She flipped pages. “There’s more, a whole lot more. Enough to bring Whitt in for a serious conversation.”
“Eve,” Roarke repeated. “I’ve restored some files. One in particular you need to have a look at.”
“Okay.” She glanced up, saw his face. “What is it?”
“A target list, detailed.”
She took the notebook with her to the home office, then looked over Roarke’s shoulder.
“I’m still restoring files. I’d say Whitt—as he’s quite obviously your man—knows little about how comps actually work. His delete was standard, and easily countermanded.”
“Jesus, Cosner actually titled it Payback Time, like they’re still in high school.”
“And as you see, the targets of that payback are listed in alpha order, with the intended victims attached. There’s more following the list. It’s schedules for the targets, optimum times to schedule delivery for the intended victims, selected drop points and delivery services, even the names chosen for the bogus shop listed as sender.”
“He wrote it all down,” Eve said as Roarke scrolled through. “The alibis, cover stories. Who made the drops. And he’s dead. It piles on the circumstantial, but he’s not alive to confirm it. But it’s more than enough to get Whitt in the box.
“Go back to the target list.”
When he did, Eve ran them through. “Duran, then Flint—Rodriges mentioned him—he’s retired in South Carolina now. Rosalind, the chem teacher. Rufty, then Stuben, art teacher, Woskinski, and Zweck, school nurse now doing private care. That’s seven designated targets, Cosner himself makes three victims. There were only three undamaged eggs left on scene. Either Whitt has the seventh, or it’s already been shipped.”
“If Whitt always planned to kill his friend—”
“Not like this. Even an idiot like Cosner could add. Seven targets, seven eggs. You eliminate Cosner the easy way—feed him an OD. This was necessity, do it quick, move on. We can’t risk it.”
She yanked out her ’link, tagged Peabody.
“Contact Rosalind and Zweck from the academy’s list,” she snapped. “We need to know if they received any deliveries, we need to know their status. Is McNab with you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Have him contact Stuben from the academy. I’ll take Woskinski and Flint. They’re all on the kill list Cosner had on his comp.”
“Well, Jesus. We’re right on it. Wait—that doesn’t add up.”
“Exactly. There’s very likely another egg out there, very likely loaded. We need to find it. Confirm status first. These individuals’ safety is first priority. Report back when it’s done.”
“Give me Woskinski’s contact,” Roarke told her. “You take the last. Quicker that way.”
Once she’d confirmed all remaining targets safe and secure, she shifted to the next priority.
“We have to find that goddamn egg. How much time do you need for a full restore?”
“I’ve about got it. As I said, he doesn’t know much. He didn’t even throw in a virus.”
“Keep at it. Copy that file to my PPC for now. I need to wake up Reo.”
While he worked, Roarke listened to her with a combination of admiration and amusement.
Reo, video blocked, said hoarsely, “I hate you, Dallas.”
“Marshall Cosner is dead,
poisoned by the nerve agent. We have reason to believe another shipment has already been dropped.”
“What? Wait. God, why isn’t there coffee right here?” There was rustling and thumping. “Details.”
“We hit the converted warehouse Cosner bought,” Eve began, and filled in those details up to and past the time Reo unblocked video while standing in her kitchen with a giant mug of coffee.