Thankless in Death

  “You’ve got twenty minutes,” he warned her.

  “Master Command D, backslash generate …”

  It had to be right, she thought, just exactly right, or he’d walk away clean. It had to be perfect, or the program itself would alert him to the addition.

  He’d make good on his threat then. Though she could no longer feel her fingers, she wanted to keep them. And Snuffy slept in her lap, a warm weight. His little chest rose and fell. As long as it did, she’d do what she could for him, and for herself.

  And if the little bastard killed her, at least she’d die knowing she’d handed him the means to his own end.

  “Insert code twenty-five backslash B,” she continued, her voice soft and slow. Her eyes filled with cold, feral hate.

  12

  EVE BROKE THE SEAL ON THE REINHOLDS’ apartment door and entered. It still smelled of death, with a lacing of the sweeper’s chemicals.

  “We’re going through it again.”

  “What are we looking for?” Peabody asked her.

  Eve scanned the living area, still surprisingly neat and tidy in the wake of murder. “He played Little League, and kept the bat. Or more likely his parents kept it. They’d have kept other stuff, right? Isn’t that how it works? Parents hang on to things, to pieces of their kids. Photographs, sure, but mementos.”

  “Kid drawings, school reports, trophies, and awards, like that, sure. Most would. Mine sure did—do.”

  “Anything they kept he didn’t take we look at. Family photos, too. Vacation and holiday stuff. Anything might connect to someone he’s got a grudge against, or somewhere he wants to go again.”

  She walked into the kitchen. “It started here. When he picked up the knife, turned it on his mother, that’s when it all started for him. Reconstruction says she was here. It’s lunchtime. He’s fixing his lunch or she’s fixing it for him. She’s fixing it.”

  Eve put a picture of the mother in her head, as she’d been in her ID shot. “She’s fixing it because that’s what she does. She fixes the meals, keeps the house. Probably a sandwich so the knife’s out. It’s right there when he decides to do it. She’s nagging at him, that’s how he sees it.”

  And seeing it herself, Eve walked around the table. “You’ve got to get a job, grow up, get your shit together. Maybe she tells him she and his father are giving him a deadline or he’s out. Maybe she didn’t wait to confront him together with her husband. So he picks up the knife, jams it into her. And it feels so good, the look on her face is so satisfying he does it again. Just keeps doing it even when she tries to get away, when she falls, even when she’s already dead. And then he eats his lunch.”

  “What?”

  “He ate after Nuccio. Had a big snack. I bet he sat right down here and ate, and started planning how he’d kill his father. Plenty of time, time to start putting what he wanted together, hunting up their passcodes, checking out the bank accounts. Plenty of time.

  “He never panicked,” Eve continued. “He never tried to clean anything up, hide anything. It’s like he … came of age here in the kitchen over his mother’s bloody corpse.”

  “Well, God.”

  “He’s got the ambition and the brains to go after the money, after what he recognizes or considers valuables. To take the time for planning that before and after he kills his father. To do that he gets his old bat—that memento. Maybe his old man pitched him a few back in the day, criticized his form. He doesn’t take the bat with him. It didn’t matter to him. He buys a new one for his tool kit.”

  “Leaving childish things behind.”

  “Huh?”

  “I just thought … you said he came of age. So he left the bat he’d used as a kid and bought a new one. They probably bought him the first bat, the murder weapon. He buys one now for himself.”

  “That’s good.” Eve nodded. “That’s how he thinks. Still, a little fear of the father. He hides, lies in wait, takes him by surprise. Ambush rather than confront. Then he leaves them both there, where they fell, leaves them swimming in their own blood, and eats and sleeps and plans. It’s like a kid again, a teenager maybe, tossing his stuff on the floor, stepping over it rather than picking it up, putting it away. Nobody here to tell him to clean up his space. It’s deliberate.”

  “What part?”

  “Staying here until Saturday night. Leaving them on the floor, dishes scattered around the kitchen. She kept a tidy home, raised him to pick up his space, nagged at him about it. Now fuck her, he’ll make as much mess as he wants.”

  “No mess in the living area or their bedroom.”

  “He’s not interested in those spaces. It’s all about the little office area, the kitchen, his room, the bathroom. He hates how old it feels in here, all his mother’s fancy touches, the old stuff she and his father hang on to, set around, or tuck away. The traditions irritate him. He wants new—like the new bat, the new suit. He wants some shine.”

  She took a turn around again. “He’ll look for a status place. He wants the opposite of this, the opposite of settled, homey, traditional. That’s what he’s after now.”

  “A newer building, or something recently rehabbed.”

  “Modern, I think. Slick and sleek. Everything he’s never had because he doesn’t see what he had here, he’s not grateful for growing up in a home where people cared about making it nice, keeping it nice, where they valued family heirlooms and traditions. He hates all of it. Let’s take it apart, then follow his trail.”

  The silver-and-glass tower rising above the Hudson River boasted its own bank, a two-level state-of-the-art fitness center—with pool, a five-star spa, a select group of high-end boutiques, twenty-four-hour concierge service, two exclusive restaurants, three bars, and for an additional fee, a daily, weekly, or monthly cleaning service.

  The apartment on the eighteenth floor was, for him, a wet dream.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows comprised the river-facing wall. A touch of a button, or voice command, opened them to the terrace.

  The generous living space—humongo, built-in wall screen, floors of cool silver, walls of pale gold—spilled into a dining area already furnished with a floating, free-form chrome table and glossy black chairs. The kitchen beyond, all hard silver, strong gold, rippled glass, held every modern feature he could imagine, and plenty he hadn’t.

  He listened with half an ear as the realtor buzzed at him about square footage, location, amenities—soundproofing, full voice command, private elevator—blah, blah, blah.

  He nodded, trying for knowledgeable and sophisticated as he circled around to the master suite.

  He all but felt tears rush to his eyes.

  Like the dining room, like the living area with its gel platform sofa, chrome tables, gold scoop chairs, it was already furnished.

  She fussed with a remote that had the black headboard glowing, the privacy screens on that wall of glass sliding up, then down, the glass opening to the terrace.

  He struggled to maintain his composure, glancing at the bathroom—big, sunken jet tub, clear glass multijet shower. Drying tube, flash-tan tube, another screen, a small gas fireplace, an attached dressing area complete with wardrobe comp.

  The second bedroom, described by the yammering realtor as the perfect home office for a bachelor, also had its own bath—smaller than the master’s but no less swank.

  He poked around, opening closets, wandering out to the terrace, giving her short answers or no comments.

  It was, in his mind, already his. Everything he wanted, everything he deserved.

  He wanted her out of it so he could flop down on the couch and kick his feet, wave his fists in the air in triumph.

  “It’s prime real estate,” she continued—talk, talk, talk. “The complex has only been open for six months, and is already at ninety-three percent. The previous tenant hadn’t fully moved in, was still furnishing as you can see, when business required him to move to Paris. This unit has only just become available, and I expect it to be snapped up by
next week. And only that long due to the holiday.”

  “It might do.” Reinhold tried for weariness. “I really don’t have much time to spend on hunting.”

  She gave him an easy, professional smile—a short, solid woman in a purple suit and sensible shoes. “You said you’d just come back to New York from Europe yourself.”

  “Hmmm.” He merely nodded. He wandered back, frowned at the kitchen, opened a few doors, drawers. “It’s a bit small for the entertaining I do, but it’s here.”

  “The caterer on site is one of the best in the city. Of course, you’d hardly expect less from a Roarke property.”

  He glanced at her. “Roarke?” He felt the thrill spear through him, couldn’t suppress the smile. “Roarke owns the property?”

  “Yes, so you can be assured the security, the staffing, all the amenities are top of the scale.”

  “I’m sure. His wife is a police officer, isn’t she?”

  “That’s right. Have you seen The Icove Agenda? It’s based on one of her cases. Fabulous vid. Just fabulous.”

  “I’ve heard of it. I don’t have much time for vids.” He dismissed it as if such things were too frivolous for his notice. Inside he reveled. The cop trying to find him was married to the man who’d built his new headquarters.

  It couldn’t be more perfect.

  “What about the furnishings?”

  “As I said, the previous tenant had to leave for Europe, and quickly. He’ll make arrangements to have the furniture taken out, or is willing to sell any and all.”

  “I see. It would save time, and time is money.” He glanced at his spiffy new wrist unit as if verifying. “I’ll take it, and the furniture.”

  “You … You don’t want to see the other properties?”

  “Time, money, and this suits well enough. What does he want for the furniture?”

  “All of it?”

  “As I said.” He gave her a hurry-it-up finger wiggle. “I don’t waste time.”

  “Just give me a moment to check. Building management will need first and last month’s rent, as well as the security deposit, on signing.”

  “Understood. I’ll have my girl wire it today. I’ll move in this evening.”

  “This—”

  “I prefer not to spend another night in a hotel,” he said, rolling right over her. “I don’t have much with me. I’ll make arrangements to have the rest of my things sent once I’m settled. Make it happen.”

  So saying, he wandered off again, leaving her scrambling.

  Eve followed Reinhold’s footprints. To banks, hotel, shops, pawnbrokers. She talked to clerks, reviewed security discs. Studying him, watching him revel in his newfound life, his murderous freedom.

  She’d found more photos—tucked away. And, as Peabody had suggested, school reports. Average at best. They’d unearthed an old vid of him from childhood—labeled Jerry, Talent Show, Grade Five. He’d competed with a song, and had carried it fairly well.

  Well enough to place third. The vid had clearly shown his anger, his sulkiness when accepting his little trophy. Another vid memorialized his Little League team’s bid for the championship. They lost, and Reinhold struck out on his last at bat.

  Other vids showed family vacations—Reinhold belly-flopping into a pool, swimming choppily. Not the athletic type, Eve judged. Holidays, birthdays, high school graduation.

  On foot now, Eve and Peabody walked between pawnshops. And Eve stopped outside of a fancy salon.

  “He needs a new look.”

  “He didn’t change it. We’ve got him on the feed from the hotel.”

  “That doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed it since.”

  She pushed her way in, badged the first tech she saw and flashed Reinhold’s photo.

  Tapping out there, they hit the next pawnshop, the next salon.

  And Peabody stopped, pointed. “There. He could’ve stopped there for hair and face stuff. He’d have passed it.”

  “True Essence? What is it?”

  “A chain, but a pretty high-class one. Mostly above my pay grade unless they’re having a good sale. Enhancements, hair stuff, body stuff, bath stuff,” Peabody elaborated. “The works. The uptown one—on Madison—has a frosty little day spa attached. You can go in for a makeover, but then, well, if I do that I feel like I’ve gotta buy something. But the staff’s really helpful. It’s part of their rep. Solid and personal customer service.”

  “Let’s see if they gave any of that to Reinhold.”

  Eve didn’t understand places like this. The walls—all artily lit—the kiosks, the lower-level area—were all loaded with products created to enhance you, change you, transform you, or improve you. Skin, hair, face, eyes, lips, ass—there was even a whole section dedicated to throats and boobs, though they called it décolletage.

  But she had to admit, the trim, stylish, and perfectly groomed staff didn’t swarm as they did in some places.

  They were approached by one woman in classic New York black. The tall blonde with killer looks looked pretty normal to Eve’s eye. No spikes, visible piercings or tats, no explosion of odd-colored hair.

  “Welcome to True Essence. Can I help you with anything this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. Have you seen this man?”

  Eve took out the photo, and since the blonde didn’t seem to be an asshole, palmed her badge discreetly.

  “Oh, that’s the man who killed his parents.” Instantly her voice went to stage whisper. “I saw him on the media reports. You’re looking for him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I haven’t seen him, but I had the last two days off. Would you like to talk to the manager? I can call her out.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Sure. Give me a minute.”

  “Oooh, look at this lip dye.”

  “No,” Eve said flatly when Peabody snagged a sampler.

  “Popping Pink. Who doesn’t want to pop?” Peabody squeezed some on an applicator, tapped it on her lips.

  “Cut that out. You’re not a girl in here. You’re a cop.”

  “I’m a girl cop.” And Peabody did a quick, agile turn toward eye crap.

  Apparently, Eve noted, the managerial position required less normal. She watched the woman with plum-colored hair and silver brow studs clip her way over on high zebra-striped boots.

  “I’m the manager. And you’re—”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re looking for this man.”

  “So I saw on screen last night. Why do you think he came in here?”

  “He was in this area, and he shopped in this area. We’re checking other venues.”

  “I see. Do you know what he might have wanted, what sort of products he might have come in for? Frankly, I hardly see why a suspected murderer would shop for enhancements or body products. We’re hardly a den of iniquity.”

  “You recognized his face.”

  “I told you I saw it on the media bulletin last night.”

  Put it together, sister, Eve thought, but spelled it out.

  “I bet a lot of other people did, too. A lot of people who might recognize him if, say, he walked into a deli for a freaking bowl of soup. So being the suspicious type I figure he might have enough brains to change his hair color.”

  “Oh.” The manager took a deep breath that projected both annoyance and concern. “We should move into hair then. Perhaps one of our stylists can help you. That’s a lovely shade on you,” she said to Peabody, with a much warmer smile. “You shouldn’t be without it. Should I have it held for you?”

  “Oh, I … it does look mag.”

  “No.” Eve cut them both off. “I think, I don’t know, just spit-balling, but we should spend our time here trying to track down a murderer. Hair?”

  “Of course.” The smile faded, the eyes chilled. “This way.”

  She wound through the kiosks, the shelves, the customers who, like Peabody, played with samples or loaded up silver baskets with products they figured would ma
ke them sexier, prettier, softer, smoother, younger.

  Feeling Peabody’s attention wander, Eve bared her teeth. Peabody quickened her pace.

  “Marsella? I’d like you to help these women.”

  “I’d love to.” Marsella, her short, sharp cap of raven black edged with candy pink, beamed a welcoming smile. “What a stellar and interesting cut,” she said to Eve. “So few could pull that off. I have a wonderful product that would punch out your highlights. And I love the casual day-do,” she said to Peabody. I bet you’d look mag in hot curls for an evening bounce. The home-care kit is incredibly easy to do. And you could—”

  “Fascinating,” Eve interrupted in a tone that said otherwise. “But we’re more interested in him.”

  She flashed the photo of Reinhold, and her badge.

  “Oh. Oh.” Marsella shot a wide-eyed—smoked lids, heavily kohled—glance at her manager. “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you recognize him?” Eve demanded.

  “Well, yeah. I don’t understand,” she repeated.

  “How do you recognize him?”

  “From yesterday, when I served him. I don’t—”

  “Understand,” Eve finished. “What time did you serve him?”

  “Um, um. He came in maybe around one-thirty. I’m not sure, but it was right after I got back from lunch.”

  “I need your surveillance discs from yesterday. Open till close.” After ordering the manager, Eve turned back to Marsella. “Do you remember what you … served him?”

  “Tropical Blond Hair Color, with a caramel lowlights add-on kit, Drenched shampoo and conditioner—color bond—the Master of Your Own deluxe styling kit.”

  She rattled them off as if itemized in her head.

  “He wanted other products from other sections, so I stuck with him, recommended the Sun Blast Bronzer—face and body in number four. Um … the Solie Quench, again face and body, and the Lightning Blue Eye kit by Francesco. He wanted the top of the line. I suggested he apply for the store credit service, which would give him ten percent off on his purchases, but he wanted to pay cash.”

  She bit her lip. “I offered him the free consult, and recommended Aly do his eye change here on site for a very reasonable fee, but he blew that off. If done incorrectly, it can cause swelling or redness, but he insisted on pay and go. He signed the waiver, so if he had a problem, I don’t understand why he called the police.”