Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Frankly, sir?” At his nod, she continued. “It’s a weight off knowing the obstacles are cleared, and understanding my own goals and priorities.”

  “Then I’ll relay your answer to those it’s relevant to.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sincerely.”

  “You’re welcome, Lieutenant. Sincerely.”

  He rose from his desk, came around it, and did something he rarely did. He took Eve’s hand, shook it.

  “Dismissed.”

  She walked out a little dazed, but yeah, she realized, okay with it. Like she’d tossed aside a weight she’d forgotten she carried, but knew just where it landed if she ever wanted to pick it up again.

  But now? Right now, she felt good staying light on her feet.

  The tie was back in the bullpen, busy at his desk. Baxter and True-heart held a confab at Baxter’s desk. Peabody worked morosely at hers, which meant she’d dealt with the notifications.

  And every cop in the room, including Jenkinson, wore sunshades.

  “It looks like Hollywood PSD in here.”

  “Dug up a pair for you, boss.” Baxter tossed her a pair with black flames and square amber lenses. “Can’t have our LT’s eyes bleeding all over the floor.”

  Willing to play, she slipped them on as she walked to Peabody’s desk. “Status?”

  “I made the notifications. They took it hard. My mother always says no matter how old your kid gets, he’s still your kid. I guess she’s right. I also contacted local department grief counselors in their areas.”

  “Good.”

  “Sweeper’s prelim is in, and Cardininni sent the list of missing items the neighbor identified. Copies should be on your unit.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “You were gone awhile.” When Eve remained silent, Peabody moved on. “So I sent Dr. Mira an overview, in case you still wanted the consult.”

  “I do.”

  “No luck on Nuccio’s ’link yet. Either she hasn’t activated it, or there’s a backlog in the registration and data, which is more likely. When you get a new ’link,” Peabody continued, “it’s like a toy. You just gotta play with it.”

  “How long does it usually take to pop on data?”

  “Usually? Anywhere from a couple hours to whenever the hell.”

  “Great. If it doesn’t pop, and she doesn’t make contact by end of shift, I’ll swing by her place again on the way home. If she’s making a long day out of it, we’ll catch her in the morning. Get the description of missing items out.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Okay.” She started toward her office, glanced back. “Good work, Peabody.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eve walked into her office, started to close the door, stopped herself. No, she wasn’t going to sit in here thinking about the meeting with Whitney.

  She didn’t have time to parse through promotions, politics, perceptions. She needed to do her job.

  She brought up the list of items first, read it, pondered over it.

  A few pieces of jewelry as she’d expected. Small, star-shaped diamond stud earrings, with the note the wit stated had been a twenty-fifth-anniversary gift to Barbara from Carl. An antique ladies’ gold watch, set with diamonds and sapphires, circa middle twentieth century, Rolex brand, again with a note stating it had been the vic’s great-grandmother’s—wit believed maternal. Two gold bangle bracelets, one set of pearls with gold clasp—heirloom from maternal grandmother, and the vic’s diamond engagement ring in a plain gold setting.

  So the vics had been traditionalists, Eve thought. Engagement ring, a couple of family pieces.

  On the husband’s side jewelry was limited to a gold wrist unit, again a Rolex (traditionalists) engraved with the vic’s initials—a twenty-fifth-anniversary gift from his wife—one pair of brushed gold cuff links, one pair of hammered silver.

  More jewelry listed, but the wit believed those pieces were costume, and stated she’d been with the vic when several were purchased.

  The wit also listed two e-tablets, two minicomps, a sterling silver menorah, sterling flatware—heirloom again—service for eight. A cut-glass crystal bowl in the shape of a footed basket, with handle, which the wit stated had been Barbara’s only piece from her great-grandmother, and her pride and joy.

  Cardininni added to her notes on what struck her that hadn’t been taken, including a wedding chuppa with the tree of life hand-painted on silk.

  Wit states the piece was made for female vic’s great-grandmother’s wedding, served in grandmother’s and in mother’s wedding and in vic’s. It’s in perfect condition, signed by the artist Mirium Greene. Vic confided to wit she’d hoped to pass it to her son, and had it insured for $45k. Photo attached of chuppa and wooden music box wit states male vic’s father recently passed to him. It appears old, a cylinder-type mechanism with an inlay of a woman playing a lute on the top. Wit believes the piece was also insured.

  Thorough, Eve thought with a nod for Cardininni, and interesting information. Reinhold had limited knowledge, she concluded. The wedding canopy deal meant nothing to him, and he’d been unaware of its market value. The music box didn’t look like a big deal in the photo, and he’d probably considered it parental junk.

  So he took the shiny, and the electronics, and the cash.

  Not stupid, she thought again, just not really smart.

  She read over the sweeper’s reports, chafed a bit they hadn’t yet identified the footwear from the bloody footprints on scene, reviewed the ME’s findings, then pulled them together in her own report.

  She copied Mira, Peabody, her commander, then added the data to her board and book.

  And with her boots on her desk, sat back and studied what she had.

  Fairly ordinary people, she concluded. Traditional, long-married, middle-class. Woman keeps the home, man provides the home. Solid family ties, solid friendships, well-settled neighborhood. They’d raised one son. A disappointment? Can’t hack college, can’t hold on to a job, can’t maintain a relationship.

  Did they push him some? Yeah, yeah, she thought. Traditional.

  Be a man, get a job, think of your future, pay your bills.

  Got sick of hearing that, didn’t you, she mused, studying Rein-hold’s face. Sick of them telling you what to do, how to do it, looking at you with that disappointment in their eyes. There’s your father, plugging away every day at some stupid job—boring bastard. And your mother, fussing in the kitchen, gossiping with the neighbors, always telling you to pick up your stuff. Nagging bitch.

  Holding you back from everything you wanted, both of them.

  “That’s how you see it,” Eve murmured. “You don’t have to look at them anymore, listen to them anymore. You’re a free man now.”

  She pushed to her feet. “But not for long.”

  As she grabbed her coat, Peabody came to the door.

  “We’ve already got a hit on the two watches and the pearls. Upscale shop in the East Village.”

  “Let’s check it out, and Reinhold’s last place of employment. Just the watches and the pearls?” she added as they started out.

  “That’s all he brought in.”

  “Spreading it out. Doesn’t want people asking too many questions, and makes sure he takes them out of his own neighborhood.”

  “The owner called it in as soon as he saw the alert. He told me Reinhold came in about eleven with the watches and the pearl necklace.”

  “About two hours after the banks. Lining his nest egg.”

  In the garage, she got behind the wheel as Peabody keyed the shop address into navigation.

  “I’d have wired the money to New Jersey,” Peabody commented. “Better, Pittsburgh.”

  “Pittsburgh?”

  “Yeah, maybe Pittsburgh. Then I’d have packed it up on Saturday, walked uptown, caught a bus maybe, transferred, taken another into New Jersey, found a nice quiet hotel. Caught my breath. Sunday, I’d make my way south—after I cut and dyed my hair, picked up
an over-the-counter temp eye-color change one place, temp tats another place.”

  “You have to show ID for the money. Change your look, it’s sending up a flag.”

  “Right. Okay, I wait on that one. I get the stuff, but I wait on it. Maybe I hunt up a shop like we’re going to in Jersey, liquidate a few items. By Monday morning, I’m picking up the money, then I use a walk-in flop, pay cash, change my looks, and I’m going to liquidate the rest in Pittsburgh.”

  “You should wait to change your looks then or we’ll have your new one when we track the goods.”

  “Damn. Right again. I use the flop after I liquidate, and I use some of the money to buy new ID.”

  It amused Eve—and she thought helped train Peabody—for her to poke holes in the master escape plan. “And how is some lazy bastard schmuck from the Lower West Side going to know where to get fake ID in Pittsburgh?”

  “Okay, he gets it before he leaves New York.”

  “Question holds.”

  “He’s got to know somebody who knows somebody. He probably bought fake ID before he hit legal drinking age so he could get into the clubs or buy a brew. Who doesn’t?” Peabody slid her glance to the left. “You never?”

  “No.” She hadn’t cared about clubs, Eve remembered.

  “Trust me, most kids do. So I’d use that as a springboard, shell out some of the money for new ID.”

  “Except, back in New York you don’t have the new look.”

  “Shit!” Cornered again, Peabody rapped a fist on her thigh. “Let me think. How would you play it?”

  “I’d spend some of the time I’m in the apartment with my dead parents researching how to make my own fake ID. I find a dead guy, get the supplies I need for docs that will satisfy the bored clerk at the ID center. And I liquidate everything on Saturday, well before anybody’s issued any alerts. When I leave, I have one easy-to-carry suitcase, backpack, overnight—travel light, travel fast. I don’t need or want all my stuff anyway. I’d pack just enough to get me through a couple days. I wire the money to an offshore account, one that doesn’t report transactions. It’s not that much money; nobody’s going to blink. That gives me all day Sunday to travel. I leave looking like myself, hit a flop—that part works, change my looks to match the ID I’m going to make. Take my own picture to go with the docs I’ve faked. Then I’m going to add some embellishments so I don’t look so much like the guy I’m going to become. Layer my clothes to bulk myself up. Take some of the hair I cut—and saved and dyed—and make myself a little goatee maybe, add an earring, a couple temp tats, maybe washable bronzer. Then I take a bus, a train, juggling transpo, but not to Pittsburgh, to someplace like Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee? What’s so good about Milwaukee?”

  “It just came to me, but it’s away—Midwest. That’s where I scout out the ID centers until I find one that feels right. I change my looks back, go in with my story about losing my ID while I was on a scuba trip in Cozumel.”

  Peabody gaped at her. “Seriously?”

  “It sounds stupid, and weird, and that’s why they’ll buy it if you play it right. Then I walk out with my new ID, take a shuttle to the Caymans or wherever I’ve wired the money, scoop that up, then I’d check into a nice hotel, head to the beach, and have one of those drinks with an umbrella in it.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  Eve shook her head as she hunted for parking. “Not good enough. It’s not enough money to make it all work, or be worth it. And it’s still leaving a trail if the cops keep sniffing.”

  She spotted a second-level spot and another vehicle on the hunt. Ruthlessly, she hit vertical, tipped, veered, and shoehorned her way in.

  “We’d follow the money,” she continued when she hopped out. “And we’d find it. He’d have been better off to settle for the cash around the apartment, and whatever he could carry and sell. Then run like hell, change his ID, his looks, his name, maybe settle in Milwaukee and get a nice, nondescript job. But most people are too greedy, too impatient. They want it all, and they want it now.”

  At street level she walked the half a block to Ursa’s Fine Jewelry, which hyped their expertise in sales, repair, and acquisition.

  She stepped inside to the scent of flowers, the murmur of voices, and the sparkle.

  Peabody said, “Ooooh.”

  “Stomp that down,” Eve warned.

  “The guy with the flowy silver hair and cruise ship tan’s Ursa.”

  Spotting him sliding some sparkles on a velvet tray back into a display case, Eve crossed to him. “Mr. Ursa.” She palmed her badge, watched him nod as he sighed. “Lieutenant Dallas, and Detective Peabody. We appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

  “He looked like such a nice young man.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “He said he’d recently lost his parents in an accident. He choked up for a moment, so I didn’t press there. And he said he couldn’t bear to keep the watches or the pearls. He’d tried to wear his father’s watch, he said, but it was too upsetting.”

  “I bet.”

  “I did suggest he might want to wait a little while longer, perhaps put them in a safety deposit box. That he might regret selling them at some point. But he said no, he was leaving New York, and felt he should try for a fresh start. They’re all lovely pieces, the vintage woman’s watch particularly. If you’ll wait a moment, I put them back in our vault after my daughter noticed the alert on our screen. We’ve never had this happen before. It’s very upsetting.”

  “I understand.”

  “Excuse me.”

  He walked away and through a door. As he did a woman stepped over. She had his dark blue eyes, his nose. “I’m Naomi Ursa. My father’s very upset. I saw the media bulletin about the two people—the husband and wife—killed in their apartment on the West Side. I haven’t mentioned it to my father. But those watches, those lovely antique pearls … they belonged to those poor people, didn’t they?”

  “I can’t verify that. It would help if we could see your security footage.”

  “Yes, Pop already had a copy made for you, but if you’d like to come around the counter, you can see it on our screen right here.”

  Eve started around, then had to elbow Peabody, who stood mooning over a necklace that looked like a chain of little pink tears.

  “I cued it up when you came in,” Naomi told her, and called for play.

  Eve watched Reinhold come in. No suitcases, she noted, so he’d found somewhere to stash them, somewhere to hole up. He had what she supposed he thought of as a sad face on, and arrowed straight for the older man.

  Interesting, she thought. He’d gone to the father type, the authority type, not the younger female.

  She watched the conversation, Ursa’s sympathy. He lay a velvet pad on the counter for the watches, a second for the pearl necklace.

  Not nervous, Eve thought, her focus on Reinhold rather than Ursa as the man got out his jeweler’s loop, some sort of measuring tool, and began to examine the pieces.

  Impatient, she thought again. Excited.

  Ursa spoke again, and Reinhold shook his head, looked down, looked away, pressed his lips together. Into the role he’d created for himself.

  Ursa laid a hand over Reinhold’s, and the sincere sympathy showed, even on screen. Ursa slid the velvet to the side, gestured his daughter over, whispered in her ear.

  “He’s telling me to put them away, so he doesn’t have to see them,” Naomi said. “And he offered the man a little more than he should have, but we both felt so sorry for him. And on a practical level, the antique woman’s watch would have made up for it.”

  Ursa stepped out. “I put them in boxes.” He set them on the table behind the counter, opened all three boxes. “They’re very nice pieces. The man’s watch, of course, isn’t vintage, but a very good watch, and well cared for. The woman’s is quite an exceptional piece, and in excellent condition. The pearls are lovely, and well-kept. I have the paperwork for you as well.�
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  “Thank you, Mr. Ursa. My partner’s going to give you everything you need for your insurance on this, and in addition a receipt for all three pieces. You can contact me anytime.” She drew out a card. “And please, if Mr. Reinhold comes back, don’t confront him. Find a reason to step into the back and contact me.”

  “You think he’ll come back?” Naomi pressed a hand to her throat.

  “No, I don’t. But I want you to understand, should you see him or hear from him again, he’s a dangerous man, and you need to contact the police. Peabody, make sure Ms. Ursa has everything she needs from us.”

  “Ms. Ursa, why don’t we just step over here?”

  When she had a little room, Eve spoke quietly. “You were kind to him. Don’t let that, or him, make you feel stupid.”

  The faintest smile moved Ursa’s mouth. “It shows?”

  “I bet you have a website, and it plays on being in business for a couple generations, how it’s family run, gives personal, individual service, and how you specialize in estate jewelry.”

  “You’d win the bet. We’re three generations. It’s my mother’s and father’s day off. My son and his wife.” He gestured to the other end of the store where a man and a woman waited on customers.

  “It’s one of the reasons he picked you,” Eve told him. “You’re solid, you’re respected, you’re fair. He’d have researched you, just like he researched the general value of the watches, and the necklace. And because as a family business you’d tend to be sympathetic toward someone who told you the story he told you.”

  “His father’s name is engraved on the watch. I asked for his identification.”

  “You had no reason to doubt his story, and I’m laying odds you aren’t the only one he’s told it to today.”

  Outside, Eve headed for the second-level spot. “Secure those until we get back.”