by J. D. Robb
“Bet your ass. He walked out of there with forty-five thousand. I don’t know what he’ll pull in for the other stuff, because it looks like the antique watch was the big-ticket item, but he’s feathering his nest, and fast.”
“So we’ll find his nest.”
Eve pulled open her car door, stood for a moment scanning the street below. Riding high, she thought, on a big pile of money stained with his parents’ blood.
5
FITZ RAVINSKI PLATED A SLICE OF APPLE PIE à la mode with a paper-thin square of bright yellow cheese. The mode part consisted of a rounded scoop of non-dairy product the color of an atomic kiwi.
“Minty Fresh tofu yogurt,” he said with a shake of his head. “Who the hell puts that on a nice piece of pie?”
“Not me,” Eve assured him.
“Takes all.” He slid the pie and a minicup of black-as-the-soul-of-midnight coffee into a delivery slot, danced his fingers over the keypad, and sent it on its way.
“We’re past the lunch rush, but we’ve had people come in for the pie and the tarts all afternoon.”
“So I see.” Eve glanced out, beyond the counter to the dining area. It probably sat ninety, in New York sardine mode, during the rush. Right now, it held a solid twenty, including the man busy on his handheld and ear unit taking his first bite of pie with Mint Fresh tofu yogurt.
Even the thought made her stomach turn a little.
“If you could give us five minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sal, take over here.” Fitz wiped his hands on the front of a white bib apron that had seen a number of wipes already that day. He snagged a big, black drink bottle and with a head jerk gestured Eve and Peabody after him to an empty table. “You oughta try some pie, on the house. Cops don’t pay on my shift. Got two cousins on the job.”
“Here in New York?”
“Up the Bronx, both of them. Pie’s good. My ma and my sisters make ’em.”
“So you’re a family business.”
“Eighteen years, this location.” He stubbed a wide finger on the table. “We do okay.”
“I appreciate the offer, but we’re not going to take up much of your time.” Eve all but heard Peabody’s happy pie stomach whine. “We’d like to ask you about Jerald Reinhold.”
“Fired him a couple months back. Got in late, left early, missed deliveries. Deliveries are a good third of our business. He wasn’t dependable, and basically couldn’t give a half shit about doing the job.”
Ravinski leaned forward, stabbed the counter with his finger again. “He tries to file on me, I got records to back it up.”
“How’d he take getting the boot?” Eve asked.
“Told me to fuck myself, and shoved a banana cream pie off the counter on his way out. Moved out fast,” Ravinski added with a sharp smile. “Pansy-assed coward put the speed on when the pie hit the floor, in case I came at him.”
“Did you?” Eve wondered.
“Nah. Just a pie—damn good pie—but worth it to see him move his lazy ass. He’d put that much energy into the job, he’d still be working here. First time I ever saw him light up, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Did you have any specific complaints about him? From coworkers, customers.”
“You want a list?” On that sour note, Ravinski tipped back the drink bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. “My sister Fran caught him tapping a joint out the back. Shoulda fired him for that, but I gave him another chance, figuring he’s young and stupid.”
“Were illegals a problem with him?”
“I don’t figure. I kept an eye on him after that, and never caught him at anything. Problem was lazy and shiftless. I got complaints from customers their food was damaged or cold when they got it, and the delivery server—which would be Jerry—was rude.”
“Have you seen him since you let him go?”
“Can’t say I have. Saw his girlfriend last week—ex, now, which proves she’s no dummy.”
“Lori Nuccio?”
“Yeah. Lori used to work for me about three years back. Good waitress, personable, fast on her feet. Worked here a couple years before she copped a job in a fancy place for better pay, better tips, and good for her. Anyhow, I hired the fuckhead because she asked me to give him a try. After I fired him, she came in to tell me she was sorry, like it was her fault? Lori’s a good girl. Looks happier, you ask me, since she kicked him out.”
“Did he hang with anyone in particular who works for you?”
“I’d say the opposite. He just didn’t get along here. Didn’t make friends, didn’t especially make enemies. He just put in time—when it suited him. No more than that.”
“Okay. We appreciate the time.”
“Got me off my feet. Now, are you gonna give me a hint why you’re in here asking about Jerry?”
If the media hadn’t already lobbed the ball on the vics’ names and some of the circumstances, it soon would. “We want to talk to him about his parents’ murder.”
“The what?” Shock vibrant, Ravinski lowered the big black bottle. “His parents were murdered? Both of them. Sweet Jesus, when? How did …” He pulled himself in, let out a hard breath. “He killed them. You’re saying Jerry killed his own ma and pop?”
“We need to find him. We need to talk to him. I get the sense you don’t have any idea where he might be, where he might go?”
“He didn’t work here a full three months, and I can’t count the times he called in sick or with some bullshit excuse.” Ravinski scrubbed a hand over hair buzzed so straight and sharp Eve was surprised his palm didn’t go bloody from contact. “He had a couple of friends who came in a few times. Ah, damn it. Mal—one of them’s Mal. Seemed like a nice kid. The other was kind of a dick. I can’t remember his name.”
“We’ve already got that information. If you think of anything else, get in touch.”
“My ma said he’d hurt somebody.”
“Excuse me?”
“My ma. She likes to think she’s got some sensitive thing going.” He vibrated his hands in the air. “Her great-grandparents were Sicilian. Anyway, she said to me, ‘You mark my words, Fitz, that boy’s going to hurt somebody. He’s got the dark in him.’”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if she figured dark enough for this, but I can tell you once she finds out, there’ll be no living with her.”
Out on the street, Peabody gave Eve a pouty stare. “Some of us like pie.”
“Save it for Thanksgiving. We’ll make the rounds,” Eve decided. “Talk to former employers, coworkers. Maybe we’ll hit something.”
“He’s got to run. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“If he were going for sense, he’d’ve been running since Friday. We cover the ground. Then you go ahead and swing by the ex-girlfriend’s on the way home. I’m going to set up in my home office, look for another angle.”
“What about Mira?”
“I’ll arrange a consult for the morning. He’s gone under somewhere, and he’s feeling real flush, real fucking potent right now. So his hole’s probably flush, too. He’ll have himself a nice dinner tonight. He might even have pie.”
“Bastard.” Peabody gave one longing glance behind her—toward pie—as they hiked back to the car.
Long day, Peabody thought. And not as much to show for it as she’d figured when it started. Dallas had taught her never to think slam dunk on a case—not even when, as with this one, you knew who, you knew why, you knew how, you knew when, almost from the jump.
“He’s having a run of luck,” she complained.
EDD star Ian McNab gave her ass a light pat as they turned toward Lori Nuccio’s building. “Luck doesn’t last. Except ours, She-body.”
He made her grin. It was one of his high points, on her scale. That and his own sweet and bony ass, his smart green eyes, his busy brain, and his exceptional energy and creativity between the sheets.
“We have to take the stairs up,” she said.
“We do?”
“I can’t stop thinking about pie à la mode. Even thinking about it’s loading up my ass, and add the fact we’re going to stop at the market on the way home so I can buy what I need to make one, then—”
“You’re going to make us a pie?”
“My granny’s cherry-berry, if I can find what we need, and you split the cost.”
“Hey, if you bake that sucker, I’ll pay for the stuff.” He put on a little strut. “My best girl’s baking me a pie.”
With a smile on his narrow face, his long tail of blond hair bouncing, the garden of earrings on his left ear gleaming, he climbed the stairs beside her.
He reached over, dancing his fingers against hers. “I like it when we get off shift together.”
“Me, too. I’d like it better if we’d caught this jerk-off before end of shift.”
“You’ll get him. You can walk me through it when we get home, and we’ll put our heads together. And maybe some other body parts.”
She snorted out a laugh as they stopped on Lori’s floor.
“She’s over here.” Peabody walked to the door, knocked sharply.
“You said she had the day off, spent it with a girl pal? They’re probably making a day to night deal. Dinner, hit a club or two.”
“Yeah. I just wish—” Peabody turned as the door across the hall opened.
“Ms. Crabtree?”
“That’s right.”
Dutifully, Peabody held up her badge. “You spoke with my partner earlier today, Lieutenant Dallas. I’m Detective Peabody, with Detective McNab.”
“Lori’s not home yet. I’m starting to worry.”
“Is it unusual for her to be away this long?”
“No, but it’s pretty damn unusual for her ex-boyfriend to murder his parents. I heard the media report when I got home about an hour ago. I wasn’t out long, just ran a few errands, and I left a note on Lori’s door in case she came home while I was out. It was still there. I’m keeping an eye out now.”
“We appreciate that, and we’d appreciate it if Ms. Nuccio would contact us whenever she gets back.”
“Hell of a day for her to get a new ’link and number. But if I can’t get hold of her, neither can that son of a bitch. I guess I’d just feel better if I knew she was tucked in for the night. I’ll keep an eye out for her,” Crabtree repeated.
Peabody rolled her shoulders as they started back down. “Now she’s got me worried. We don’t know who she’s out with, so we can’t tag her friend and play relay.”
“We could probably find that out. Get names from her work, spread from there. Girls are pack animals, so we ID the pack members, play process of elimination. It’d take some time, but it’s doable.”
“Pack animals.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the ones who can’t even pee solo.”
“I’d smack you if that wasn’t true, and if it wasn’t a good idea. It’s probably overkill, but what the hell.”
“So we’ll start putting a list together and buy pie stuff. You do the pie, I’ll run down the list.”
She took his hand as they exited the building. “Then we’ll put our heads and other body parts together.”
“Solid plan.”
They missed Lori by twenty minutes.
She dragged herself home as the streetlamps flickered on. She’d planned to shimmy herself into the new dress she’d bought—along with Kasey—then hit the clubs. And just as they’d finished up a well-earned post-shopping/hair/nails eggplant pasta—splitting it to whittle down the calories and the cost—their friend Dru had tagged Kasey.
She didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But Dru had been so adamant, and then she and Kasey had both brought up the report on their new ’links.
Jerry, the man she’d lived with, slept with, had loved at least for a little while, was wanted for questioning by the police. Was a suspect in the murder of his parents.
God, Jerry’s parents were dead. She’d liked them so much, and now they were just dead. She’d never known anyone who’d been murdered, much less spent time with anyone who had been the way she had with Jerry’s mom and dad.
She really believed, down to her heart, it was all a terrible mistake. Yes, Jerry could fly off—and that time he’d hit her had shown her a side of him she couldn’t love or live with. But a couple of slaps, as wrong as they’d been, weren’t murder.
She’d thought about tagging him, but Kasey put the kibosh on that majorly. And had even insisted, when she’d just wanted to go home, they spring for a cab. No walking, no subway. It had taken some serious shoving to convince Kasey she didn’t need or want her to stay at her place.
She just wanted to go home, be alone, try to figure it out.
And she needed to cry some. Maybe a lot. For Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold, and for Jerry, too. For what she’d once imagined might be.
She shifted the shopping bags full of things she no longer wanted, keyed herself in. Because she wanted to get inside quickly, and she’d walked her ass off that day already, she took the elevator up. It clunked on her floor, creaked its way open.
And Ms. Crabtree pushed out of her own apartment before Lori reached her own.
“There you are! I was worried.”
“I … I did a lot of shopping.”
Ms. Crabtree narrowed her eyes. “You’ve heard. About that Jerry.”
“Just a little while ago. I think there must be a mistake, because—”
“Honey, the police were here. Twice. Looking for you.”
“Me? Why? Why?”
“Just to talk to you, about him. Why don’t you come on in here, and I’ll fix you some tea. No, hell with that. I’ll pour you a big glass of wine. I’ve got a nice bottle I’ve been saving since my birthday.”
“Thanks, but I just want to go home, and … I just want to go home and … be quiet, I guess.”
“All right. All right now.” Crabtree stroked a hand down Lori’s glossy, chestnut hair. “You look so pretty.”
“We … went to the salon.”
“I like your hair, the new color. New’s good. Here, this is the cop who came first. She wants you to contact her as soon as you can. I think you might feel better once you do.”
She’d never actually talked to any police—not officially—and it made her feel a little sick. “But I don’t know anything.”
“You never know what you know.” Ms. Crabtree tried a bolstering smile. “And this one struck me as smart. So you go ahead in and tag her up. If you change your mind about that wine and company, you just knock on the door. It doesn’t matter how late, okay?”
“Okay.” Lori looked at the card, read: Lieutenant Eve Dallas. “Oh, she’s the Icove cop. She’s Roarke’s cop.”
“That’s what it is.” Crabtree rapped her knuckles to her temple. “I knew I recognized something, but couldn’t bring it up. See, you never know what you know.”
“I guess you’re right. Thanks, Ms. Crabtree.”
“I’m right over here,” Crabtree reminded her, and stepping back into her own apartment, relaxed again.
Tucked in. Safe and sound.
Lori locked her door, added the deadbolt, the security chain.
She started to just dump the bags—the contents no longer interested her, in fact, made her feel guilty and ashamed. She’d been out, shopping for things she didn’t really need, indulging in manicures and facials, laughing, drinking wine at lunch—and all the while Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold were dead.
She wanted to talk to her mother, she realized. She wanted to talk to her mom and dad—and that’s what she’d do. But first she’d do what they’d raised her to do.
What came next.
She’d put her things away, then she’d call the police.
She moved through her small, colorful space to the alcove of her bedroom. She’d separated it from the living area with its single bold blue sofa and padded crates she’d painted lipstick red by a curtain formed from stringed beads.
Maybe a
convertible sofa would’ve made more sense, but she just refused to sleep in her living space.
By next year, she could upgrade to a one-bedroom, hopefully in the same building. That was her next goal, anyway, which had taken a hit when Jerry had taken the rent money and her tip savings and blown it in Vegas. She needed to make it up now, and make up the spree she’d just had.
But she’d so needed to just get out, cut loose for one day. And it had made her feel better, and more like herself. Kasey had been right. She’d brooded over her Big Mistake, aka Jerry, for long enough.
Time to jump back in the pool, she thought as she took the pretty turquoise sweater she’d scooped up on sale out of a shopping bag.
She should take Kasey’s advice on attitude, too, she decided. She should think about how lucky she was. If Jerry had done what they said—and she still couldn’t really believe it—she’d had a lucky escape breaking it off with him. All it had cost her, really, was time, some heartache, a couple of slaps, and money.
It could’ve been worse.
She didn’t hear him step behind her. The dull crack of the bat against her skull pitched her forward so she hit the bed, bounced, then slid bonelessly to the floor.
Standing over her, Jerry smiled, tapped the bat against her leg.
“Batter up.”
He hadn’t hit her very hard. Not as hard as the old man, that’s for sure. He didn’t want to kill her—yet. They had some issues to discuss first.
But he was well aware of the crap soundproofing on her dump of an apartment, so the discussion had to be a quiet one.
“Stupid bitch.” He gave her a good thwack with the bat on her hip. “Did you think you could just say, ‘Get out’? That I wouldn’t make copies of the keys? And where the hell have you been all damn day? I’ve been waiting for you.”
He poked at the shopping bags, bared his teeth.
He’d done some shopping of his own the last couple days. Time to put his purchases to good use.
He switched the music on—not too loud, don’t want the neighbors to complain—just loud enough.
He retrieved his own shopping bag from the bathroom where he’d hidden when he heard the elevator clunk—and listened to her conversation with the nosy old hag across the hall.