Thankless in Death

  He’d felt so damn good, he’d ordered the droid to unpack, then go out and buy some imported brew, and fix up that steak dinner.

  He was going to like getting used to steak dinners.

  He’d walked all over the apartment, all over the building checking out the shops, the fitness center, the restaurants and bars.

  He’d thought about hanging out at the bar—for longer than the one drink he’d had—maybe hooking up with a woman. But he wanted to get the lay of the land first.

  He’d walked around the neighborhood some, too, just getting that feel and feeling fine.

  It wasn’t until the foot started throbbing some he remembered being told to stay off it, keep it elevated.

  The idiot doctor should’ve made it more clear, he told himself, teeth gritted as he waited for the meds to kick in. He should’ve given him stronger drugs, more specific instructions, better care.

  Maybe he’d give the asshole doctor a taste of his own. See how he liked a broken foot.

  “You’re on my Shit List,” Reinhold mumbled.

  He could go back for a “follow-up,” teach the asshole a lesson, grab some good drugs.

  He liked the idea, rode on it through the pain until the miracle of chemistry clicked in, and eased that pain away.

  Not smart, he thought, to go back to the asshole doctor. Smarter to do a little research, find out where said Asshole, M.D., lived, and take care of it. He probably had money, too.

  Fucking doctors rolled in dough.

  Yeah, he’d start working on that, maybe catch him some night when he left the clinic, or when he was in his own fancy apartment.

  Something to think about, but he had other business first.

  He ordered the bedroom screen on, had to think through to remember how to call his computer up on it. Then decided he wanted pizza.

  Steak dinner had been hours ago.

  “Hey, Asshole!” He enjoyed programming the droid to answer to the insult. It made him laugh, every single time.

  “Yes, sir.” The droid came to the bedroom doorway.

  “Get me a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, onions. A large. Get it at Vinnie’s, that’s my place.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I go out and get one or arrange for delivery.”

  “Go get it, for Christ’s sake. You think I want to wait for some fuckwad to deliver it? And make it snappy, you shithead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He liked the “sir.” About damn time somebody called him sir. In fact, from now on, he’d make anybody he planned to kill call him sir before he did them.

  He called up what he termed his Shit List, studied the names, the addresses he’d found, the workplaces he either knew or had been able to find.

  Beside each were their offenses, and his current—subject to change—method of making them pay.

  He’d have been surprised to see just how closely Eve’s list aligned with his. But he didn’t think about the police. He’d begun to consider himself a professional. After all, each kill had generated pay—payback and cash.

  Jerry Reinhold—and he had another program with possible code names—was a Hit Man with a (S)Hit List. It cracked him up. After he’d worked his way through his own list, he’d use the code name and hire himself out.

  His current favorite was Cobra. Fast and deadly. Except he really liked Reaper. As in Grim.

  As he studied his list, he relived each insult, embarrassment, rejection.

  He thought of how it would feel to burn Marlene Wizlet’s pretty face with acid until she looked like a monster. Then he’d force her to look at herself—before he slit her throat.

  Teach her to flip him off, teach her to think she was better than he was. And she’d made some good money, he was sure, whoring her face, the one he’d ruin, her body.

  And the Schumakers. God, he hated them. He’d get plenty from them. He figured on beating the old man to death, drowning the old hag in her own bathtub.

  Coach Boyd, good old Coach Boyd. That would be the best time ever. Wanna see me swing away? He’d figure out how to get inside Boyd’s place—just figure it out. Then he’d rape the wife right in front of him. Then he’d get busy with the snips. He really wanted to use those snips. And when that was done, he’d beat the bastard’s brains out with his trusty bat.

  Pure satisfaction.

  Even if he didn’t get much profit out of Boyd, that would be—what was it? Yeah, yeah, a labor of love.

  He cracked himself up again, kept going down his list.

  He changed a few methods. He had enough money now to get his hands on a stunner. You could do a lot with a stunner. And he figured he’d pick up a hammer, maybe a saw.

  A guy wanted to be well-rounded.

  He thought of Mal. The way to Mal—what kind of friend boots you just because you were short on the rent—was through his mother. That pushy bitch. He liked the idea of the hammer there. First mother, then son.

  But not quite yet.

  He smiled as he studied his next pick. Oh yeah, that would be good. That would be fun—and he knew just how to pick up the bucks for his profit on that one.

  “Asshole, where’s my pizza! And bring me a damn beer.”

  He took a few more minutes to go over his plan. Jesus, it was really so simple. Why hadn’t he ever thought of doing all this before?

  The droid brought pizza and beer on a tray, with a napkin.

  Not bad.

  “Go on out there, active rest. I want you around if I need you.”

  “Yes, sir. Enjoy your pizza.”

  “Bet your ass.”

  He switched the screen to entertainment, scrolled through his choices, settled on porn.

  He amused himself with pizza, beer, and violent sex until he dropped contentedly off to sleep.

  17

  SHE WOKE EARLY AND ALONE. IN THE MURKY light before dawn she felt the alone even before her eyes adjusted.

  Roarke was up and … somewhere already, she thought. She’d have wondered how he managed to rise, even shine so damn early, but even as she lay there she knew she’d finished with sleep herself.

  Her mind had already circled to Reinhold.

  Even as she sat up she cued into the snoring, a sound even kindness and affection couldn’t term a purr. She made out the heap of fur and limbs that was Galahad at the foot of the bed.

  At least somebody knew how to sleep until actual morning, she thought, and shoved out of bed.

  She’d grab a workout and a quick swim, she decided. Tune everything up since she had the time. She hunted up ancient sweat shorts, a support tank, tossed an NYPSD T-shirt over it.

  The cat never stirred, the snoring never ceased while she pulled on shoes, then slipped into the elevator.

  A hard thirty-minute run, she calculated, maybe fifteen on weights, ending with fifty laps in the pool.

  She stepped out in the pool area with its lush plants, exotic flowers, deep blue water. Of all the luxuries, the indulgences spread through the home that Roarke built, she considered the pool her biggest personal perk.

  Tempting, she mused, to just strip off and dive in, but more satisfying to work up a sweat first.

  And circling around toward the gym, she saw the light glowing.

  She paused before she entered, and heard Roarke’s voice, then someone else’s.

  Easing around the corner, she saw him—in workout gear nearly as ragged as hers—steadily bench-pressing while he carried on a conversation. He had the comm on speaker, she realized as the voice—male, high-toned Brit—rattled off a lot of equations and buzzwords she didn’t completely, hell, didn’t remotely, understand.

  While Roarke lifted, tossed out questions and comments about fire codes, something to do with egress, some sort of three-dimensional blueprint flashed on a wall screen, shifted, revolved, zoomed in, went from side to bird’s-eye views.

  It looked, even to her untrained eye, big and important.

  She slipped in, got an easy smile from Roarke, and angled over
to program one of the machines for her morning run.

  The beach, she decided, programming manually while Roarke’s conversation continued. Tropical sunrise.

  She liked the feel of sand under her feet, and the rosy light blooming on the eastern horizon, the sight and sound of waves kissing the shore then rolling coyly away again.

  Okay, maybe the cutting-edge gym, so far removed from the crowded space and iffy equipment she’d once had to settle for at Central, equaled another really big personal perk.

  She took a couple minutes at a light jog to warm up, then steadily increased her pace until she ran full out.

  While she ran, she heard the clink and thunk as Roarke set his weights on the safety, then, a switch in tone as he started a new conversation. Italian? she wondered before the opening greetings switched to English—and talk about engines (she thought) and aerodynamics.

  He’d switched to free weights, she noted, doing biceps curls as he studied the screen and schematics on some sort of muscular air transport.

  Shortly, he moved onto a lab in France—she thought maybe they discussed perfume. But it could’ve been serums. By the time she’d finished her thirty, he stepped onto a machine himself for his own run.

  She lifted, curled, pressed while he ran and did whatever he did with Europe. When she stopped, grabbed water, he turned off the speaker and the screen.

  “A happy morning meeting of the minds,” he commented.

  “Is that what that was?”

  “I meant you and I, but the rest went well enough.”

  He’d worked up a healthy sweat, she noted, had talked business with three or four countries, and looked alert and revved.

  And it was barely dawn.

  “Does it make you dizzy jumping from country to country that way?”

  “It’s all a matter of maintaining your rhythm.”

  She eyed him as he ran. Slick, limber, strong. “Meaning you establish yours, and they have to match the pace.”

  “That’s about it, yes. You’re up early. Dreams?”

  “No. At least none I remember. I’m just up. And it gave me a chance to squeeze this in—and a swim.”

  “I’ll join you there. I’ve tied off most of what I wanted to tie off this morning before the holiday.”

  “That’s tomorrow.” She’d done her best to etch it into her brain.

  “Family’s in today. So …” He slowed for his cool down, smiled over at her. “And it clears some time for me to work with you, Lieutenant.”

  “Find the money, find him,” she said. “Failing that, he’s going for another, probably tonight. Unless he’s crying over his broken toes.”

  Roarke stepped off the machine, took a water as she had. “You’re not considering he may take a holiday himself? On the simple factor his targets are probably expected somewhere tomorrow?”

  “He can’t wait.” Her conclusions mixed with Mira’s equaled immediacy to her. He wanted, felt he deserved, instant gratification.

  “It’s too exciting. And if he’s thinking about the Thanksgiving deal at all, he’d want to screw with that. Devastate someone’s family on a day they’re all supposed to be stuffing pie in their faces and saying how grateful they are. It just makes it more satisfying that way.”

  “You’ve a point. It’s going to take some time through legal means,” he said as they started out to the pool. “I can cut that considerably with the unregistered.”

  “I’m thinking about it.” Torn, she stripped off. “There’s some time, one way or the other. He’s not the broad daylight sort, doesn’t have the balls for it, not yet. He likes sneaking around at night. There’s some time,” she repeated, reassuring herself.

  She dived in. Cool water on her skin, that slight shock to the system, a quick rev to smooth laps. And Roarke, his body slicing down through the water, then matching her stroke for stroke so they hit the far wall together, turned, powered back.

  She lost track of the laps—five, ten—but her body and mind hit that line between energized and relaxed. The burn of muscles created the perfect contrast to the coolness of the water.

  When her heart labored, when those muscles began to tremble, she pushed for one more lap, then let herself sink before surfacing.

  “God. Why don’t they make another hour in the day, then we could start every morning this way?”

  He slid over to her, ran a hand down her slicked-back hair. “Would you?”

  “Probably not, but it’s a really nice thought.” She angled toward him, tipped her head back, found his lips with hers.

  Glided skin to skin.

  “And an even better one,” Roarke murmured.

  Twin beeps sounded from the ’links they’d both set on the table near the pool.

  “What the hell? That’s not my signal.”

  “It’s the notification signal, on both,” he told her.

  “I didn’t set any notification.”

  “I did—on both. Bugger it.” He shoved back his hair, climbed out of the pool, grabbed a towel. “For the bloody medal business this afternoon.”

  “What? Today? It’s today?” And how had she managed to completely erase it from her mind. “What’s worse than bugger it? I want something worse.”

  He only sighed, tossed her a towel. “We’ll get through it, then it’ll be done.”

  “I’ve got a homicidal crazy as lucky as he is stupid to find, and you’ve got a horde of Irish relatives coming in. You should tell Whitney we need to pass—postpone,” she amended.

  On the faintest smile, he angled his head. “I should?”

  “He’s my superior. I can’t tell him we’re too busy.” She hissed at Roarke’s steady stare. “And neither can you. I mean, you could, but you won’t—and I get it. Damn it. It’s an honor. It really is,” she continued as she dried off. “But why does it have to be a public one? It’s your fault.”

  “Mine?” Amusement growing, he hooked the towel around his waist. “And why is that, exactly?”

  “Because you’re really rich and famous, so that plays into the politics.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting conclusion. I thought that played into the difficult politics of it all, and why they’ve held you back from captain until recently.”

  “It’s all stupid politics. Who knows which way they roll?”

  “But my fault, whichever direction?”

  “Yeah. Yours.”

  “And it wouldn’t have anything to do with you being so fucking brilliant at your work?” He arched his eyebrows over eyes dancing with humor.

  “I ought to be able to be fucking brilliant at my work without them making me stand in front of crowds of people and cameras and Christ knows. How come I get punished for being good?”

  “It’s an honor, remember? And, yes, a punishment from your view. And bloody sticky from mine. It’s what I get for marrying a cop.”

  She jabbed a finger at him. “Warned you.”

  Laughing now, he grabbed her, spun her around. “I wouldn’t have it otherwise, even with the bleeding medal. So we’ll suck it up, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and I’ll be putting restraints on Reinhold this afternoon. Even the mayor can’t argue that one.”

  “Let’s hope. And let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  She ate, even though he pushed stupid oatmeal on her. And since she’d gotten a jump-start on her day, started the next round in her home office. Galahad joined her, sitting in her sleep chair giving himself a casual morning wash.

  “The computer likes the model for his next target,” she told him. “I don’t know about that.” While Galahad continued to wash, she rose to study the board. “Female, probably physically weaker, so that’s a plus. But she has a male cohab. She lives uptown—out of his current comfort zone. Even without the police protection he shouldn’t know about, her building has top-notch security. He’s going to want her,” Eve mused. “And yeah, he probably wants her now, but he doesn’t have the chops to get past her security a
nd her cohab.”

  Baxter’s report had confirmed Marlene Wizlet rated Extra Frosty with a Side of Yow. More important, he assessed her security—electronic and human—as solid, the cohab as smart, and protective enough to have already hired a bodyguard.

  Reinhold would want her, Eve thought again, but had to know she wouldn’t be an easy get.

  She’d take more study, wouldn’t she? More of a plan. Lure her out, take her off the street. Possible. Possible he’d try. But wouldn’t he need somewhere to take her?

  “Is he going to start soiling his own nest, wherever the hell that is? More control in your own place. Would that offset the thrill of messing around in someone else’s safe zone?”

  Also possible, she thought.

  But he was hurt. The foot had to be giving him some trouble, should make him reconsider any sort of physical altercation.

  He liked taking his victims from behind, by surprise.

  The shopkeepers were a better bet to her thinking. Older couple, right in his neighborhood. If he could get to one of them, he could use that to entrap the other.

  He had money now—a nice pile of it, and more than enough to invest in a black-market stunner, a fake badge, a uniform. With the holes in the Schumakers’ building security, and again not knowing about the police protection, he could access their apartment easily enough. Just slide in behind another resident, or pose as a delivery or maintenance guy. Or a cop.

  “I’d wait. Bide my time, watch the building, the routine. Go in at night. Cop uniform’s the most direct.”

  She glanced over at the cat, but apparently the washing had exhausted him so he lay on his back, all four legs splayed in utter relaxation.

  “You’d think you’d had sex instead of kibble. Anyway, then you just knock, ID yourself as NYPSD. Law-abiding citizens are going to open the door. Use the stunner, keep it quiet.

  “Soundproofing’s not good on those older buildings. Lock it up, gag and restrain, then you can do what you want to them. Hours of doing what you want to them.”

  “Lucky for the populace you’re also law-abiding.”

  She frowned over her shoulder at Roarke. “I thought you were busy with empire stuff.”