Peabody opened the evidence box, took out a disc. “This is a copy of the security feed from the Grand, the Fifty-third Street service door, followed by the security feed from the Hubble Hotel garage on Fifty-second. Note the time,” Peabody added as she cued it up.
“You missed the cam on the gift shop, Steve,” Eve said as at twenty-thirty-two he strode quickly past. “Further note the feed on the exit door skips eighteen seconds. Our EDD confirms this skip was caused by a jammer.”
“So I walked by the gift shop. Is it against the law to hunt up a bathroom now?”
At the outburst, Kobast signaled Whitt to silence.
“Switching to the garage cam at the Hubble,” Peabody announced. “Time stamp twenty-thirty-five. Freezing at twenty-thirty-eight.”
It froze on the image of a man in a suit on a black scooter. The helmet and visor hid his face.
“Are you kidding? That’s not me. You can’t see his face, for God’s sake. I don’t own a scooter.”
“Ms. Reo.” Kobast turned to her, and his voice dripped pity and derision. “This is hardly identifying evidence. I expect better of you.”
“Oh, I’ve got better. First, unless you’ve suddenly lost the power of sight, Mr. Kobast, you can clearly see the man on the scooter is wearing the same suit, same tie, same shoes as Mr. Whitt wore in the Grand Hotel feed. Added to it, while he doesn’t own a scooter, his cousin James Cutter does. In fact, that very scooter with that plate is registered to Mr. Cutter. Mr. Cutter confirms that your client has the codes to the garage where said scooter is kept, and the codes to said scooter.”
“It’s not me.” Whitt folded his arms over his chest. “I never left the Grand. I was there from seven until after eleven.”
“No, you weren’t,” Eve countered, “but let’s skip that for now and go back in time. How about five that same evening? Five yesterday.”
Whitt merely shrugged. Kobast folded his hands. “Was another crime committed? Another murder you’ll try to hang on my client?”
“Not a murder, but a crime. How about if we rephrase and ask your client what he was doing entering Marshall Cosner’s apartment—when Mr. Cosner wasn’t in residence—at five last evening? And before he works up a denial, we also have that security feed.”
Peabody took another disc out of the evidence box.
“This is ridiculous. Marsh was my friend. He borrowed a set of my earbuds to try out, and I wanted them back. He told me to go on by and get them, so I did.”
“Did you take anything else out of Mr. Cosner’s apartment?”
“Of course not. It’s all right, Broward,” he said before his attorney could interrupt. “It’s simply a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake that several items were missing from Mr. Cosner’s apartment.”
“How would you know?”
“Stephen—”
“Well, how would she know?” The arrogance was back, in full. “She’s just throwing things against the wall, desperate for something to stick.”
“Okay, let’s throw this.” Eve rose, took a tablet, a mini-comp, and a drop ’link out of the evidence box. “These items belonged to Mr. Cosner and were retrieved by me and my partner from the hidey-hole in the floor at the foot of your bed. We know this drop ’link, not yet activated, was Mr. Cosner’s, as he left his fingerprints on it. These other two.” She took them out. “Those are yours. Now, what’s an upstanding financial adviser doing with drop ’links, and his dead friend’s devices in a hidden area under his bedroom floor?”
Whitt turned to his lawyer. “She’s lying, of course. They obviously planted those. For some reason she’s got it in for me.”
“Mr. Kobast.” Reo spoke up. “You’re aware that, by law and regulation, Lieutenant Dallas and all police officers who entered Mr. Whitt’s residence, fully warranted to enter and search, wore body recorders. The entire search is on record, which we can provide for you here if you require it.”
“A safe, concealed area isn’t against the law,” Kobast returned. “Neither is holding some electronics for a friend, or acquiring a drop ’link.”
“Got me there.” Eve enjoyed Whitt’s smirk as she reached into the box again. “And neither is possessing five hundred thousand in cash.” She set the stack of bagged, banded bills on the table. “Though, boy, a money guy ought to know keeping cash under a metaphorical mattress doesn’t earn dividends. But what is illegal?” She tossed the jammer, a bagged passport, driver’s license, ID card on the table. “Acquiring a jammer, acquiring false ID.”
“This is bullshit! They’re trying to railroad me. I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”
“Sit down!” Eve snapped as Whitt started to rise. “You’re under arrest. It’s sit down or sit in a cell.” Deliberately, she angled her head. “I bet this feels as frustrating to you as being yanked out of Gold, pulled away from your sycophants and girlfriend.”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Kobast maintained his calm, but Eve had seen the surprise when she’d tossed down the fake IDs. “I want to speak with my client.”
“Sure.” She repacked the evidence box. “We’ve got a few more surprises in here.” She winked at Whitt. “You know what they are. Dallas, Peabody, Reo exiting Interview. Re