Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Don’t watch much screen, Marsella? Don’t keep up with current events?”

  “I’ve been pretty busy. My sister and her fam’s coming in for Thanksgiving, and I’m helping my mother … Why?”

  “If you had I think you’d recognize him from media reports. His name is Jerald Reinhold, and he killed three people in the last couple days.”

  “He—I—God!” Taking a quick step back, she slapped a hand to her heart. “Oh my God! He was right here, and I worked with him for at least a half hour. Am I in trouble?”

  “Why would you be?”

  “I don’t know. I sold him all those products. It was a really nice commission. I even did the comp morph to show him how he could look after using everything.”

  Now Eve smiled. “Can you still call that up?”

  “I—Yes! I can. I think. I just feel so … Can I get some water? I feel a little shaky. He seemed so normal. Kind of clueless and trying to act like he knew all about it. Oh, oh, he bought a piercing kit, too. I forgot.”

  Pausing just a moment, she fanned a hand in front of her face. “He bought the A Hole in One kit, and a gold hoop from accessories. I forgot.”

  Sympathetic—and impressed with her memory—Eve tried to calm her. “No, you didn’t, and this helps us a lot. Get your water, Marsella, take a breath, then show us the morph.”

  “Thanks. I feel kind of sick. Who did he kill?”

  “His parents and his ex-girlfriend.”

  Her exotic eyes filled. “Come on! Not really.”

  “Really. Let’s move it, Marsella.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She scrambled away, wobbling some on her towering heels.

  “Good call on this place, Peabody.”

  “Jackpot.”

  “I can’t figure out why he didn’t spread his purchases out, other venues, the way he did for the clothes, the tools, the selling his loot.”

  “Because you don’t get the lure.” On a lusty sigh, Peabody turned a little circle, scanning with eyes full of reverence and desire. “If I could afford it, I’d spend hours in here. I wouldn’t be able to walk out without loading up—especially if one of the servers started priming me. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Huh.”

  “The music’s all pumping, the lighting’s bold. Sexy energy. Lots of it. All these products just saying how mag you’d look if you bought them. All these totally iced servers—male and female—telling you the same. Drop a couple thousand, and walk out a whole new you, a better you.”

  “And people buy that?”

  “I’m buying it right now, and arguing with myself. I could get the lip dye. I’m not spending anything on travel for Thanksgiving. I have enough lip dye. But I don’t have this fabo, uptown, new lip dye. It costs too much. It’s a personal appearance investment. I—”

  “Got it. Shut up. Go push the manager on those discs,” she ordered as Marsella came trotting back with a tablet.

  “Malachi Golde! That’s his name. I remembered after I got some water, calmed down.”

  “No, it’s not his name, but that’s the name he gave you?”

  “Yes. I asked him, for the morph, and that’s what he said. We keep them for a week, in case the customer comes back, wants something else, or says something didn’t work.” She tapped her way through. “See! See! Here he is. We have to take an as-is shot, and this is as is.”

  “Yeah.” Eve looked into Reinhold’s smug, smiling eyes. “That’s as is. Show me the morph.”

  Marsella tapped again, turned the tablet. “If used properly and to full potential, he’d come out about like this. They’re not a hundred percent, but it gives a good representation.”

  “I bet.” Eve studied the newly blond, blue-eyed, bronzed and pierced Reinhold.

  “He bought the styling kit, but he was really vague on how he’d style the do. So I just had to go with the as-is do, new color and lights.”

  “This is good, this is excellent. I need you to send it to me at this code, and I need a hard copy now.”

  “Oh, sure. I can send right from the tab, but I have to look for the print. It’ll take a minute.”

  “Make it happen. You did good, Marsella.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled wanly. “It’s my first murderer.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. And get me that—what was it—Pink Pop, Popped-Up Pink—that lip dye.”

  “Popping Pink, by La Femme? It’s mag, totally, but I have to be honest. It’s not really your color. Now the Blooming Poppy or the—”

  “Not for me.” Eve dug for credits. “How much?”

  “Sixty-two dollars.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Marsella’s face fell into apology. “No. It’s a really excellent product, honestly, and lasts all day. It’s waterproof, smudge-proof, has conditioners, and—”

  “Fine, fine.” Considering the cost, Eve dug out a credit card. “Put it on this.”

  “Of course. It really does well with the Rose Petal liner.”

  “Don’t push it, Marsella. Just the lip crap and the hard copy. And make it quick.”

  Marsella swiped the card on the tablet, turned it so Eve could sign. “I’ll have the picture and the product right back to you. Two minutes,” she promised, and dashed—no wobbling now—away.

  Taking a moment, Eve glanced around, thumbs in front pockets. No, she didn’t see the lure. What she saw were countless products that given half a chance the Terrifying Trina would smear, brush, paint, rub, and coat all over her face, hair, and body.

  That alone was enough to make her want to get the hell out.

  “Got the discs.” Peabody held them up and she strode back to Eve. “The manager got really cooperative when it turned out he got his stuff in here. Anything we need, want, anything she can do. Total CYA.”

  “Works for me. I’ve seen the morph, and Marsella’s sending it to my PPC, making a hard copy.”

  “We can have it out to the media, on screen inside ten minutes.”

  “No.” Eve shook her head. “He sees it, he changes again—and he’ll be a lot more careful about it next time. Now we know what he looks like now—potentially anyway. We keep it in house, away from the media, until circumstances call for the spread.”

  “I have everything.” Marsella came back with a pink and black leopard print bag, offered it to Eve. “The morph’s in the white envelope, the product’s in the small bag. I threw in some samples, you really should at least try the Blooming Poppy.”

  “Thanks. If you remember anything else, contact me.”

  “I will. And believe me, I’m going to watch the screen. This is scary. Like I said, I never served a murderer before.”

  That you know of, Eve thought as they headed out.

  “You bought something.” Peabody’s voice was an accusatory whisper. “I turn my back for a second, and you buy something after dissing the whole idea of the store.” She huffed. “What did you buy?”

  “Some crap called Popping Pink lip dye.” She slipped the envelope out, shoved the bag at a speechless Peabody.

  “You—you—you bought it for me?” The me ended dangerously close to a squeal. “Dallas!”

  “If you hug me I’m shoving that lip dye up your ass.”

  Peabody did a little dance in her pink cowboy boots. “I wanna. I really, really wanna. But I won’t because I won’t have pretty pink lips if it’s up my ass.”

  “Keep that in mind.”

  “That was really nice.”

  “It was the best way to get you to stop whining.”

  “Really nice,” Peabody repeated. “Thanks.”

  Eve consulted the route map. “You called the store, and we hit. We hit big. You get a prize.”

  “A totally mag prize.” She riffled through the bag. “Oooh, samples!”

  “Peabody.”

  Peabody stopped riffling, but kept grinning. “Okay, he went blond and blue right? Rich man’s tan, pierced ear—most likely ear with the hoop. He’d need at least a couple ho
urs to do all that. More like, I’d say, four to do it right.”

  “And a place to do it. A hotel again? Go in looking as is, leave looking new. Not a smallish hotel then. Someone might notice, should notice. Maybe another business hotel, a big, busy hotel. Or …”

  “Or?”

  “He spent the night with his murdered parents, several hours with his dead ex. Maybe he picked his next victim, and did his makeover there.”

  “Creepy.”

  “He hits that note. Not a family place for this. He wouldn’t want to take on a spouse, kids. Look through for singles, and we’ll start there. Start contacting them via ’link. Anyone who doesn’t answer or seems off, we pay personal visits to. And I want to talk to Golde again, in person. How did Reinhold get his old ID?”

  “And the fact he’s using it? I think it ups Golde on the hit list.”

  “Agreed. Start looking,” Eve said when they reached the car. “Start contacting. Start with Golde—he’s at his parents’—and tell him we’re coming.”

  “All over that.”

  13

  WHILE EVE DROVE, SHE USED THE IN-DASH ’LINK to send Reinhold’s morph to Baxter, and instruct him to distribute copies to the rest of the department. She added a media lock. As she updated the commander, checked her own incomings for anything relevant, Peabody worked her own ’link.

  And when her partner fell silent, Eve glanced over. “What?”

  “The Brooklyn grandparents. I talked to the grandmother. She says Reinhold hasn’t contacted them, and it rings true.”

  “I don’t see him going that route, not yet. So what’s the problem.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Peabody began, but sighed. “The out-of-town grandparents are coming in later today, and they’re going to stay with the Brooklyn ones. Together. There are sibs and family members for both sides coming in, or opening their homes to those who’re coming. The ME’s releasing the bodies tomorrow, but they’re planning to wait until Saturday for a double memorial. They’re all getting together for Thanksgiving. Family needs family. That’s what she said.”

  Peabody stared down at her ’link. “It’s sad, really sad, but it’s kind of great, too.”

  “Great?”

  “They’re all pulling together, coming together, staying together. I think Reinhold has a really good family, on both sides. He never appreciated what he had, what they gave him. But now, when they’re facing one of the hardest things that can happen, they appreciate each other. And it made me realize I’m going to miss seeing my family this time around. Made me wonder if I appreciate them enough.”

  “I hear it every time you mention any one of them. Don’t slap yourself over that.” But since she could see Peabody was doing just that, Eve pushed the theme. “You and your family are a big, sloppy pile of Free-Agey appreciation. It’s a little embarrassing.”

  On a half laugh, Peabody’s broody look shifted to sentimental smile. “Yeah, I guess it is, a little.”

  Satisfied with the response, Eve considered as she drove. “He’s not going for any family then. Not yet anyway. Too many of them together. He wouldn’t know that, but he’d see it pretty damn fast if he decided to target any of them. Friends, employment, childhood grievances, teachers, exes. That’s where we look first. And eliminate anyone with kids at home for now. I don’t see him dealing with kids.”

  “Too messy, too complicated, too much trouble.”

  “Exactly. He’s gone one at a time so far, all with him having the initial advantage. We follow that pattern.”

  “He’s probably not going for Golde, or not top of his list, since Golde’s staying at his mother’s, working from there, too, primarily. He’s freaked about leaving her during the day while his father’s at work.”

  “He’d be on the list, but no, not top of it,” Eve agreed. “I want to talk to him anyway.”

  “He’s expecting us. And he said he was going to tag Dave Hildebran. He’s been staying at his parents’, too.”

  “What about the other friend. Asshole Joe?”

  “I connected. He’s at work, not worried. He thinks we’re way off base. And even if Reinhold went crazy, he won’t believe he might be a target. They’re buds, man. Tight buds. And being tight buds he’s positive Reinhold will tag him, and soon. Swears he’ll tell us so we can straighten this all out.”

  “Rat out his tight bud.”

  “Didn’t sound like he had a problem with that at all. It’s why we call him Asshole Joe.”

  “We should get him a name tag,” Eve said and started hunting for parking on Golde’s block.

  A proud and happy new tenant of the elaborate New York West, Reinhold let himself back into Ms. Farnsworth’s brownstone. He’d imagined himself living there for a few days, maybe even a week, but he’d hit the freaking jackpot.

  He’d spend the night in his frosty new apartment. Once he tied up a few loose ends.

  It had all taken longer than he’d expected, so he reactivated the droid, ordered it to fix him a snack. All that paperwork, he thought. Miles of it. And he could admit he’d sweated it some when they’d gone over his data with goddamn microgoggles. But he’d passed. Points for Fat-Ass Farnsworth.

  Lucky for her, he thought, while he chowed down on a Reuben and a couple kosher pickles. Now he wouldn’t snip off her fingers and toes.

  Probably.

  The thing to do first was go through the place again, finish piling up what looked like it was worth taking. He’d have the droid pack it up, transport it to his new place. He’d enjoy having the droid to do his grunt work.

  And a man in his position needed a house droid. The New York West would expect it of him.

  Ms. Farnsworth sure didn’t—or wouldn’t—need it.

  He’d already emptied the safe, packed that up in one of the fat old hag’s red suitcases.

  He wasn’t sure about the color or the brand, if they really suited his new persona. But he didn’t have time to worry about it.

  Time is money, he thought, and cracked himself up.

  He’d gone through her jewelry. He didn’t have much of an eye there, but figured anything in cases had to be worth something, even if it was ugly.

  He ordered the droid to wipe the drives on the remaining electronics, then unhook the rest of the comps and equipment and haul them downstairs.

  A lot of e-stuff, he mused. Good thing he’d thought ahead, had the droid start liquidating.

  He chose what he wanted for his new home office, separated them.

  “Take that bunch there.” Reinhold picked up one of the memo cubes he’d separated into his take pile. “Follow these instructions.”

  He recited a shop name, an address.

  “Get what you can for them. You should be able to handle it in one trip this time. Get cash. Just cash,” he repeated. “Whose property are you, Asshole?”

  “I am the property of Anton Trevor, president and CEO of Trevor Dynamics.”

  “Don’t you forget it. Get the cash, come back. No detours. We’ve got work to do.”

  While the droid took care of business, Reinhold took another tour of the house. Maybe that picture frame was real silver. Maybe that fancy bowl was worth something. She had so much crap in the house, who knew if it was junk or sell-worthy?

  He could probably take the bags of her clothes and get something for them, but he didn’t want to touch all those old-lady clothes again. Besides, he was rolling in it now, why bother with the small shit?

  He had the equipment he wanted. The droid could box it up, transport it, set it up in the new place. Same with his clothes, and the suitcase full of stuff he’d have the droid sell over the next couple days.

  Maybe he could scrape out more if he stayed a little longer, but all he could think about was getting into his new place, having the droid fix him a drink. Maybe he’d try a martini or something fancy like that. Drink it on the terrace.

  He’d watch screen, have the droid fix him a big-ass dinner.

  Now he had somebo
dy to wait on him that wouldn’t nag and bitch and try to make him feel worthless. Now he had somebody else on shit detail, and nobody to tell him to get a job, grow up, be responsible, do his work.

  Fuck all of that. Fuck all of them.

  Starting, he thought, with Ms. Farnsworth.

  He’d considered how to do it. He liked the knife. He really enjoyed the way it felt when the blade went in, came out. But it was so damn messy, and he had nice clothes on.

  He should buy some protective gear for down the road.

  Same went for the bat. Blood and brains everywhere, and that was a rush. But he’d fuck up his clothes.

  Definitely buying protective gear.

  He could strangle her, but he kind of wanted to try something new. To expand his horizons. Wasn’t that one of her favorite things to say? Expand your horizons.

  Yeah, he’d expand them on her. See how she liked it.

  He got what he wanted, sauntered into the office.

  She didn’t look so good. Or smell so good.

  She’d pissed herself again, which surprised him. He hadn’t given her more than a couple sips of water all day, and no food.

  He thought she maybe looked like she’d lost a couple pounds. The Jerry Reinhold Diet, he thought with a cackle that had her head snapping up.

  No, make that the Anton Trevor Diet. New look, new digs, new name. New man.

  “Hey, there!”

  He didn’t see the dog; didn’t give Snuffy a thought. Out of sight, out of mind.

  But he did see she’d been trying to get free. The tape around her right hand was looser, and she’d managed to drag her hand out about halfway up. The wrist that showed beyond the cord and tape looked like raw meat.

  “Ouch!” He clucked his tongue, ticked his index finger back and forth. “But that’s what you get when you don’t listen to the rules. Where’d you think you were going to go if you got loose? What’d you think you were going to do? I mean, clue up, Ms. Farnsworth. I’m a lot smarter than you gave me credit for.”