Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “I do, but …” He lifted his hands. “The dead are my work, as they’re yours. Now we’ll do the best job we can for the mother and father of this asshole.”

  “Yeah, we will. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Always stocked for you. And, Dallas, let me thank you in advance for Thanksgiving. It means a great deal to me to be included with your family and friends.”

  It made her feel a little weird so she shrugged. “Hell, Morris, how many dead have you and I stood over together? If we’re not family and friends, what are we?”

  Eve drove straight back to Central. She wanted to set up her board and book, write her preliminary report—and if they didn’t bag Reinhold by the end of the day, have an appointment set with Mira for a profile and consult. And when a tour group led by an Officer Friendly piled into the elevator, she jumped off, opting for the longer but less crowded route of the snaking glides. As she rode, she pulled out her signaling ’link, noted Peabody on the display.

  “Dallas. What have you got?”

  “A cheese and veggie pita and soy fries. I’m at the cart, east corner of Central, and on my way in. Do you want me to grab something for you?”

  Eve started to refuse, her mind on work, then had a sudden hankering. “Load up a dog. I’m already in house, heading up.”

  “You got it. Give me ten.”

  In her bullpen, Jenkinson—still wearing the atomic tie—sat scowling at his screen. Baxter—still wearing his sunshades—spat rapid-fire questions into his ’link. She caught the distinct smell of fried onions over the bad coffee.

  She spotted Uniform Carmichael back in his cube, pulling them out of a greasy bag while he worked his keyboard one-handed.

  Situation normal, she decided, and moved into her office.

  She ignored her blinking message light. It could damn well wait until she’d set up. She ordered printouts of crime scene photos, of her vics, of Reinhold.

  She sat at her desk to formulate her time line, printed that, and started on her report.

  “Loaded dog,” Peabody announced, bringing the scent with her. “I got you fries, too, just in case.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ah …” Peabody gestured toward the AutoChef. Knowing her partner, Eve held up two fingers to signal coffee for two.

  “What did you get from the interviews?”

  “That Joe Klein’s pretty much of a dick. He’s not buying his good bro Jerry killed anybody, hit on me in a very slimy way, claims Reinhold’s ex is a pushy bitch, and had a good laugh recounting how Reinhold lost over five thousand in Vegas while he himself won eight. A point their friend Dave Hildebran, who isn’t so much a dick, claims Klein rubbed all over Reinhold’s ass, and still is. Hildebran hit ten on the shocked scale,” she added as she brought Eve coffee, “but when he leveled off he told me he wondered if Reinhold was a shaky boomer primed to explode. Pissed at the world, was the phrase he used—considered his parents interfering, demanding, and to blame for whatever came to mind.”

  Peabody took her first gulp of coffee. “Unless it was a former boss, a coworker, his ex, or some random dude on the street to blame. He said he’d hit a club with Reinhold and Klein the night before the murder, and all Reinhold did was bitch. He, Dave, hasn’t been hanging with them as much since Vegas. He’s seeing someone, and claims he’s a little tired of Reinhold’s endless complaints and Klein’s general dickishness. He’s hung a little more with Mal Golde, who you may have met since he lives at the last known.”

  “Yeah, we met.”

  “Neither of my two have seen or heard from Reinhold since Thursday night. Klein tried to tag him Saturday night, but hasn’t heard back.”

  “Reinhold was a busy boy. Golde’s not a dick, by the way.”

  She caught Peabody up with the salient points of that interview while she chowed on the dog. “Banks?” she finished, mouth full.

  “I got copies of the security discs, reviewed them while I traveled. He had the ‘I’m a smug son of a bitch’ vibe going—briefcase, no suitcases. According to the managers, he wanted all cash, but some of the amounts made that tricky, so he settled for the cashier’s checks. A couple politely questioned him regarding why the quick deposit and withdrawal. He told them to give him his money or he’d cause a scene. I have a feeling he didn’t use such mild terms.”

  “I’ll need to look at them. Did anybody see him leave, what he left in?”

  “Outside security caught him, on foot.” Trying in vain for comfort, Peabody shifted in Eve’s visitor’s chair. “He could’ve had transpo waiting or picked it up once he was out of range.”

  “Let’s send some uniforms around to neighboring businesses, see if they picked anything up. In the meantime, I couldn’t connect with the ex. According to her neighbor she’s out with a friend today—and buying a new ’link, with a new number. See if you can find anything on that. The neighbor—Sela Crabtree—has my contacts, so I expect to hear from the ex when they connect. Otherwise, we’ll round her up in the morning.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m going to set up a meet with Mira, do the notifications. The vics’ parents need to be told before the media leaks their names. Get your notes together so I can—” She broke off as her desk ’link signaled. Though she intended to ignore it, she glanced over at the readout.

  “Crap. It’s the commander.” After swiping a hand over her mouth, in case, she flipped it on. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  Rather than his admin’s, Whitney’s face filled her screen. “I’d like to see you in my office, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now.”

  “On my way.”

  He clicked off.

  “God, I get gut knots just thinking about if it was me he called up like that.”

  “Shit. I ate most of a loaded dog. I have loaded dog breath.” Rising, Eve yanked open drawers. “I must have something around here.”

  “Try this.” Peabody offered a little box, flipping the lid to the tiny pink balls.

  “Why are they pink?”

  “Bubble gum flavor. It’s good. And they work.”

  With little choice, Eve popped two. Pink or not, they were pretty good. “If I’m not back in ten, I need you to do the notifications.”

  “Oh please, be back.”

  “That’s up to Whitney.”

  Swinging through, she noted Jenkinson and his tie among the missing, and imagined he and his partner, Reineke, caught one. Baxter had shifted to his comp, intensely, she noted. His shades hooked in his front pocket where she assumed he put them, intending to stick them back on the minute the tie walked back in.

  It was a joke that would last the entire shift.

  She stepped out, spotted Detective Carmichael at Vending.

  “Hey, Loo, just getting our current bag of scum a cold one. Sanchez’s working him in Interview A.”

  “What did the bag of scum do?”

  “Tossed a junkie down a flight of stairs, then stomped him to death for trying to scam him with play money. I mean actual play money, like from a game. Bag of scum deals mostly to funky-junkies.”

  And the Funk played hell with eyes. “Play money probably seemed fine to him.”

  “Yeah, well, he won’t be passing Go.”

  “Go where?”

  “You know. Go.” Carmichael circled her hands in the air. “Monopoly. The game.”

  “Dead makes a full stop.”

  “You got that. Bag of scum’s claiming the junkie fell, and he’s claiming the reason he ran like a freaking gazelle when we tracked him is how he was late for an appointment. And how all the bags of Funk and zoner we spotted—and managed to even scoop up a few before bystanders swarmed—weren’t his. And he’s being arrogant about it, which makes you want to bitch-slap him a few times.”

  “I didn’t hear that part.”

  Carmichael smiled. “Sanchez keeps me in line. He’s a peaceful sort.”

  “Stomped him? How are the bag of scum’s shoes?”
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  The smile widened. “He didn’t even bother to change his boots, or get the vic’s blood off them. We’re getting them analyzed, but he left a goddamn boot print on the vic’s chest. Clear as a footprint in wet sand. And we have two wits who were looking out their peeps when he shoved the guy because the bag of scum was yelling his ass off at the junkie.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got him. Why are you getting him a cold one?”

  “Mostly because Sanchez wanted me to cool off. Asshole said all I needed was a good fuck with a big dick, gave me the crotch grab, and said he had one waiting for me.”

  “There’s more than one way to bitch-slap, Carmichael. Interview A’s on my way.” She started to walk. “What’s his name?”

  “Street name’s Fang. Real’s Alvar Ramondo.”

  With a nod, Eve gestured to the door. “Just open it, start to go in. Don’t close it.”

  Carmichael obliged.

  “So I’ll see you after … Hey.” Eve poked her head in the door, pointed at the bulky man—mid-twenties, mixed-race, leaning Latino, sporting complicated and elaborate tat sleeves. “Hey, you didn’t say you had Al in here.”

  Before Sanchez could speak, Eve sent him the briefest glance. He settled back.

  “How’s it going, Al? Not so good, I guess, from the look of it.”

  “Who’s this bitch?” Fang demanded. “You bringing another bitch in? No problem. I can handle both of you.” He smiled, proving he didn’t spend a lot of his profits on dental hygiene, grabbed his crotch, rocked his hips.

  Grunted suggestively.

  “Yeah, that’s what you said that night after all those tequila shots. I dug the tats,” she said to Carmichael, “so I gave him a shot. What the hell. Lemme tell ya.”

  Rolling her eyes, Eve held up her index finger and thumb, a scant two inches apart, then lifting the index, made a soft whooshing sound as she curled it limply down.

  Fang’s face went fiery red as he tried to lurch up. “You lying bitch! Lying puta! I never seen you before.”

  “Don’t remember me, Al? You said to call you Fang, right? Didn’t have much of a bite,” she said in an aside to Carmichael, girl to girl.

  “Lying bitch! I never seen you.”

  “Too much tequila.” Eve shrugged it off. “That’s okay. I remember you. I never forget a …” Eve did the falling index finger again. “Anyway,” she said brightly to Carmichael, “see you later.”

  She began to shut the door, considered it a job well done when she heard the shouting stream of curses.

  Then she hotfooted it to Whitney’s office.

  4

  THE OUTER OFFICE WAS UNMANNED, AND Whitney’s door stood open. Eve stepped to it, waited a moment as he sat at his desk, concentration on his wide dark face while he scrolled down his desk screen.

  He fit the desk, she thought, the command of it with the windows at his back full of the city he’d vowed to protect. He’d worked the street once, and had been good at it. Now he rode a desk to run what she considered the best police and security force in the country.

  And he was good at that, too.

  She knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “Excuse me, sir. Your admin’s not at her post.”

  “She’s at lunch.” He gave her a come-ahead curl of his fingers. “Shut the door.”

  “Yes, sir.” Since she knew he’d invite her to sit, and she preferred giving oral reports on her feet, she jumped right in.

  “Both Peabody and I just returned separately from the field regarding the Reinhold homicides.”

  He sat back, tented his big hands. “Double murder. Mother and father.”

  “Yes, sir. Evidence, overwhelming even at this point, supports the fact that Jerald Reinhold stabbed his mother more than fifty times, then lay in wait for his father for over six hours. He beat his father to death with multiple blows using a baseball bat.”

  She ran it through, top to bottom, side to side, without much interruption. For the most part Whitney simply sat, watching her, giving the occasional nod or asking a brief question for clarification.

  “I intend to ask Dr. Mira to profile, and still have to interview the ex-girlfriend, and his former coworkers, supervisors. But the three men he’s known to be closest to haven’t yet had contact since the murders.”

  “You believe them?”

  “Yes, sir. He has what he wants. He’s had his celebration. I expect a report from Officer Cardininni shortly on what’s missing from the scene so we can notify pawnshops, secondhand stores. He’ll want to get rid of what he took, add to his cash. He was smart enough not to stay in one location, where we could easily track him, but he has to land somewhere.”

  “Local media will play it up for a news cycle or two. You’ll handle that.”

  Hated that, Eve thought, could and would handle that. “I’ll have a more detailed report shortly,” Eve began.

  “I’m sure you will. I’m satisfied you have this investigation in hand, but I called you up here on another matter.” Now he laid his hands on the desk. “You’re to be awarded the Medal of Honor.”

  “Sir?”

  “Most specifically for your exemplary work, the personal risks taken, and the countless lives you saved through that work, by those risks in the recent incidents of mass murder by chemical weapons, the apprehension of Lewis Callaway and Gina MacMillon, and the case you built against them.”

  “Commander, I’m honored. But I didn’t investigate, apprehend, or build the case alone. My team—”

  “Will be acknowledged, as will Agent Teasdale from the HSO. You headed that team, Lieutenant. You commanded and command those men and women. This is the highest honor bestowed on a police officer by the NYPSD, and isn’t given lightly—though some politics may come into play. In this case, and in my considered opinion, they played properly. Do you want to dispute my considered opinion, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir.” Neatly cornered, she thought. “Thank you, sir.”

  “The presentation is scheduled for this coming Wednesday, at fourteen hundred. I’ve been given the nod to so inform you. I’m proud to do so.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” Actually, the idea left her tight in the chest with a snagged-up combination of pride, gratitude, and outright embarrassment. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I’m very grateful. But is it possible to keep this …”

  “Low-key, quiet, small, and relatively private?”

  Hope struggled to bloom through the snags. “Any of that?”

  His lips curved. “Absolutely not. Suck that up, Dallas.”

  And quietly died. “Yes, sir.”

  “And on another matter that also has its tangle of politics, I have a question for you. Do you want a captaincy?”

  Eve opened her mouth; couldn’t think of a thing. For a moment, she couldn’t quite feel her own feet. “Sir?”

  “It’s a direct question, Lieutenant. I’d like a direct answer.” But before she could formulate one, he held up a finger to hold that answer off. “You’re young for the rank. Would be the youngest captain under my command. And if it had been my call alone, the bars would’ve been offered to you long before this. Politics, perception, prejudice have all played a part in the decision not to offer them. Our personal lives are part of who we are, and part of how we’re perceived.”

  “Understood, Commander.” And because she did—not only understood him, but the process, and herself, everything in her loosened again.

  “I’ve always understood, and have no regrets on my personal life.”

  “Nor should you. It’s become more difficult, some may say impossible, to use your marriage as a wedge against this promotion. It’s particularly difficult now as Roarke will be awarded the Medal of Merit—Civilian.”

  She actually felt her eyes pop a bit before she let out a half laugh. “I can use that on him for years.”

  “The two of you have an interesting dynamic,” Whitney observed. “Now I’d like your answer.”

  “Commander …” Trying to thi
nk clearly, so her answer would be, she raked a hand through her hair. “Three years ago I wouldn’t have hesitated. It was more about proving something, to myself. Outside of the job, the ground was pretty shaky for me, and I didn’t even know it. Not really. So I wanted that to prove I had the solid under me. And I wanted to earn it.”

  “You have earned it.” As he studied her face, lines dug in between his eyebrows. “But now you hesitate?”

  “Sir, I admire your transition from investigator to commander, your skill and your insight. Your work is more difficult than I can imagine, and it’s honorable and necessary.”

  “You’ve already got the promotion if you want it, Dallas.”

  That relaxed her, just a little more. “I’m not ready to ride a desk. I’m solid enough on administration, but I’m an investigator. A captain’s presence in the field, as an investigator, is the exception rather than the rule. I’m a murder cop; that’s my strength. That’s my skill and my insight. I wouldn’t be offered this promotion otherwise.”

  She thought of Jenkinson’s ridiculous tie, of the rubber chicken above Sanchez’s desk when he’d been the new guy. More, she thought how she could trust, without question, anyone in her bullpen to go through the door with her.

  “And sir? I don’t want to put a buffer between me and my men. I don’t want them to feel they have to climb the chain to talk to me, to run a case by me, to ask for my help. I’m not willing to step away from them. They, and the job, are more important than captain’s bars. I’m glad to be able to say that, and mean it.”

  “You’ve given this considerable thought.”

  “Actually, Commander, I’d put it away. I haven’t given it much of any thought in a long time now.” At peace with it, she realized—a not altogether familiar place to be. “I’m grateful to be considered. I believe I best serve the department and the people of New York where I am.”

  He sat back again, a big man with a big city behind him. “I could have pushed for this harder at several points along the way, and had several debates with myself on doing just that.”

  “Politics, sir.” She shrugged them away.

  “Some, yes, but not all. The primary reason I didn’t push is I agree with you. Your strengths are your investigative abilities, and your skill handling your department, your insight into the perpetrator and victim. I didn’t want to lose that. But now that certain obstacles are cleared, or have been cleared, I felt it was time to ask you directly.”