosner, is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.”