Golden in Death (In Death 50)
“No, I didn’t.” Whitt stared through her. “Did you?”
“We did not, which means you actually expect us to believe your dead friend, out of his own pocket—a considerable expense—out of the goodness of his heart, purchased false identification for you, but not himself. And you have no idea he’d done so, or why he’d done so.”
“That’s right. I’m telling you all I know.”
Eve leaned forward, locked eyes. “You’re not nearly as good a liar when you don’t have time to plan it out.”
“Lieutenant!” Kobast objected.
She flicked hi
m a glance. “You’re not buying this any more than I am. But let’s move on. Were you aware Mr. Cosner owned a building downtown, a converted warehouse?”
“No he didn’t.” Whitt let out a laugh. “I helped Marsh with investments. He didn’t own any real estate.”
“Well, gee.” Peabody knitted her eyebrows, pursed her lips. “You helped him with investments, communicated with him on drop ’links, had the codes to his really well-secured apartment. Your palm print was registered on the same. All that, and you didn’t know where he kept his stash, didn’t know he’d laid out considerable money for a false ID—for you. Didn’t know he owned a building downtown.”
She sent Eve a wide-eyed, incredulous look. “It doesn’t sound like a balanced relationship.”
“You’re right. Maybe Marsh didn’t trust Steve as much as Steve thought.” From the evidence box, Eve took the paperwork on the building, laid it on the table.
“I don’t understand this. He would have told me.”
In a snap, Peabody switched from incredulous to sympathetic. “I guess it’s hard to find out all this, but addiction can make you do strange and destructive things,” said Sympathetic Peabody. “If he’d been thinking straight, he would have told you—a friend, a financial adviser. He’d have wanted you to see the property, and yeah, advise him.”
“Of course he would.”
“But he didn’t.” Eve slid the paperwork toward Kobast so he could study it. “So you never knew about it. Never went there.”
“No, never. What in the world was he doing with a warehouse? And in that neighborhood.”
“He set up a place for Sanchez to live, set up a lab for Sanchez to work. That is until Sanchez created the formula, the agent—and was murdered.”
“Loco’s dead?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, why would I? I haven’t seen Loco in years. I know he supplied Marsh, but I didn’t associate with him. This, all this, had to have been Loco’s idea. Marsh would never have done something like this on his own. He had to have Marsh whacked on illegals.”
“Lieutenant, Ms. Reo, as your evidence—and my client’s cooperation in this matter—clearly points to Mr. Cosner’s culpability, we demand the charges against Mr. Whitt be dropped.”
“Mmm, there’s just a little hitch with that. Well, a few really,” Eve amended. “Did you know a human being sheds between fifty and a hundred hairs every day?”
“What nonsense is this?” Kobast demanded.
“Just a fun fact. A fun forensic fact. Since you’re a criminal defense attorney, I imagine you’ve had an occasion to cross-examine our hair and fiber expert, Ms. Harvo.”
Carefully, Kobast kept his face blank. “Please get to the point.”
“Harvo’s the point. You’d know just how good she is. So good, in fact, she found, identified, and matched DNA with two hundred and twenty-three hairs Mr. Whitt left in Mr. Cosner’s converted warehouse. The one he’s just stated, for the record, he knew nothing about, had never seen, had never been to. And one of them—bonus point—was found caught in the strap of the air mask he used to protect himself when he killed his old pal, Marsh.
“How’d your hair end up there, Steve?”
“This is more bullshit. Broward, they’re still trying to screw me. I’ve had enough.”
“Quiet.” Kobast put a hand on Whitt’s arm. “Be quiet.”
“You’re probably going to ask for another little confab with your lying sack of a client, but you might as well have more forensics before you do. Like the thumbprint you left behind the shelves when you removed the spy camera you’d placed in the lab where Sanchez cooked up the nerve agent that killed three people.”