Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He posed, tapping thumbs to his chest. “I’ve got all your money. I’ve got all your shit that’s worth taking. I look iced, and you look like crap.”

  Smiling, smiling, he stepped closer to her. “And you did everything I told you to do. You’re the useless one. The stupid one. And I’m the one who’s going to live in a totally mag apartment. I’ll probably get one in London or Paris, too, once I finish my … personal business and hire out. People pay a lot of money for an experienced hit man—governments, too.”

  His eyes narrowed at the derision in hers. “You don’t think I can make the big bucks, bitch? I already did, and most of it used to be yours. With my rep I can name my own price. I’m rich, and I’m famous, and you’re sitting in your own piss. Who’s the winner now? Who’s the winner now?”

  He ripped the tape off her mouth, taking dried flesh with it.

  She looked him hard in the eye. Her voice was little more than a croak, as dry as her skin. But she’d have her say. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a vicious little turd.”

  He punched her. He hadn’t intended to because, fuck, it hurt his hand. But nobody was going to talk to him like that. Nobody.

  “You think you’re better than me. You think I’m nothing? I’ll show you nothing.”

  She knew she was dead before he put the plastic bag over her head. She’d come to accept it. Still she fought. Not to survive, not any longer. But to cause him pain. To give him something back.

  She rocked in the chair, even as he twisted the opening of the bag tight, even as he tried to wrap the tape around and around. She shoved back with what strength she had left, hoarded the small satisfaction when she felt the chair slam into him, heard him yelp and curse over the roar of blood in her head.

  The chair overbalanced, her weight carrying it back. Though she gulped like a fish, her body screaming for air, somewhere inside she smiled when he screamed in pain.

  He kicked her. Her belly exploded with agony, her chest burned, and everything began to shake.

  Then it quieted, and all slid away.

  She died with the smile deep in her heart.

  He kept kicking her long after she went still. He couldn’t stop.

  She’d called him nothing. She’d hurt him.

  It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. So he kicked her, and he wept and raged until he’d exhausted himself.

  Dropping into a chair he struggled to get his breath back. His foot throbbed like a rotted tooth where the chair, with her fat ass in it, had dropped like a boulder. And his midsection hurt, felt bruised and tender where she’d slammed the chair back against him.

  He should’ve sliced her up. Fuck the mess, he should have sliced her to pieces like he’d done with his old lady.

  Now he was sweaty, shaky, and he thought maybe something in his foot might be broken.

  He ought to burn her house down and her with it. That’s what he ought to do.

  But he wasn’t stupid, he thought as he swiped tears away. He wasn’t nothing. The longer it took them to find her fat, dead ass the better.

  Besides, they’d never tie him to it. Who’d tie him to the old bitch? Some bitch who taught high school Comp Science?

  All he had to do now was walk away. And he could soak himself, and his aching foot, in his new jet tub.

  He rose, let out a whining whimper, and was forced to limp out of the room. Blinking back tears of self-pity, he hobbled downstairs where the droid stood awaiting further instructions.

  “Take the rest of this, on foot.” He made another memo cube, with the address, instructions. “Straight there, straight to the concierge. Give her that memo, and get things set up. Where’s the money?”

  “Here, sir.” The droid handed him an envelope.

  After a moment’s consideration, Reinhold pulled out a few bills. “Walk to West Broadway, that’s far enough. Take a cab from there. No leave those,” he said when the droid reached for the duffel and one of the suitcases. “I’ll take those. I want everything set up before I get there. Then you go out, buy what you need to make me a big steak dinner, and a martini.”

  “Yes, sir. Gin or vodka?”

  Reinhold went blank. He hadn’t known martinis came in more than one variety. “What do you think, Asshole? Vodka—and don’t get cheap shit. Now get moving.”

  Reinhold hobbled into the kitchen. He’d seen blockers in there. Hunting them up, he took two. Then out of pique, he yanked dishes, glassware out of cabinets, hurled them against the wall, used a kitchen knife to gouge at the refrigerator, the front of the dishwasher, across the counter, the cabinets.

  And felt better.

  Satisfied, he went out, retrieved his duffel, the last red suitcase, and walked out of the house. But even with the blockers and the release of breaking and destroying, the foot troubled him. After two blocks, he ran a search for the closest clinic on his latest victim’s hand-held, limped another block before he managed to catch a cab.

  He should’ve snipped off her toes, he decided. He should’ve made her scream. Being dead wasn’t enough, not when she’d hurt him first.

  He slumped in the corner of the cab and dreamed of his new place, a jet tub, a manly drink, and money to burn.

  Eve rang the bell by the door of the Golde apartment. Within seconds she heard locks clicking, snicking, sliding. The woman who answered was still on the shy side of fifty, and wore lip dye Eve assumed Peabody would claim popped. She boasted impressive breasts and broad shoulders, and gave Eve a dead-on measuring stare.

  “You’re taller than I thought.”

  “Okay” was the best Eve could offer.

  “Could use some meat on you. Skinny girls,” she said to Peabody with a quick, crooked smile. “Hard to understand them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on in. Mal’s back in the den putting in a new screen. I don’t allow the screen in the living room. Living room’s are for living, and living means having conversations.”

  There was plenty of seating for just that—chairs, sofa, cushioned squares. Where most might’ve put that wall screen, she’d opted for shelves loaded with photos, fussy pieces, and several books.

  “I like books,” she said, noting Eve’s gaze. “Pricier than discs or downloads, but I like holding them, looking at them.”

  “My husband does, too.”

  “Well, he can afford it. My kids give them to me for special occasions. You go ahead and sit down. I’ll get Mal, and he’s got Davey with him back there. I’m going to fix you a snack.”

  “There’s no need to bother with that, Mrs. Golde.”

  Mrs. Golde merely gave Eve that dead-on stare again. “I’m fixing you a snack.” She walked off in navy skids.

  “We’re getting a snack.” Peabody grinned.

  Eve shook her head. Mrs. Golde struck her as a woman who ran her home and her family, and had enough punch left over to run most of the neighborhood. It was mildly intimidating.

  Mal came out with a shorter, beefier guy with a lot of brown hair. Eve recognized Dave Hildebran from his ID shot, and saw in both of them barely contained nerves.

  “Um, Lieutenant.” Mal started to extend his hand, obviously wondered if he should, started to pull it back. Eve solved his dilemma by taking it for a brisk shake. “Mal. Mr. Hildebran?”

  “Dave. Nice to meetcha.” Immediately, he flushed. “I mean …”

  “I got it.”

  “I asked Dave to come over when you said you wanted to come by. We’re both just … God, this is just fucking awful.”

  “You watch your language in this house!” The booming order came from the back of the apartment, and had both men wincing.

  “Sorry, Ma! Like I said, I’m going to stay here until …” He trailed off again. “And Dave’s staying with his folks, too. It just feels like we should.”

  “The neighborhood can’t talk about anything else,” Dave put in. “People really liked Mr. and Mrs. R. And even if they didn’t, well, Jes … jeez,” he corrected with a quick
glance toward the kitchen.

  “They were good people.” Mrs. Golde came back in carrying an enormous tray.

  “Lemme get that, Ma.” Mal muscled it from her, set it on the table in front of the sofa. In addition to little plates, glasses, a big clear pitcher of some sort of deep amber liquid, the tray held tiny sandwiches—basically a bite—cookies sparkling under a dusting of what must’ve been sugar, and a ring of carrot sticks circling some chunky white dip with green flecks.

  “We could’ve come on back to the kitchen, Ma.”

  “Living room’s for company.” In what Eve now saw as her nobullshit way, Mrs. Golde hefted the pitcher, poured out glasses. “This is sassafras tea, and it’s good for you. It’s my grandma’s recipe.”

  “My granny makes that.” Delighted, Peabody accepted a glass.

  “Does she now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” After a sip, Peabody grinned like a child. “It’s got to be the same recipe, or close to it. It really takes me back.”

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Detective Peabody. My granny’s a Norwicki.”

  “Polish.” On a wide, beaming smile, Mrs. Golde pointed an approving finger. “My grandma was, too. A Wazniac. She died just last year. A hundred and eighteen. Went skydiving two weeks before she slipped off in her sleep. Can’t say better than that.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Eve supposed this was living room conversation, but they didn’t have time for it. “We have a few follow-up questions,” she began. “We believe Jerald Reinhold will target someone else.”

  “I kept thinking, I don’t know, he just had some sort of break-down. But after I heard about Lori, what he did to her.” Mal stared down at his hands. They held steady, but his voice shook. “I don’t know how he could do that. I don’t know how he could do what he’s done.”

  “He’s a spoiled, good-for-nothing whiner, and always has been.”

  Mal rolled his eyes toward his mother. “Ma.”

  “Actually, I’d like to hear your opinion, Mrs. Golde.”

  After sending her son a smug look, Mrs. Golde nodded at Eve. “You show some sense. I watched him grow up, didn’t I? His ma and I, and Davey’s ma, too, we spent a lot of time together, or handling each other’s boys. My Mal’s a good boy, and it’s not bragging to say so. He had his times, sure, and he got slapped down for them when he needed to be.”

  “Still happens,” Mal muttered but with a smile.

  “Always will. I’m your ma, birth to earth. Davey here, he’s a good boy. Not that his ma and my own self didn’t slap him down a time or two—and still will,” she added, jabbing a finger at him. “Barb and Carl, they were good people, and they did the best they could with that boy. But he was born a whiner, and he never did grow out of it.”

  She plucked up a carrot stick, waved it. “Somebody else’s fault always with him. Never appreciated anything they did for him, and always found fault. Maybe I could say they indulged him more than they should, but he was their only chick, and they did their best by him. Worked with him on schoolwork, even hired on tutors when he didn’t do so well. Boy wanted to play ball, so Carl—and the man, bless him, wasn’t much of an athlete—he spent hours throwing the ball or chasing it with Jerry. I remember when these two, Jerry and that Joe Klein, swiped candy and comic discs from down at Schumaker’s, we all—Barb, Davey’s ma, and Joe’s and me—we all dragged these boys in there to make it right.”

  “Worse day of my life,” Mal mumbled.

  Mrs. Golde’s expression clearly transmitted she was fine with that. “Davey and Mal here, they were shamed and sorry, and rightfully. That Joe, he was mostly shamed and sorry he got caught, but Jerry? He was mad.”

  “He was,” Dave confirmed, and took a cookie. “He went off on me. He said I’d screwed the whole thing up. He punched my guts out before Mal pulled him off.”

  Mrs. Golde’s finger ticked between the two men. “You never told me that.”

  “Ma, I can’t tell you everything.”

  “Hah.” Her sniff was her opinion on that. “Jerry apologized to the Schumakers, sure, had no choice with his mother holding him by the ear and seeing he did. And when a rock went through Schumaker’s store window one night a couple weeks later, I know Jerry’s the one who threw it.”

  “You don’t know that, Ma. And we weren’t there. I swore to you then, and I swear to you now, we didn’t do it.”

  “I’m not saying you did. If I thought different, you still wouldn’t be sitting down easy. Barb knew it. She didn’t tell Carl, but she told me. Sitting back in the kitchen, and shedding some tears over it, too. Couldn’t make him say he did it, but she knew.”

  “Is Schumaker’s still there?”

  “Fifty-one years, same location. Frank and Maisy.”

  Eve noted it down. “What I want from you is the names of anyone you can think of he has something against, he had trouble with, who he complained about. Going back. I don’t mean just recent problems.”

  “I hope you’ve got a lot of time,” Mrs. Golde said, and helped herself to a sandwich bite. “Because that boy stacked up grudges like a kid with building blocks. I’d be one of them.”

  “He’s not going to hurt you, Ma. I’d kill him first.” Mal’s face went fierce as he turned to Eve. “I mean it.”

  “You’re a good boy.” Mrs. Golde patted his arm. “But I think this skinny policewoman and her friend with the Polish granny can take care of Jerry.”

  “That’s just what we’re going to do,” Eve said. “We have his former employers, his coworkers, you and your families, and Joe Klein and his. Who else comes to mind? How about other ex-girlfriends?”

  “Lori was the first one he lived with, was really in a serious deal with,” Mal began.

  “There was Cindy McMahon,” Dave put in. “They dated pretty regular for a few months a couple years ago.”

  “Is she in the neighborhood?” Eve asked.

  “She was. She moved to East Washington just, I don’t know, like in June maybe?”

  “She got a good job,” Mrs. Golde added. “A media job, writing news and such. She’s coming home for Christmas though. I talked to her ma.”

  “I think he’ll stay local, for now.”

  “There was Marlene Wizlet.”

  “He never dated her,” Dave objected.

  “He wanted to. She shut him down. That’s the kind of thing you mean, right?” Mal asked Eve.

  “Yeah, it is. Do you have contact info?”

  “I can get it. She lives Upper East, with some guy. She’s modeling. She’s really frosty, and Jerry had a thing for her. She wouldn’t give him the first look, and told him to screw off.”

  They ran through a few others, right back to the sweaty days of puberty, with Mrs. Golde adding in the occasional parent, shopkeeper, older brother, younger sister.

  She’d been right, Eve thought. A long list.

  “How about teachers, instructors, coaches?”

  “He was really piss—upset,” Mal corrected quickly, “with Coach Boyd. He was our Little League coach for three years. Jerry got picked off twice trying to steal bases after Coach told him not to, so Coach benched him for three games. Then we were in the championship game, and Coach told him to take the pitch—their guy threw a bunch outside, and he wanted him to try to take for a walk, but Jerry swung away, and struck out. We lost, and he blamed Coach. Wouldn’t play after that. Shit. Sorry, Ma. I just started realizing how many people he had a hard-on for. How many people didn’t do anything for it.”

  “You’ve got a good streak of loyalty, Mal.” She handed him a cookie. “That’s nothing to apologize for.”

  By the time they got to high school, the list of names hit unwieldy. Considering how to refine it, Eve took a cookie without thinking. “These are … amazing.”

  Mrs. Golde preened. “Family recipe, and you have to be willing to spring for real sugar, and plenty. I’ll give you some to take.”

  “Mr. Garber caught him cheati
ng in Global Studies. He got suspended and grounded for it.”

  Mal shrugged at Dave. “Yeah, but he didn’t really care. He said it was like hooky with permission.”

  “Nobody likes getting caught cheating,” Eve put in, and noted the name down.

  “Well, he was a lot more pissed, seriously pissed. Damn it, Ma, sorry.”

  “You’re excused, considering the circumstances.”

  “It was Ms. Farnsworth, Computer Science.”

  “Oh yeah.” Dave nodded. “That burned his … chaps. He flunked. Truth is, though I said I was on his side back then, she gave him like six chances, even worked with him after school, but he didn’t care. He hated her. And when he flunked, he got grounded again, and worse, he had to go to summer school.”

  “We ragged on him,” Mal added. “We really rubbed his face in it. Especially Joe. I know there were some instructors when he was in college, before he crapped out. But I don’t know who. I went to NYU, so we didn’t see each other much during the semester.”

  “Let’s add an element. He needs money, or things he can liquidate into money. Anyone you’ve mentioned have money, to speak of? Or any sort of valuable collection you know of?”

  “Marlene’s making some bucks now. She’s raking it in with the modeling, and I heard the guy she’s with has a pile.” Mal’s face screwed up with thought. “We always figured the Schumakers had the scratch. And if he’s got it against any of us, Joe likes to buy big-deal stuff. He doesn’t keep a lot of money because he blows it on things.”

  “He’s a showoff, always was. And he’s got a mean streak.” Mrs. Golde pointed at her son before he could protest.

  “He does,” Dave confirmed. “He’s tough to be friends with, when you think about it. Farnsworth,” Dave added, with a grin. “Everybody said she was rolling.”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Golde lifted a finger. “Mostly her dad’s money, if I remember. He died pretty young. And her husband had some, too, and he died in a car wreck about six, seven years back. I remember I sent her a sympathy card. She has money, or had it anyway. She always had nice shoes. Not flashy, but quality. And she donated comp equipment to the school.”