Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Her office was safer.

  Peabody clumped after her. “The crib is a crap place to sleep. I feel like I rolled around on sticks and rocks all night.”

  “I told McNab you weren’t supposed to have sex.”

  “Ha-ha. As if you can even think about it in there. Plus he may be bony, but he’s got more padding than the cots up there. Anyway, I’m going to start calling the stores we ID’d, but in the meantime, I got a couple hits on items from the Reinhold apartment.”

  “What and where?”

  “I could think more clearly if I had real coffee.”

  “For Christ’s sake get some then. What and where?”

  “The crystal bowl, a shop just around the corner from the Grandline. The thing with that—oh mama!” she added after the first big gulp of caffeine laced with milk and sugar. “The thing with that is he didn’t think it was worth all that much. Pawnbroker had a good eye, played him. That’s my take from the way the guy danced around things when I pushed him on it.”

  “Try for coherency or I’m taking that coffee and pouring what’s left over your head.”

  “Right. I started making contacts, and when I hit this place the guy got nervous. I got the ‘didn’t see the alert until a few minutes ago’ bullshit, but he came clean mostly, I think, because he heard enough media reports on the murders to get edgy.”

  “He hit that shop in the morning, not long after he hit the banks. About ten.”

  “Yeah, right about ten, with the bowl and the diamond star earrings, the bangles in one of the suitcases. He grabbed the first offer of nine hundred on the bowl, and six hundred fifty on the earrings, three hundred and a quarter on the gold bangles. Turns out the bowl is worth about ten times what Reinhold took for it.”

  “Small satisfaction on that. We need that evidence picked up.”

  “I sent out Uniform Carmichael,” Peabody confirmed. “And right after I did, another shop contacted me. I don’t know, maybe the word went out or it was just good timing. Reinhold sold the rest of the jewelry there, got another twenty-two hundred for that, then another fifteen for the menorah, and twenty-six hundred for the silver—the flatware.”

  “Adding to his pile.”

  “Yeah, not a lot, but decent when you add it up. The second shop is in the same area, about five blocks from the hotel.”

  “He kept it close in, easy for walking. But he went out of his comfort zone for the big-ticket items. The watches and the pearls.”

  “I tagged Cardininni,” Peabody added. “She got the list from the neighbor. So she’s hooking up with Carmichael, and they’ll hit both shops to pick up the evidence.”

  “That works,” Eve answered absently, her mind still on the route, the choices of liquidation sites. “He sold the bowl for a fraction of the worth, but he probably got more than he’d figured on.”

  To confirm, Peabody pulled out her PPC, brought up her notes. “Kevin Quint—pawnbroker—stated: ‘I could see he didn’t know what he had, so I lowballed it to get a sense, you know? And he snapped up the first offer like some rube from Kansas or somewhere. I figured him to negotiate some, or whine how it was his dead old granny’s, but he just said, Pay me, like that. So I did.’”

  “Almost a thousand for a stupid bowl—that’s what he thought. His lucky day. But when he gets more than he figured for all the rest, it’s a pattern even he can see so he picks a classier place for the pieces he knows have real value.”

  “Trading up,” Peabody suggested.

  “Exactly. Three generations in business, estate sales a specialty—and the sob story about his dead parents. It dawned on his stupid ass his parents had better stuff than he’d thought. It was all crap to him, just something to sell. He went to a higher-class place because he wanted to make sure he got all he could get.”

  She took a moment to get herself coffee. “I bet he was pissed he hadn’t taken more—the old stuff, the wedding canopy, the music box. Everything he considered junk. The second small satisfaction of the day,” she murmured.

  “What else have you got?”

  “I’m still working on finding the electronics,” Peabody told her. “He’d have to stick to the same area. What’s the point in running all over hauling comps and ’links? I just finished generating a map and time line of what I’ve got so far.”

  “Send it to me. I’ll merge it with what I got from his second hotel. Let’s get it up on the board.”

  “Wait.” Peabody stooped over Eve’s computer, fiddled. “You’ve got it.”

  “Keep on the electronics, and the stores we nailed down. Give me a sense if we need to go by those stores for a face-to-face. We’ll work on finding a pattern. If Feeney can spare McNab, he might have a better sense of where Reinhold would try to turn the e-stuff, using the map. I’m going to head up to EDD anyway, so I’ll check.”

  She glanced at the board. “I hit the morgue, the lab. Morris’s findings confirm ours, and Mira was right about the hair. According to Harpo, he took a good hank of it with him. And with her hair magic, she’s working on IDing the knife he used to whack it off. She’s got some blade guy on tap to assist.”

  “Birdman?”

  Eve frowned. “Yeah. Who the hell is Birdman?”

  “He transferred from Chicago about six months ago. Callendar went out with him a couple times. Didn’t gel, but he’s okay. And he really knows his sharps.”

  “Why isn’t he called Sharpman or Bladeguy?”

  “He has a parrot.”

  “That explains it. Did you read my morning report?”

  “Yeah, and added Mal Golde’s name to the hotel alert. He’s probably sold everything by now, Dallas. Maybe he’ll try to run.”

  “He’s not done yet. Let me talk to Feeney, then we’re going to generate a list of everyone he might go for. Relatives, friends, exes, crushes, bosses, coworkers, people who bugged him in school, teachers, doctors, neighbors.”

  “It’s going to be a long list.”

  “Which is why he’s not done.”

  She took the glide up, entered the three-ring circus of EDD. Sanchez’s retribution tie wouldn’t cause a single flicked eyelash among the explosive colors, dizzying patterns, and unrelenting motion.

  She turned toward the blissful peace and what she thought of as the blandure of Feeney’s office, stopped when she saw him talking to one of his geeks.

  He made a contrast in his dog-shit brown sport coat and industrial beige shirt. His wiry ginger-and-silver hair made its own mini-explosion around his comfortably saggy face.

  He swiped something onto a two-sided screen, and the geek responded with a rapid, incomprehensible spate of e-speak.

  After a few grunts, Feeney nodded. “Get it done.”

  “All over it and back, Captain.”

  The geek bounced out on platform airboots.

  Eve angled toward the open door. “Hey.”

  Feeney sat back, sipped from a mug with a starburst pattern Eve assumed had been made by his wife.

  “Hey.”

  “I got a couple things. Can I talk to you?”

  “You already are.”

  “Right.” She went in, and did something she never did. She shut the door.

  Feeney’s eyebrows lifted. “Problem, kid?”

  “Other than the fuckhole I’m after? Not really. I’d like to borrow McNab if you can spare him. I’m trying to track electronics the fuckhole took from his vics. He’s been scattering his loot over lower Manhattan, heavy on the West Side. We’re generating a route map. If we pin the electronics, it may give us more.”

  “The boy’s good at juggling. If he can keep his balls in the air, you can have him.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Did his parents, huh?”

  “Slaughtered them, then tortured and strangled his ex. He’s a fucking moron, Feeney.” She slid her hands in her pockets, jingling loose credits. “But he’s cannier than I gave him credit for initially. Right now, he’s having the best time of his life. He’s
not going to want to give that up, to give up his good time.”

  “Who’s next?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “You wanna walk me through?”

  It was generous of him. He had his own work, but he’d listen, he’d bounce things off her, let her bounce them off him. And it might come to that.

  “Actually, I had something else. Unrelated. Or maybe, in a way, it’s not altogether unrelated. This is what you want, right? What you worked for. This department, this desk, the bars.”

  Watching her, Feeney dipped his hand into a bowl and popped a candied almond.

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.”

  “That’s just right.” She nodded, pacing, jiggling credits. “You were a hell of a murder cop, Feeney.”

  “Knew how to train ’em, too.”

  She smiled a little. “That’s just right.”

  “Medal of Honor,” he said, and his basset hound face lit up. “Ain’t that a kick in the head.”

  “Yeah, it is. I guess word’s out.”

  “They don’t hand those out like gumdrops, kid. You did real good. And your man’s getting something shiny, too. I’m real proud of both of you.”

  “Thanks.” And that meant more than any medal. “It feels weird.”

  “It’s the bullshit around it feels weird,” he corrected, with precision accuracy. “But they gotta throw the confetti and blow the horn, Dallas. It’s a boost for the department, and not just the PR blah-de-blah. For morale.”

  She hadn’t wound her way through to that, but could see it now. Feeney saw it from the starting gun, she thought. And that’s why he was who he was.

  “I could do without the confetti and the blah-de-blah, but you’re right. Feeney … You could’ve taken Homicide captain when the bars came to you. But you didn’t.”

  “I’d had enough DBs for a while.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it, not really, is it?”

  “It played a part. I needed a break from them,” he admitted. “See them in your sleep, don’t you?”

  She thought of Lori Nuccio—one of many. “God, yes.”

  “I needed a break from that. Oh, we still get them, but mostly as support, not primary. Mostly, maybe even more, I wanted the e-work.”

  “You’re the best there is.”

  He popped another nut. “You don’t hear me arguing with that. It keeps my juices going. And you’re proof I’ve got a knack for training. I had a choice between EDD and Homicide. I went with my gut, so I’m here. I’ve got my boys.”

  He nodded toward his bullpen, where regardless of body shape, his boys worked to their own drummer.

  “I was a good murder cop. I’m a better e-man.”

  Not altogether satisfied, she sampled some of the nuts from his bowl. “Do you miss the field? I know you still spend plenty of time out in it, but—”

  “I spend a lot with my ass in the chair. I’m good with that. Where’s this going?”

  “Whitney offered me captain.”

  First his mouth dropped open, then it rebounded into a wide, wide grin as he slapped a hand on his desk. “About fucking time.”

  “I turned it down. My gut said no,” she continued before he could respond. “It said I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing now, and how I’m supposed to be doing it. I think I’d be a good captain. I’m a better investigator, so I said no. Am I stupid?”

  He had to blow out a long breath, take a moment to evaluate.

  “I gotta get over you said no. Okay, hell. From my seat, stupid’s not listening to your gut. You’ll take it when you’re ready, but the point is, you earned it, and you earned it long before this.”

  “That’s how I feel,” she told him. “I didn’t expect the offer, and I sure as hell didn’t expect to say no when it came. But that’s how I feel, it’s what I know.”

  “The bars matter, kid, but they’re not the day in and out for cops like you and me. It’s the job that matters. I didn’t have to teach you that. You came in knowing it.”

  “I think about somebody like Reinhold, and me reading reports on the investigation instead of investigating. Supervising or approving ops instead of running them. I don’t want to give it up, Feeney.”

  “Like Reinhold.”

  “Yeah, and like you and me—in a twisted way—he found what he really wants. He found it the minute he stuck the knife in his mother’s belly. He didn’t work for it, train for it, he wouldn’t risk his life for it, but he’ll learn, Feeney. With every one he kills, he’ll learn something new.”

  “Go back to the beginning.”

  “Yeah, I’m heading there. Thanks.” Feeling more settled, she popped another nut. “All around.”

  She went, circling around the movement and mayhem to McNab’s cube.

  “If you don’t have anything hot, you belong to me today.”

  “I’ve got some warm, no hot. I can multitask.”

  “Coordinate with Peabody. Find the electronics. When you do, take them apart. I want anything and everything. He had to use the ones in his parents’ place to do some of his research, his financial maneuvers. He’d have wiped them.”

  McNab smiled. “He’d think he wiped them. Nothing’s ever all the way clean.”

  “Find them,” she repeated.

  She went back down to Homicide, and Peabody got up to follow her into her office.

  “Suit store? On The Rack. He went in on Sunday, bought the suit, a couple shirts, some ties, socks. He had the suit altered, arranged to pick it up on Monday morning. Said he had other shopping to do. The clerk described him, once I loosened him up, as a snotty little jerk.”

  “Sounds like a good judge of character.”

  “I’ve got a list of what Reinhold bought there, and at Running Man—they were ready with it.”

  “It’s Roarke’s,” Eve said simply.

  “Yeah, I got that. Report’s already sent to your unit.”

  “Good. McNab’s going to coordinate with you on the electronics. Keep at it.”

  “We’re open all day,” Peabody said and headed back to her desk.

  Eve closed herself in her office. She worked with the maps, expanded her board. Then sat, drinking coffee, studying the route he’d taken, his timing.

  Scanning Peabody’s reports on his purchases, she cemented her image of him.

  Suits, ties, shirts—but beyond that primarily the trendy. Airskids and boots, jeans, a leather jacket, the cargo pockets McNab was so fond of, prime athletic wear, silk boxers.

  Clothes, she thought, that reflected his own image of himself. Important, stylish, edgy, and successful.

  Rich. He saw himself as a rich man now.

  She called up the locations of the stores he’d visited, added them in, calculated the most probable route and timing, added that.

  Skirting his old neighborhood. Never going into it, or not deep. Detouring out to the East Side—fresh turf.

  He buys things along the route, for his new look, for his new vocations. A suit, shoes, cord, tape, athleticwear, a knife. A new ’link, but a drop ’link at least for now. A tablet? A PPC? Wouldn’t he need to continue to research, to keep up with the media reports while on the street?

  ID’s the sticker, she decided. He has to get a new one. Would he, as Roarke suggested, try to create one on his own?

  Curious, she brought up his file, ran through his employment and education history. No stellar comp skills or experience, she noted, despite the short, aborted attempt to work in comp game design.

  Crapped out there, barely passed basic Comp Science in high school, and that with an extra semester. Skin of his teeth in his two college e-courses.

  No, he didn’t have the chops to create a passable ID on his own. He had to pay for one, or find someone to do it for him.

  She added every e-instructor he’d had, grade school to his short college career. Lab partners? she wondered. She’d check on them when she contacted the instructors.

  Then
there was Golde—he had the chops, Eve imagined—but he wouldn’t cooperate with Reinhold. Still, she took the time to contact him, to confirm his safety.

  She learned he was still at his parents’, and intended to stay there.

  Satisfied with that, for now, Eve looked back at her board. Start at the beginning, she reminded herself.

  As soon as she generated what would be a very, very long list of possibles, she was going back to the beginning, and the Reinhold apartment.

  It was starting to piss him off.

  “You’re stalling, Ms. Farnsworth. I feel a snip coming on.”

  Her eyes met his, wearily. “I tried to teach you, Jerry, doing a project right takes time. If you don’t do this right, it won’t pass. If it doesn’t pass, I know you’ll hurt me. I don’t want you to hurt me anymore, Jerry.”

  She was stalling, a little. It took time to do a project right, especially when she needed him to carefully insert a beacon that would—she hoped—alert the police if and when the ID was scanned.

  Just as she’d needed him to undercode a message into the financial routing she prayed someone with exceptional e-skills would find.

  Jerry’s skills were good—wasted potential, she thought—but he was lazy, simply too lazy to look deep, to learn more.

  The ID was delicate and complicated work, and he was ham-handed and impatient. But they were nearly there.

  And she’d wheedled out a little water, for herself and Snuffy, though he’d dripped it into her mouth, then her dog’s, a few stingy drops at a time.

  “I’ve got an appointment, goddamn it. If I miss it because you’re screwing around, you’re losing two fingers, and your ugly dog loses an eye.”

  He took out his knife, snapped out the blade, and waved it back and forth in front of her face. “I bet I can pop his eye right out with this.”

  Through sheer force of will, she kept her gaze calm and steady on his. “It’s not going to take much longer, Jerry. It’s a lot of data to upload if we’re going to give you a complete background. Now you need to key in the next code, exactly as I tell you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He checked his wrist unit, one he intended to replace with something mag before he met the realtor. And Asshole was due back any minute with the take from hocking the first round of electronics.