Thankless in Death

  His face a pale, sickly green, his lip bleeding where he’d bitten it in pain, Joe wheeled glazed eyes toward the sap. His harsh breathing jerked his chest.

  “Don’t. Please, please. I’ve been sticking up for you, Jerry. The cops, the cops are all over you, and I’m the only one taking your side. Mal and Dave, they’re blabbing to that cop bitch, and hunkered down with their mothers. But I’ve been on your side. You can ask anybody. Please.”

  “Is that so?” Reinhold slapped the sap against his open palm.

  “I swear to God. Look, look, you can check my ’link. She’s been trying to tag me—that cop, that Dallas. I don’t even talk to her. Because I’m on your side.”

  As if interested, Reinhold took Joe’s ’link from the counter where he’d put it, scrolled through. “You’ve been busy. Talking to Mal, to Dave, getting tagged by the cops, and who’s this one—Marjorie Mansfield? A new whore?”

  “No, a reporter. She’s looking to do a story on you, on what’s … what’s been happening. She tracked me down.”

  “Is that right?” Reinhold smiled broadly. “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing! I wouldn’t rat you, man. Never.” His chest trembled in pain and fear as he struggled to speak. “I told her you were innocent, you’d never have killed anybody. You were framed, that’s what I said. Somebody—”

  Reinhold swung the sap, and delight spilled through him at the snap and crunch of teeth and bone. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung again.

  In a direct about-face from her usual position on it, Eve blessed the time difference that had most of the Irish contingent heading off to bed at a reasonable, if not early, hour. Babies and kids were hauled off first, many of them limp in sleep as a parent tossed them over a shoulder or scooped them into arms.

  Others followed, bit by bit—though she suspected some of the older kids—age or attitude—were all but camped out in the game room.

  But the minute it seemed reasonable, she snuck off and up to her office.

  Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the long, noisy dinner, and the people. Roarke’s family was so damn likable, so funny, and so full of the bullshit they liked to call blarney it just wasn’t possible to resent the time.

  Very much.

  She went straight to her comp to check on any further incomings and reports. She found plenty of both, but not much in them to add any real weight or introduce new angles.

  Still, she studied Peabody’s refinement of the map, and found some good work there.

  She looked up from it when Roarke stepped in.

  “I owe you a very big solid for the evening,” he began.

  “No, you don’t. Not only because visiting relatives are in the Marriage Rules, but because I just like them. And maybe it gave me some rest-the-brain-cells time. We’ll see.”

  “I’ll thank you anyway.” He walked over to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be putting some time in the lab yet tonight, see if something shakes loose.”

  “Even if it’s a crumb, tell me.”

  “I’ll do that very thing. And give it as much time as I can possibly spare tomorrow. Meanwhile”—as he turned to go, he stopped to study the map on screen—“you’ve made some changes.”

  “Peabody. I need to go through it all, but my sense is they’re good changes. Hopefully the right changes.”

  “Taken down like this …” With his head angled, he stepped a bit closer to the screen. “I believe I own some of those properties.”

  “You—of course you do,” she said on a frustrated sigh. “Stupid brain cells. You can probably get through to the managers, the supervisors, whoever has a tenant list.”

  “I could, yes, but even that would take some time. Holiday, darling. Offices are closed at this hour, and will be tomorrow. Some of those managers will be out of town, and accessing the data will take time. I can do it myself, but unless you have a name, I wouldn’t know who I’m to look for.”

  “New tenant. The first kill wasn’t planned. He wouldn’t have starting looking for a place, this kind of place, sooner than last Friday, probably later than that, but we can work it from last Friday. New, single male tenant, that cuts it down.”

  “It would. I’ll start something, but first I’ll need a copy of the revised map—in the lab,” he added, “so I can work the other program as well. I don’t know how many I have in a sector that large, but it’s easy enough to find out. And in a sector that large, they won’t all be mine. I could, with a bit of finesse, access other tenant lists with the same criteria.”

  She bumped against her own line, slid a toe across. “Go ahead. I’ll push for a warrant. Start with your own, okay? I’ll push hard and get it. I’ll damn well get the warrant.”

  “All right then. I’ll see what I can do. With or without the warrant, it’ll take time. I’ll wager there’s easily a hundred properties highlighted there.”

  “A hundred and twenty-four buildings,” she confirmed. “Whatever you can do to cut that down’s a plus. And it’s time we had luck swing our way. Maybe you’ll hit.”

  “That would be something to be thankful for. I’ll let you know, when I know.”

  Renewed, she pushed through the reports again, and started adding to her notes.

  21

  SOMEWHERE AROUND ELEVEN, REINHOLD’S CRAVing for Onion Doodles refused to be denied. Torture was hungry work. He swiped the sweat off his face—it was heavy work, too—checked the AutoChef, then cupboards.

  Cursed.

  He’d forgotten to tell the idiot droid to buy Onion Doodles.

  The AC, the pantry, the refrigerator, the chiller, were all well-stocked. But not a single bag of Onion Doodles lived among the rest.

  And he had to have some.

  He thought about rebooting the droid, having it go down to the store. The fancy food shops would be closed, but he knew there was a 24/7 market on the mezzanine level. Then he decided he could use the longer break, maybe a short stroll around, even a drink at the all-night club, also on the mezzanine.

  Joe was out for the count anyway, and it wasn’t much fun to pound on an unconscious guy. Big effort, low reward.

  He’d used the hose, the sap, a miniburner, toothpicks—talk about inspiration!—and the razor knife the droid had used to cut the plastic.

  No wonder he was hungry.

  He left the bloodied, burned, bleeding man unconscious and went to wash up.

  He sang in the shower, masturbated, sang again.

  He changed into fresh clothes—the new black jeans with a touch of silver stud work, a collarless shirt in strong blue, the leather jacket and boots. And he looked completely iced.

  He reminded himself to put crap stuff back on before he got to work again. He didn’t want to mess up tight new threads.

  He made sure he had his swipe, his code, his spanking new ID and credit cards, and some cash in case he wanted to flash it around.

  He checked himself out in the mirror a final time, saw himself as dangerous, sexy, successful—and gave the fake soul patch an extra press. He’d grow one of his own soon enough, he thought, and whistling, left the apartment.

  He checked out the bar first. Smoky blue lights rolled over the walls, and a holoband crashed onstage. He’d expected more of a crowd, people sexy and dangerous and successful much like himself, but plenty of the tables and stools sat empty.

  Dead zone, he thought in annoyance, but since he was there, he swaggered over to the bar. He ordered a whiskey, neat, like he’d seen men do in vids.

  “House brand or you want to call?” The broad-shouldered bartender gave him a bored look that immediately put Reinhold’s back up.

  He tapped an imperious finger to the bar in front of him. “Best you’ve got.”

  “You got it.”

  He didn’t take a stool, but posed against the bar. He expected people to notice him as he gave the club a cool-eyed stare. Two couples shared a table near the stage, and the women were prime.

  He imagined strolling over, gi
ving them both a come-with-me-jerk of the head. They would, too, he thought. They’d leave those limp dicks without a thought, and scamper after him like good bitches.

  Do whatever he told them to do, let him do whatever he wanted to do.

  And maybe he’d kill them after, just to see how it felt to do some strange.

  The bartender set the glass of whiskey in front of him.

  “You want to run a tab or pay as you go?”

  “I pay as I go.”

  With a nod, the bartender slid a small black folder across the bar.

  “Where’s the action around here?” Reinhold demanded.

  “Not much tonight. Holiday. A lot of people are out of town or heading that way. Friday, you’ll see some action—and the band’s live.”

  “Maybe I’ll be back.” He flipped the folder open, fought not to goggle at the tab. He could buy fifty goddamn brews for the one glass of whiskey.

  He interpreted the bartender’s impassive look as a pitying smirk, and wished he had his sap. Instead, he tossed down the new credit card, lifted the glass.

  He took a deep gulp. Nearly choked. Because he felt his eyes water, he turned quickly away as if taking a longer look around.

  He’d never tasted whiskey before, but he was damn well sure the asshole of a bartender had cheated him, charged him for high-grade and served him crap.

  Oh, he’d pay for that, Reinhold promised himself. He’d make a point of seeing the asshole paid for it.

  He forced more of the whiskey down, just to prove he had the balls, then dashed off the signature he’d practiced off and on the last couple days.

  Pocketing the card, he walked out.

  Fucking prick, he thought. He’d meet Reaper some night very soon. And he’d see how he liked having acid poured down his throat.

  Desperate for anything to kill the taste of the whiskey, he pushed into the market, picked up a bag of cheese and bacon–flavored Onion Doodles—a favorite—a family box of Spongy Creams, two Chunky Chews, and a Grape Fizzy.

  He charged all of it, sucking on the fizzy as the droid clerk bagged the rest.

  Starving, he broke open the bag of Onion Doodles on his way back to the elevator. Munching and slurping, he headed back up.

  He’d take a real look around the next day, he thought. Before his own Thanksgiving feast. Maybe see if the same bartender was working, get his name.

  Do a little research on a future target.

  He found Joe still unconscious, so out even slaps didn’t bring him around.

  No fun playing with a sleeping asshole, Reinhold decided.

  He took his snacks up to the bedroom. He’d watch some vids, catch some sleep. And get a good start on Joe in the morning.

  He had plenty left to try out on his old pal before Turkey Time.

  Roarke gave it until half-one, coordinating with Feeney, McNab, and Callendar until after midnight. Like them, he’d meant to leave the work on auto and walk away, but he’d been too caught up.

  He’d seen progress—real progress—when they’d untangled the initial routing, found the shadow beneath it. But then, there’d been a shadow under that.

  He had considerable respect for the late Ms. Farnsworth, and had she lived, would have hired her in a finger snap in any number of positions.

  He’d managed to crack the initial code, and felt pure satisfaction. Until he’d understood she’d switched codes for the next section.

  Smart, he had to admit, making certain her killer didn’t, likely couldn’t, catch on to the pattern. And all this while she’d certainly been in terror, likely in pain.

  The trouble was, she was so bloody good, it was taking him a great deal of time. Putting back the wiped material, byte by bitter byte, and then going under it all for the message he now knew she’d left wound in it.

  Tomorrow, he promised himself, and gulped down a half bottle of water. By Jesus, he’d have the rest tomorrow.

  He set up the auto, scrubbed at his face, then went off to fetch his wife. He had little doubt she’d crashed by this time.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  She’d laid her head on her desk, with the cat curled around the point of her elbow.

  He saw by the subtle jerks of her body she dreamed. Fearing a nightmare, he walked to her, spoke gently as he eased her back, then up.

  “It’s all right now. I’ve got you.”

  “I said I would,” she muttered.

  “Then you will,” he said, shifting her into his arms.

  “What?” Her eyes opened, dark and bleary. “Oh. Hell. I fell out.”

  “You’re entitled. You started before dawn, and if we’re at it much longer we’ll go round the clock with it.”

  “I was talking to Ms. Farnsworth.”

  He smiled a little as the cat padded quickly ahead to reach the bedroom first. “Were you now? As it happens, I was myself, in a way. What did she have to say?”

  “She’s just really pissed off.”

  “And who could blame her? She put his name in it, coded through the routing.”

  “What?” Her eyes went instantly alert even as he dumped her on the bed. “What?”

  “Jerald Reinhold. His name, and a short statement we’ve untangled so far. Jerald Reinhold did this.”

  “But where’s the money? What name’s he using? Where—”

  “If we knew, I believe I’d have led with it.”

  He pulled her boots off for her, heard her involuntary groan of relief.

  “We’ve got a start on the routine, which is miraculous, and more so this much of her encoded message. She didn’t make it easy—over and above the whole lot being wiped, and well wiped at that. I’m supposing she knew he wasn’t a complete idiot when it comes to Comp Science, and had to be careful about it.

  “It’s good progress, Eve,” he assured her. “Better than any of us who know the business expected at this point.”

  “Okay, all right. She coded in his name, pointed a finger at him. It adds weight. Though we won’t need any, weight never hurts.”

  She switched gears. “What about tenants?”

  “Moving through them. A lot of buildings, Lieutenant, and not all the data is current because of the—”

  “Goddamn, stinking, stupid holiday.”

  Her biting tone nearly made him smile. “True enough. But I was able to order a rush on my own places, and all the new tenants and/or applications from new tenants will be current tomorrow, holiday or no.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve thrown a spanner into some holidays, but it shouldn’t take long, and then they can get back to their stuffing.”

  “A lot of uniforms are cursing my name. The ones on the twenty-four/seven tip line for sure. But it only takes one person to see him, to call it in.”

  “And we’ll see to all of it tomorrow.”

  They’d both undressed as they spoke, and now crawled into bed.

  “I don’t want to go to the morgue tomorrow, Roarke.”

  “You’re doing everything you can to prevent that.”

  “Yeah.” She curled against him in the dark, and hoped it would be enough.

  When her ’link woke her just after five A.M., she groped for it. “Block video,” she ordered even as Roarke ordered lights on to twenty percent. “Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant, man, I’m really sorry for the early tag.”

  “Mal.” Instantly awake, she shoved up to sit. “What is it?”

  “It’s just—we can’t find Joe. It’s probably nothing, but I’m a little freaked, and Ma said you should know.”

  “Okay.” She flipped through the notes in her head. “He had a date last night, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing. He was a no-show, and Priss tracked me down at like midnight, bitching me out because she figured Joe’d ditched her to hang with me or Dave. But I hadn’t seen him or talked to him. Dave either. And she said how he’d texted her he might be a little late; he was working on some deal. But he never showed, and didn’
t answer her texts and tags. Me and Dave, we even went over there, to Joe’s place. He doesn’t answer the door.”

  “Okay, Mal.” She didn’t need a gut-check to assess a bad feeling. It shoved straight through her. “Give me the name and contact of the woman he was supposed to go out with.”

  “Sure, sure.” He reeled it off. “The thing is, well, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he maybe hooked up with somebody else, maybe got lucky, and he’s at her place, wherever. And maybe he’s not answering his texts and tags because he doesn’t want any shit, you know. But, it’s scary.”

  “It’s good you let me know. Any idea, if he hooked up otherwise, with who?”

  “Not so much. I tried some girls I know he’s hooked with, but hit zero there. But he’s not above taking a spin with strange if he had the chance. So …”

  “Got it. Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you.”

  She clicked off, shoved at her hair, in pure frustration. “Asshole Joe.”

  “I got that.” Knowing her, and understanding, Roarke handed her coffee he’d programmed while she’d talked to Mal.

  “Maybe he is with some strange, but that’s not what it feels like. Going to be late, working on a deal. Money and status and sex—those are his pulls. And Reinhold knows his pulls. Lure him with a business opportunity maybe. I need to go check out Joe’s place.”

  “I know it. I’ll go with you.”

  “I can use you better right here. If I find him, or if I don’t—either way, whatever you pull out of those computers is going to help the most.”

  He’d have argued if he hadn’t agreed with her. “I’ll concede to that if you agree not to go alone.”

  And she’d have argued if she hadn’t seen the solid sense in the deal. No time for bullshit, she reminded herself.

  “I’ll take a couple uniforms along, and I’m going to wake up our APA, have Reo get me a warrant. I need to be able to go in. If he’s not there, I’ll be back inside an hour. If he’s there and humping some strange, less. If he’s there and dead, I’ll be longer.”

  “And if Reinhold’s with him?”

  “I’ll be grateful.”