by J. D. Robb
He had what he wanted from his parents’ apartment. Eliminate them, take their money and valuables.
Why risk staying in New York?
But she thought he might. He wasn’t stupid, she decided, or not entirely. But he was an idiot. Blowing over three thousand on a hotel room and food—for one night? Smart to hide out until Monday, banking hours, grab the rest of the money; stupid to spend so much of it just so he could gloat.
She pulled up at his last known address, flipped up her On Duty light. Since he liked to gloat, wouldn’t he like to brag to friends? Maybe roll out and hit Vegas again, see if his luck improved there, or go sun on some tropical beach?
He’d had a girlfriend, Eve reminded herself, made a note to interview her.
She used her master to gain access to the dumpy three-story walk-up, ignored the rickety elevator, and took the stairs to the top floor.
3
SHE KNOCKED, EXPECTING SHE WAS WASTING her time at this hour of the day, but within moments, she heard the slide of locks.
The man who answered was middle-twenties, average height, and gym fit. She could see that easily as he wore snug bike shorts and a skin shirt. His brown hair sported a single red blaze, and was tucked back into a short tail.
He leaned against the doorjamb, one hand on his cocked hip. Posing, she thought, in a way that showed off his bis and tris.
“Well, hi there,” he said.
“Hi back.”
The flirty smolder blinked away when Eve held up her badge.
“Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know yet. Can I come in, speak to you?”
“Ah.” He glanced behind, shifted, looked back at her. “Yeah, I guess. I’m working at home today,” he said as he opened the door. “I was just taking a break, doing a few miles on my bike.”
Eve saw the desk against the short window with its piles of discs, of files, a bag of soy chips, and a tube of some sport’s drink. A couple feet away sat a gleaming stationary bike facing a massive wall screen.
“Look, I know I got a speeding ticket a couple weeks ago. I’m going to pay it.”
“Do I look like a traffic cop?”
“Um … I guess not, not so much.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Homicide.”
“Homi— Jeez, God!”
“Are you Malachi Golde?”
“Yeah. Mal. People call me Mal. Who got killed? Do I know somebody who got killed?”
And suddenly, he looked very young. “I don’t know yet. You know Jerry Reinhold.”
“Jerry? Jerry?” Now he looked young, and ill. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus. I need to sit down.”
Full-weight, he dropped onto a slick-surfaced sofa in shimmering silver. “Jerry’s dead?”
“I didn’t say that. My information is you know him. How do you know him?”
“From the neighborhood. We grew up together. We lived a half a block from each other growing up, went to school together. We hang out, have a beer or whatever. I’ve known Jerry my whole life. What happened?”
“I’ll get to that. What kind of work are you doing there, Mal?”
“What? Oh, ah, I’m a programmer. I can work at home most days if I want. I do programming and troubleshooting for Global United.”
“Are you good at it?”
“Yeah.” He passed a hand over his face, like a man trying to wake up. “It’s sweet work, what I wanted to do since I can remember.”
“Pays good.”
“Yeah, pays good if you’re good. I don’t understand what this is about.”
Just getting a picture, Eve thought. “I’m looking around here, Mal, and you’ve got some nice stuff—furniture, equipment. The building’s kind of a dump.”
“Oh.” He managed an uneasy smile. “Yeah, but that’s just the shell, right? It’s what’s inside. And I like the location. I can walk or bike to work, to the gym, to my folks’ place. I know everybody, you know? I didn’t want to move when I started making some shine.”
“Got it. Jerry’s data lists this as his address.”
“It does?” Mal’s eyebrows drew together. “We shared the place for a couple years, but that’s been awhile, months now. Maybe eight, nine months now.”
“Why did he move out?”
“Oh, well, he hooked up with Lori, and—”
“Lori Nuccio?”
“Yeah, Lori. He moved in with her.”
“That’s not why he moved out.”
With a pained look, Mal shifted. “Okay, look, I carried him on the rent for three months, heading into four. It didn’t seem right he wasn’t holding up his share, or even really trying to. So he moved in with his folks for a couple months, then he moved in with Lori.”
“Did the two of you fight about it? The rent?”
“Oh, Jesus, we argued some, sure, you know how it is. He was a little steamed, yeah, but we smoothed it over. We go back, man, a long ways. When I got a solid raise, I rented this place in the freaking Hamptons, man, for a week this summer, and I took Jerry and a couple of other pals along. It all chilled out. What happened to him? How did he die?”
“He didn’t.”
“But you said—”
“No, I didn’t. Jerry’s not dead, as far as I know. His parents are.”
At that Mal sprang up as if he’d been propelled. “What? No. Mr. and Mrs. R? No. Did they have an accident?”
“Homicide, Mal, remember?”
“Man, man.” Tears glazed across his eyes, coated his voice. “Were they mugged? They love to go to the vids, and sometimes they’d walk home late.”
“No.”
He dropped down again, covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe it. Mrs. R, she always has something for me if I drop over. Cookies or pie or a sandwich. Always saying I need a haircut and to settle down with a nice girl. She’s like a second mother, you know? Oh, Jesus, when my ma finds out, it’s going to knock her flat. They’ve known each other forever. Poor Jerry. God, poor Jerry. Does he know?”
“Yeah, he knows. He killed them.”
His hands lowered slowly. His eyes, glassy with shock and tears, stared into Eve’s. “That’s not true. That’s bogus. That’s not possible. No way. No freaking way, lady.”
“Lieutenant, and there’s absolute way. Where is he, Mal? Where would he go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rocking a little, he pressed his fist to his belly. “Where do you go when things are crazy or falling apart? You go the hell home.”
“He’s finished with that.”
“He wouldn’t hurt them. You’ve got it wrong.”
“Contact him. Try him on the ’link.”
“Look, I’m his friend. You’re trying to trap him for something he didn’t do. Couldn’t do.”
Eve leaned forward. “He stabbed his mother in the kitchen. I haven’t been to the morgue yet so I can’t verify how many times, but he tore her up. Then he waited until his father got home from work and he bashed him to pulp with a baseball bat.”
His color faded to a sickly gray. “No, no, he … a baseball bat.”
“That’s right.”
Mal swallowed hard. “We played ball. Little League, then a sandlot league my pop put together a few years ago. But he wouldn’t do this.”
“He did this, then he stole the cash they had in the house, and he found the passcodes and transferred every dime they had into accounts in his name. He spent the last two nights in a fancy hotel, living it up.”
“No.” He rose, walked to the window in front of his desk. “I don’t want what you’re telling me. We’ve known each other since we were six.”
“Where would he go?”
“I swear, I don’t know. My ma’s life, I swear it. He didn’t come here. He didn’t tag me.”
“He ditched his ’link. He’ll have a clone by now so you won’t recognize the ID if he does. And if he does, be chilly, Mal. If he says to meet him somewhere, say you will, then contact me. If he comes here, don’t let him
in. Don’t let him know you’re here, and contact me.” She set a card on the table as she rose.
“Give me some names. Other friends. And this Lori Nuccio’s contact information.”
“Okay.”
He listed names, and Eve keyed them into her notebook.
“She dumped him, you know. Lori. He lost his job, stopped paying his share of the rent.”
“A habit of his.”
“Yeah, I guess. He went to Vegas with some friends a couple months back. Joe and Dave from the names I gave you. I couldn’t make it. My sister’s birthday, and man, did I carp about that. He dropped a pile, I heard, and Lori kicked him. So he was living back home.”
Mal rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve gotta go see my mother.”
“I can drive you.”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks. I think I need to walk. I think I want to walk. He’s practically my brother, you know? They just had him, and I’ve got a sister, so we were like brothers coming up. He’s a screwup, okay? I don’t like to say it, but he’s a screwup. But to do what you say he did … I need to go home.”
“Okay, Mal.” She picked up her card, handed it to him. “Put those numbers in your ’link. You contact me if you see him, hear from him, or anyone you know does. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
After tagging Peabody, dumping the two other friends Sylvia Guntersen gave them on her partner, she tried for the ex. And wasn’t as lucky as she’d been with Mal Golde. When no one responded, Eve tried knocking on neighbors’ doors until one creaked open.
“Not buying,” the woman said.
“Not selling.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Lori Nuccio.”
“You don’t tell me that sweet girl did a crime.”
“No, ma’am. I’d like to talk to her about something, but she’s not in trouble.”
The door cracked wider, and the woman gave Eve a hard stare over a beak of a nose. “It’s her day off. Mine, too. She went out a couple hours ago, I think. Going shopping, maybe she said, having lunch with a girlfriend, maybe getting her hair done. Stuff girls that age do.”
“Ms. …”
“Crabtree. Sela Crabtree.”
Eve took out her PPC, brought up Jerry’s picture. “Ms. Crabtree, have you seen him around here?”
The woman snorted, opened the door fully, shoved an absent hand through spikes of brassy blond. “That one? Not since she kicked him out, and good riddance. Now you tell me he done a crime, I’m believing you. Didn’t treat that sweet girl right, if you ask me. I told her the same myself, and how she’d find better. I had one like him at that age. Best thing I did was kick him.”
No one liked Jerry, Eve thought, but nodded. “If she should come back, would you give her my card, ask her to contact me?”
“I’ll do that.”
“And if he comes around, Ms. Crabtree? You contact me.”
The woman spread her lips in a snarling smile. “You can bet on it, sister.”
“Don’t confront him.”
“He hurt somebody, didn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Had it in his eyes. I’ve tended bar for thirty-three years. I know eyes, and those that got mean in them.”
“He hurt somebody,” Eve confirmed. “Don’t confront him, and tell Lori to contact me as soon as possible.”
“I’ll look out for her—and for him. But he hasn’t come around here in a good month now. Hey!” She shot up a finger. “I’ve got Lori’s pocket ’link number.”
“I’ve got it. I’ll try that next. Thanks.”
She keyed in the number as she headed out and down, and got dead air. Puzzled, she keyed in the data again, checked the number, tried it again with the same result.
Changed it, didn’t you?
Eve hauled herself back, checked with the neighbor, but the number was the same as Eve’s data.
“You know, she said something about getting a new ’link,” Crabtree remembered. “A new number, the works. Said how she was going for fresh wherever she could get it.”
Eve thought, Crap, but nodded. “As soon as you see her, tell her to contact me.”
She headed down again, decided to start on the list of names she got from Mal via ’link on the way to the morgue.
By the time she got there, she’d managed to contact three on the list, and leave word with the manager of the restaurant where Lori Nuccio worked, in case.
Maybe she didn’t need this stop—at least she didn’t need to confirm cause of death on her vics as the cause had been brutally obvious. But it was part of the process, and part of hers. She wanted to see the victims again, take a hard look. And she wanted Morris’s take. The chief medical examiner often gave her another angle, or at least made her think.
She walked into the echoey white tunnel, slowed as she passed Vending. She could really use a nice cold boost, but machines liked to screw with her. She wasn’t in the mood to be screwed with by a damn vending machine.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she marched on, then pushed through Morris’s doors.
He had both victims on slabs, their bodies washed clean of blood. The mother’s chest was splayed open from Morris’s precise Y cut. He bent over her, studying what lay inside.
He wore microgoggles over his clever eyes and a clear gown over a gray suit with hints of steely blue. He’d tied his long stream of black hair into a trio of descending ponytails and bound them with silver cord.
“Their son, I’m told.”
“Yeah.”
He straightened. “This is considerably sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
“What serpent?”
Now he smiled and warmth came into his fascinating face. “Shakespeare’s.”
“Oh.” No wonder he and Roarke hit it off. “Nothing poetic about this.”
“He dealt in tragedies, too. And this is one.”
“What I’m getting is the son’s a fucking asshole who went psycho. Have you got anything cold in your box?”
“We keep everyone cold here.” He smiled a little. “But if you mean to drink, yes.” He gestured with his sealed, blood-smeared hands. “Help yourself.”
“Vending keeps breaking down on me,” she said as she crossed to his little Friggie. “I think it’s something chemical.”
“Do you?”
Grateful, she snagged a tube of Pepsi. She cracked the tube, took a gulp. “Anyway.”
“Anyway,” he repeated. “Ladies first, as you see. In her case in death as well as life. She’d consumed a slice of wheat bread, about six ounces of soy coffee with artificial sweetener, and a half cup of Greek yogurt with granola about five hours prior to TOD. Not a particularly lovely last meal. She was very slightly underweight, and in very good health. Or she was before she was stabbed fifty-three times.”
“Serious overkill.”
“The majority of the wounds were inflicted when she was prone—the angle. And several of the blows were forceful enough to nick bone, and in fact broke and lodged the tip in her tibia.” He held up a specimen jar. “My opinion is, all wounds were inflicted by one blade, which matches the one you found still in her. There are no defensive wounds.”
“She didn’t see it coming. Probably didn’t believe it when it did.”
“I agree. From my reconstruction, it’s my conclusion the first blow came here.” He held a finger over the body’s abdomen. “It did considerable damage, but she would have recovered from that with good and speedy medical treatment. The next, probably this, near the same area.”
“They’d be face-to-face.”
“Yes, probably very close. After that, they were more random, and more forceful.”
“Getting into it,” she murmured.
“On the back.” He ordered his screen to change views so Eve studied the victim’s back. “One or two of them, from the angle again, were probably delivered as she tried to get away, and as she fell. She was dead or at least unconscious before the majo
rity of them. Small mercy. Some bruising where she fell, but she wouldn’t have felt it.”
“Very small mercy.”
“You know who. Do you know why?”
“He’s an asshole. A screwup, even according to his oldest friend. He couldn’t or wouldn’t keep a job, girlfriend gave him the boot. He’s back living with Mom and Dad and they’re going to give him the ‘grow up or get out’ routine. I think Mom gave him a heads-up on that.”
“Being a parent is full of pitfalls, I imagine. This shouldn’t be one of them.”
“No.” How many times had she stabbed her father? Eve wondered. Had anyone counted? But then, that had been a matter of life and death—her life and death.
“Can you tell me anything about the other vic?”
“Very preliminary.” Morris walked over to the second slab. “Your TOD on scene was accurate, and again, the bat you took into evidence matches the injuries. The first blow here? The face, and with considerable force—meat of the bat.”
“Swinging away.” Eve nodded. “There’s a little jog leading to the kitchen. He stood behind it, that’s what he did. Stood behind it, and the husband comes in, starts back. Sees the wife, the blood, the body, starts to run. He steps out, swings for the benches right into his father’s face.”
“Shattered his nose, left cheekbone, and eye socket. Subsequent blows broke several teeth, the jaw, fractured the skull in three places. Before he moved down to the body. My estimate, which I’ll refine, is approximately thirty blows. Some of them straight down—head of the bat into the body. In this case, I believe the first blow would have rendered the victim unconscious.”
“I guess he got off easier than his wife.”
“She’d have suffered more, yes.”
“Did you ever fight with your parents?”
He smiled easily. “I was a teenager once, after all. It was my duty to fight with and exasperate my parents.”
“Did you ever fantasize about giving them a couple good shots?”
“Not that I recall, no. I did imagine, regularly, proving them wrong, which I don’t believe I ever did. Or running off and becoming a famous blues musician.”
“You play a pretty mean sax.”