Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Oh, it’s good to see you!” Hands on Eve’s shoulders, Sinead drew back, her green eyes damp, her smile brilliant. “And so stalwart you are in your uniform. We won’t be keeping you. Summerset told us you were very busy on an investigation, but we so wanted to come and see you and our Roarke honored. It meant so much to us, Eve. So much to all of us.”

  “It meant a lot to him when he saw you.”

  “His mother would be so proud, so I’ve her pride and my own to give to both of you. And I’ll be after getting a copy of one of those photos of the two of you. Oh, this was such a thrill for all of us. I have to let you go, as if I don’t the whole family will swarm you. We’ll wait till you’re home to do that then.”

  With a laugh, Sinead kissed Eve’s cheek.

  She got caught a couple more times before Kyung touched her arm. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re needed over here for a moment. I’m extracting you,” he murmured near her ear as he steered her away.

  “Great. Good.”

  “Roarke assures me he can handle his own extraction, and I imagine he does so often.”

  “Yeah, he’s slippery.”

  “You did very, very well,” he said, maneuvering her back into the staging area, then through.

  “You, too. You got me out in under ten. I can take it from here.”

  “Then I’ll go back and have some cake.”

  That hitched her exit stride. “There was cake?”

  “You wanted out in ten.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Talk about sacrifices.” But she hopped a glide and headed back to the locker room to change.

  She hung up her uniform, put the medal in its case. Then wondered what she should do with it. Her office for now, she decided. She should probably take it home, put it away there.

  She tucked it under her arm, stepped back out through the bullpen.

  Her men rose, which would have put her right back to choked if they hadn’t all been wearing sunshades. Carmichael had put the crazy horse tie back on.

  So the ovation made her laugh, and put her right back where she wanted to be.

  “Get back to work, you idiots.”

  “We saved you some cake,” Peabody told her.

  “Seriously?” The idea of so much as a crumb getting past her men was as shocking as a stunner blast.

  “In your office.”

  “I take the ‘idiots’ back. Get to work anyway.”

  She walked into her office, touched and still surprised to see the neat piece of cake on a small disposable plate on her desk. She stowed the medal in a drawer, programmed coffee.

  And sitting at her desk, broke off a corner of the cake, and got back to work herself.

  Fifty-five minutes, she thought. Longer than she’d hoped, but still the whole thing had taken under an hour. And what, she wondered, had Reinhold been up to for the last fifty-five minutes?

  He had a plan. No reason he could see why it wouldn’t work—and he’d have some fun with it. Plus, changing things up would save him some legwork. His foot still hurt like a bitch!

  He sent the droid out with a shopping list, and instructions to buy each item at a different shop.

  And while he had the apartment to himself, he blasted music as he limped through, speculating on where to set the stage.

  The living area. Sure, the second bedroom was big enough, but he liked having the easy access to the kitchen, and the dining room. It made more sense, he thought, since he was having company for Thanksgiving dinner.

  It would be his most daring kill, and he’d do it all in his own space. Good practice for when he started selling his services, he decided. Body disposal could be an option he needed to offer clients, after all.

  Sometimes people like the Mafia or the CIA or whatever didn’t want bodies found. He’d read shit about that.

  The cops didn’t have a clue where he was—how could they—or now who he was. In his own place, undisturbed, he could take all the time he wanted with his … selection.

  No, prey. He liked that term. They, all of them, were prey, and he was, code name: Reaper. He really liked it.

  Reaper. Death for sale. Anytime, anywhere. Terms to be negotiated.

  Something like that, he decided.

  When the droid got back, they’d set the place up, just the way he wanted it. Then, contact, lure, trap. Snap, snap.

  He’d have all night, through the next day to do his work, while people were sitting around pretending friends and family meant a single happy shit.

  He could stretch it out another night, if he wanted. If he got bored, he’d end it.

  Then between him and the droid, they’d take care of body disposal.

  “I have the best job in the world!” he shouted over the music, then dancing—wincing a little—out to the terrace.

  For the hell of it, he yanked down his pants and mooned New York.

  It seriously cracked him up.

  He went back in, popped another pain pill, got a beer. It was great to be able to drink when he wanted, eat when he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

  All of his life people had held him down, held him back, fucked with him.

  Now he was the one doing the fucking.

  And he was never going to stop.

  “Found myself, Ma!” He cackled it. “And today, oh yeah, I am a man.”

  He turned as the door opened, and the droid carted in a big box. He saw the droid’s mouth move, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “What? Jesus. Music off. What?”

  “Sir, I was unable to purchase and carry all the items in one trip. I—”

  “Well, fuck.” Idiot. Maybe he’d spring for another droid. Female, he considered. One with sex options. “Go back and get the rest. I want to get started.”

  “Yes, sir. Where do you want these items?”

  “Just put the whole box down there.” Reinhold pointed to the center of the living area. “And go get the rest. Make it fast, Asshole.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll return shortly.”

  “You’d better.” Excited, Reinhold sat on the floor and pulled things out of the box.

  More rope, more tape, a carving set. He smiled at the shining blade, at the long prongs of the fork. Perfect for a turkey—or whatever you wanted to slice up.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” He pulled out the portable saw, flicked the switch. And grinned as the twin, toothy blades whirred.

  “Oh yeah. We’re going to have the best Thanksgiving ever.”

  He set the saw down, laid flat on his back, and laughed like a loon.

  He honestly, sincerely, had never been happier in his life.

  Eve circled, bisected, intersected, detoured, expanded, contracted. She spent more time on the ’link in an afternoon than she normally did in a month.

  And couldn’t find him.

  Peabody poked her head in the door, correctly gauged her lieutenant’s mood. She might have preferred just slinking off again, but ordered herself to woman-up.

  “Dallas.”

  “Do you know how many supervisors, managers, landlords, owners, and clerks start their stupid holiday a day early?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “All of them, or damn near. Everybody’s head’s up a turkey’s ass.”

  “Well … lots of people have to travel to—”

  “He’s not traveling,” Eve snapped out. “He’s dug in. And he’s got a target. Whoever it is isn’t going to get a nice piece of pumpkin pie tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got protection on—”

  “We’ve got protection on most of the people we know or have reason to believe may be a target. Most gives him room, and that doesn’t begin to cover ones we’ve missed.”

  She shoved at her hair, pulled at it in frustration. “He’s a frigging amateur, Peabody. He shouldn’t have gotten through the first day, and instead, he’s had almost a week free and clear since his first kill.”

  “Dallas, we didn’t even know about the first two DBs until
Monday. There was no way we could know.”

  “That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? He just keeps catching the breaks. We know who he is, we know how he killed every one of them, when he did it, we even know why. We have a reasonable list of possible targets. We believe we know his general area. And we can’t find the son of a bitch.”

  “He has a lot of places to hide. Add the money, and it gives him more yet.”

  Impatient, Eve shook her head. “I’ve narrowed it down—strongest probability—to this radius.”

  Peabody eased in, turned to the screen, blinked in surprise. “You made a graph.”

  “Whatever. Highest probability area in red, secondary in blue, and so on raying out from that core. Most likely locations within each area are highlighted on the second map, same color code.”

  “That’s a lot of comp work.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t kick me, it’s not your strength. You’d never say it was.”

  Eve hissed because truer words were never spoken. “I had to break down and take a damn blocker because generating this gave me a pisser of a headache.”

  “I could’ve helped you with it.”

  “I gave you assignments. Speaking of which?”

  “No hit on any sports tickets yet. The sales rep I talked to said a lot of the venues offer sales on tickets, including the big ones, on Black Friday. That’s the day after Thanksgiving, and the biggest shopping day of the year.”

  “Because people are so juiced up on too much food they feel like they have to go out and spend more money than they’ve got. Friday.” She blew out a breath. “Hit it again on Friday.”

  “Nothing on the arcade or the bar, not yet,” Peabody continued. “But I talked to security in both places, and they’re on the lookout. I had uniforms start distributing the images—his, the morph, the droid, throughout the target area. Markets, shops, restaurants. They’re pushing them on building supers, managers. It’s going to take time to hit every location, but the word’s out, Dallas. We’ve got literally hundreds of eyes looking for him now. More like thousands. Someone’s going to spot him and call it in.”

  “And the tip line?”

  “Not as much as I figured, but that’s probably because people are heading out of town, or dealing with out-of-towners, or shopping for what they forgot to get for tomorrow. Like that.”

  Disgusted, Eve slumped in her chair. “I hate holidays.”

  “Well … It’s kind of unavoidable, and again, don’t kick me, but you really ought to think about going home and dealing with your own out-of-towners.”

  “What?”

  “Dallas, it’s already nearly an hour past end of shift.”

  “What?” she repeated and looked at the time. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  “I’m just the messenger,” Peabody reminded her as she took a cautious step out of range. “But Feeney had to take off. He’s going to try to get some work in at home. So am I, and McNab. And Callendar. Roarke’s already home, and I know he’s connected with Feeney a few times.”

  Eve dragged her hands through her hair then shoved them in her pockets. “Go home. I’m going to copy this graph thing, send it to you, to everyone. Take a look at it, more carefully. If something pops for you, let me know.”

  “You haven’t managed to contact all the managers in all the hotels, apartments, condos yet.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll take a share of them.”

  “I’ll earmark yours.”

  Peabody smiled. “How about I do you a favor? I’ll earmark yours. Traffic’s going to be a coldhearted bitch. I’ll get home before you anyway.”

  “Something else to look forward to. Go home. I want you and McNab to get to my home office tomorrow. We’re going to put in some time on this. Two hours before whenever you were supposed to come.”

  “We’ll be there. We’re going to get him, Dallas.”

  “Oh yeah, we’ll get him. It’s just a matter of how many more he can rack up before we do, but we’ll get him.”

  She took the time to copy and send her work to Peabody, to Feeney and Roarke, to McNab, to the commander, to Callendar. Every one of them had better comp skills than she did, she admitted. Maybe they could refine, or maybe they’d see something she’d overlooked.

  But the simple fact was, she should already be home, dealing with the other part of her life.

  She put together a file bag, grabbed her coat, and headed out before she talked herself into locking her office door and pretending she didn’t have another part of her life.

  Peabody’s traffic prediction hit the bull’s-eye. While the bitter hell of it didn’t improve her mood, it did give her time to think, to make more contacts—and hit more answering services, message loops, and skeleton staffs.

  Out of stubbornness as much as concern, she tried Asshole Joe one more time. Maybe, just maybe, she’d wear him down and convince him to accept protection.

  Then she let it go when her tag went directly to v-mail.

  She drove through the gates already calculating how long she’d have to socialize before she could sneak off and get back to the job.

  The lights exploded out of the gloom. And despite the dribbling rain, there appeared to be some sort of ball game going on over the wet, lush green grass.

  Men, women, kids ran around like maniacs. Most of them had stripped off jackets to play in sweaters or sweatshirts or shirtsleeves—and all were thoroughly wet and filthy.

  She saw the round and rugged leather ball sail, watched someone pass it across with a leaping head strike, then someone else in a blur of bodies execute a lateral kick. She slowed to a crawl in case one of the crazed players ran across the drive. Then winced a little at the ensuing ugly collision and pileup of bodies.

  Obviously, the game was vicious.

  She parked, got out, and had her ears assailed by shouting, hoots, insults—delivered with oddly musical accents in two languages.

  “There’s herself!”

  Despite the dirt on his face, Eve recognized the boy Sean. Sinead’s grandson had, for some reason, developed an unshakable attachment to Eve. And that even before he’d discovered a body in the woods outside his quiet village the summer before.

  “We’re losing terrible,” he told her, as if they’d just spoken an hour before. “Uncle Paddy cheats something fierce and Aunt Maureen’s no better come to that.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll come onto our side. You can take the place of my cousin Fiona. She’s useless as teats on a billy goat, and does nothing but squeal when the ball comes within a bleeding kilometer of her.”

  She found herself flattered on some strange level that he’d assume she could save the game for his side. But.

  “Can’t do it, kid. I don’t even know how it’s played.”

  He laughed, then goggled. “Is that the truth then? How can you not know how to football?”

  “Over here it’s soccer—sort of.” But meaner, she decided, which was a point in its favor. “And it’s not my game.”

  “Sean!” From the doorway, Sinead shouted. “Leave your cousin alone, pity sakes. She hasn’t so much as gotten in the door yet, and you won’t let her come in out of the rain.”

  “She’s saying she doesn’t know how to play football!” Absolute shock vibrated in his voice. “And she’s heart-stopping serious! That’s all right then,” he said kindly to Eve. “I’ll teach you.”

  Damn, the kid had a way about him. If she hadn’t had a killer to find, she’d have taken him up on it. And enjoyed it.

  “Appreciate it, but …” She trailed off, her shock as vibrant as Sean’s at her lack of essential knowledge as she saw Roarke break from the pack and walk her way.

  He was every bit as wet and filthy as his young cousin. Grass stains smeared the elbows of his shirt, with some bloodstains mixed on the left. Light but distinct bruising colored the side of his jaw.

  He gave Eve a cheeky grin, then slapped a hand on Sean’s shoulder.
“You’re needed, mate. It’s near do or die now.”

  “I’m off!”

  “What the fuck?” Eve said the minute the boy ran off bellowing a war cry.

  “Don’t ask. We’re all but done for in any case, taking that Fiona couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, and Paddy and Maureen both cheat like tinkers at a fair.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would anybody hit a cow with a banjo?”

  He only smiled. “The point is, Fiona couldn’t, so we’ll be done soon enough. I’ve a report for you, and it’s already on your unit. And I’ve got some programs running, but the sad truth of it is, it’s taking all the time I said it would. Little bits, but not enough, not yet. It’s there, that’s certain. The clever Ms. Farnsworth slipped some sort of code by him. But we don’t have it yet.”

  “Okay, any progress is good progress at this point. I’ve been working on something, and I’ve copied it to you. We’ll get to it.”

  They were shouting for him, she thought. The family he’d lived his life without. “Go hit some cow in the ass with a banjo or whatever. And try not to bleed too much.”

  He laughed, grabbed her, spun her, kissed her hard to the cheers of the players before she could struggle free and swipe at the wet and dirt he’d just transferred.

  “God,” she muttered as she strode to the house. “Irishmen are crazy.”

  She’d barely stepped in, shrugged out of her coat, when Sinead was there taking it from her and handing her a glass of wine.

  “Welcome home and to considerable bedlam. It’s been a long day for you from what I’m told. Can you take a minute to sit, catch your breath? Those of us who aren’t outside or off adventuring in the city or scattered someone else are in the parlor.”

  She could escape, Eve thought. Sinead would make excuses for her. She heard laughter from the parlor, murmuring voices, the fretful cry of an infant—they were always popping out more infants, Eve thought. And she could escape all of it, and close herself in with murder.

  And she thought of Roarke’s quick grin and filthy shirt.

  Life, she remembered, had to be lived, even—and maybe particularly —in the middle of death.

  “Yeah, I could sit for a while.”

  20