Thankless in Death

by J. D. Robb

  WHEN JOE PULLED OUT HIS ’LINK, SAW DALlas, Lieutenant Eve, on the readout, he was walking the last couple blocks to his last appointment of the day. Of the week, he thought, and looked at it as a bonus.

  He smirked at the readout, hit Ignore.

  Stupid cop, he thought, trying to scare him. More, trying to shove Jerry’s problems on him. Maybe Jerry’d gone wig, maybe he had, but it had nothing to do with him.

  Anyway, no chance, at all, shriveled-balls Reinhold worked up the guts to actually kill anybody. Or dug up the smarts.

  The way Joe looked at it—and the cop would, too, if she wasn’t an idiot—somebody busted into the Reinhold place to rob them, ended up killing them. Probably did Jerry, too, or took him hostage.

  They got his ID, scared him into telling them about the bank accounts. And who knew the old Reinholds had that much scratch? If he’d known he’d have worked them into buying some nice, fat insurance policies.

  Too late now. Opportunity missed.

  As for Nice-Tits Nuccio? She’d probably had a new boyfriend who’d gone whack on her. If she nagged the new one the way she had Jerry, it was just a given. Nagging, whining, complaining was what she’d done best—and always looked for a chance to spoil a good time.

  And Farnsworth? Please. The rich old bitch had been prime to be taken out. People got killed in New York every day, for God’s sake. It was just part of the urban experience.

  You had to be smart, take care of yourself, and watch your ass.

  Simple as that.

  Better yet, get yourself enough scratch—which he was working on—to get yourself into a frosty penthouse with doormen, cams, and all kinds of mag-ass security shit. Maybe a driver and a bodyguard, the kind who watched your back when you took some fine piece of ass to the slickest club in the city.

  Yeah, he was working on that.

  And when his great-grandmother finally croaked—which couldn’t be soon enough—he stood to inherit a decent little pile. The old hag hoarded money like a starving man hoarded bread or whatever.

  He’d take the little pile and head back to Vegas. He’d hit for eight big the last time, close to ten when you added in the smaller wins.

  He’d hit for more next trip out.

  Then he’d get himself a fine and frosty place.

  Like this one, he decided when he reached the address. It took up a freaking block—maybe more. And it shone in the lowering gloom of the rainy fall evening.

  The droid’s instructions had been very specific, and Joe figured a man who used a droid as an assistant was picky and paranoid.

  Fine with him.

  He’d done a quick check on Anton Trevor, and the picky, paranoid future client was rolling in it. The guy wanted to discuss business on his own turf? No problem. The client was always right, even the fuckheads. He wanted to revamp his insurance, and possibly discuss a position with his firm.

  I’m all over that, Joe thought. About damn time he started rubbing elbows with the real movers, the real shakers.

  If this went as well as he planned, he’d buy himself and his date a bottle of champagne, toss a little of his Vegas winnings around to celebrate.

  Today, he thought, might just be the first day of his real life.

  As instructed, he coded in the number the droid had given him. And the droid answered immediately.

  “Answering for Mr. Trevor.”

  “Yeah, hey. Joe Klein here. I’m outside the building, main entrance.”

  “Very good, Mr. Klein. Please remain there, and I will come down to escort you.”

  “No problem.” While he waited he texted his date for the evening.

  Might be a little late, baby. Got a big fish on the line.

  He checked the time before he pushed his ’link back in his pocket. Maybe more than a little late, figuring an hour for the meeting, more if it went really well. Then he’d need to go home, shower, change, get buffed for the night.

  She’d wait, he thought with a smirk. People were going to get used to waiting for Joe Klein.

  He spotted the droid, moved forward.

  “Mr. Klein.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please put these on.” The droid handed him a hat and a pair of dark sunshades.

  “What for, man?”

  “Mr. Trevor prefers to keep his business and his visitors private, even from building security.”

  “Whatever.” Amused, Joe put on the hat, the shades, and went inside with the droid.

  The place had everything—totally upscale, moving maps, fancy to the ult shops, women with fuckable bodies, men who looked important without trying.

  The droid led the way through, stopped at a short bank of silver-fronted elevators, then stood for a scan before using a swipe card, then a manual code.

  “That’s a lot of lockdown for an elevator.”

  “Private elevator, limited access.”

  Joe stepped in—silver walls, even a black leather bench, and a pot of white flowers. In a frigging elevator.

  Yeah, this was his life—a preview.

  Once again the droid swiped, keyed in, submitted to a scan. “So, what’s the boss like?” Joe asked as the elevator rose without a sound.

  “Mr. Trevor is very particular and very private. He looks forward to your arrival.”

  “Excellent.” Joe patted his briefcase. “I’ve got a lot to show him.”

  They stepped off into a wide, private foyer. More flowers, a mural of the city painted on the walls.

  And for a third time, the droid was scanned, used the swipe, the code, then stepped back to allow Joe to enter.

  He saw the view first—the wall of glass with the skyline, the lights, the scope of wealth behind it.

  He began to smile as the door clicked shut, the lock snicked behind him.

  Then he frowned, noting the clear plastic covering the glossy floor of the spacious living area.

  “What? He’s just moving in.”

  “You could say that,” Reinhold commented, and choking up some on the bat, swung it hard.

  Eve sat with the relatives, as she collectively thought of them. Mostly female here, and kids apparently considered too young to join in the war being raged outside.

  She liked them. How could she help it? Even if she didn’t know exactly what to do with them, from the woman she couldn’t quite get used to calling Granny (I mean, really, how weird was that) to the fat-cheeked baby girl (assuming the pink band around her bald head meant girl) who stared at her endlessly while she sucked on one of those plug deals.

  Some of them did handwork—crocheting or knitting or whatever people did with balls of yarn and long needles. Or had tea, or wine as she did, or beer.

  Most chattered happily. Sinead did, not even missing a beat when one of the younger women passed her the infant who made mewling noises like a starving cat.

  “This is the newest of us,” Sinead told Eve. “Keela. Seven weeks in the world.”

  Keela wore a pink and white knit cap with a pom-pom over what was probably another bald head. She let out a distinct belch when Sinead rubbed her back.

  “There now, that’s better now, isn’t it? She’s fed and dry and happy if you’d like to hold her.”

  Rather hold a ticking homemade boomer, Eve thought, and managed an “Um …” before—thanks be to God—the front door burst open and the ragged and motley football crew charged, limped, all but crawled inside.

  “Look at the lot of you!” That came from Granny holding court by the fire. “Dirty and wet and soiling the floor, you are! Outside and hose off, or up to bathe the lot of you. Not a one of you are welcome in here until you do. You as well,” she added, pointing a sharp finger at Roarke.

  “Granny!” Sean sent up a protest. “We left our boots at the door, and we could eat a cow right from the field we’re that starved.”

  “Not until you’re washed.”

  Eve saw her own escape as everyone who’d come in began to slink off again.

  “I’l
l, ah, be a minute.”

  She dashed for it, and managed to make it to the bedroom as Roarke stripped off his sodden, ruined clothes.

  “It was a sad and pitiful rout,” he announced. “I’m shamed to have been a part of it.”

  “Buck up. I’m just going to sneak into my office for a few minutes, read your report, check a couple things.”

  “It’ll be dinner within the hour. If you can’t make it down, I’ll send your regrets.”

  “It shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”

  “I’ll come along myself, see what you’ve got, before I go down.”

  “Good.”

  She made her escape, went straight for Roarke’s report.

  She could tell he’d dumbed it down to layman’s terms, but it still took her time to decipher.

  Since they’d been able to regenerate some of the wiped data, they had the beginnings of routing on the accounts, and she took some satisfaction there.

  If they had some, they’d get more.

  He’d included what he and the e-team agreed was part of a sub-code, shadowed in with the other data.

  It looked like every other computer code she’d ever studied. Which meant it looked incomprehensible.

  She brought up her map on the wall screen to keep it settled in her head while she read through other reports, and went through incomings to be certain every one of the details assigned had clocked in with an A-OK.

  “Protection details, where we have them, are five-by-five,” she said when she heard Roarke come in. “I’ve read your report, but I don’t speak geek, so some of it’s lost on me. You can walk me through it, and I’ll walk you through the map I’ve got going on—”

  She looked over.

  Not Roarke, damn it. Sinead. Who stood, pale as glass, staring at Eve’s murder board.

  “Hey, listen.” Eve shoved up fast, moved over to block Sinead’s view. “You don’t need to see that. I’m coming right down.”

  Sinead merely laid a hand on Eve’s arm, shifted to the side. “This boy here—for he’s hardly more, is he? This is the one who did this?”

  “Sinead—”

  “I know violence and cruelty. It was my own sister, wasn’t it, who was murdered? My twin. And not a day goes by, not a day, I promise you, I don’t think of my Siobhan, and the loss of her. He killed his own parents, they say. His own ma and da.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he did that to this young girl.” She touched a finger to Lori Nuccio’s photos—before and after. “And this to a woman who was his teacher. I know of this, as I follow what you do. And it was only one of the reasons why I was so proud today to see you and our Roarke honored. And now …”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  Again Sinead touched her arm. “Do you wonder, ever, what makes a person capable of taking a life when there’s no threat to his own or another? What makes them end life, and so often, so very often, with real cruelty, even with pleasure.”

  “Every day. Sometimes finding out why matters. Sometimes it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Oh no, I’m thinking it matters always.” Voice and gaze steady, Sinead angled to look at Eve. “And matters to you. How could you face this day after day, year after year unless it mattered? I was so proud today, and thought I could never be prouder of the pair of you. But I am now. Seeing this, I am prouder yet.”

  She took a long breath. “You’d have found him, Patrick Roarke, for taking the life of our Siobhan. You’d have found him, and seen him pay for it.”

  “I’d have tried.”

  “No one ever did, you see, and that was hard and bitter. We needed someone to try.”

  On another long, slow breath, she pushed back her gilded red hair. “I can tell you from one who never found that justice, it’s needed. When someone did for him, left him dead in an alley, I was glad of it. But it didn’t close that awful hole inside. Time did some of it, much time, and family. And then Roarke came to my door, and that gave me what I needed after all those years. I thank God for that, and him. But I’m telling you, and hope you already know, what you do, beyond the law of it, is needed.”

  “Sinead.” Roarke stepped up, pressed a handkerchief in her hand.

  “Ah well.” Sighing now, she dabbed at tears. “The world can be so dark. It’s foolish to deny it, and the Irish know the dark better than some in any case. It reminds us to hold on to the light, every minute we can, and to prize it. You’re a light to me.” She kissed Roarke’s cheeks. “Don’t ever forget it.”

  He murmured to her in Irish, made her smile, turn to Eve. “He said I showed him light when he’d expected the dark, but the fact is, we did that for each other. And I’m keeping you from where you’re both needed. Don’t worry about the family. We’ll be fine, even grand, as Summerset’s promised enough food for the army we are. We’ll send up some for you, all right with that?”

  “There’s nothing more, really, to do tonight,” Roarke told her, glanced at Eve.

  “No, there’s not. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, we’re not going to find him and stop him tonight.”

  “Then you will tomorrow, unless you’re after telling me the entire New York City Police and Security Department is wrong about the pair of you.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Then come down for a bit. I find when I’ve a problem I can’t fix or solve, doing something entirely else can help me find the way through. God knows, the family is something entirely else.”

  She took them both by the hand.

  “And we’ve gifts from Ireland we’re all but dying to give you.”

  “All right.” Nothing more to do now, Eve reminded herself, though it stuck in her throat, burned in her gut.

  And still, she closed the door to the office and the murder board as she went out.

  Joe didn’t come around as soon as Reinhold had anticipated. He’d given his old pal a good hard hit—maybe harder than he should have, considering—but all that power and fury just came boiling out.

  Besides, he’d wanted Joe with X’s in his eyes while the droid dumped him in the sleep chair.

  He’d already had the droid cover the chair with plastic from one of the big rolls. It was a damn fine chair, mag leather—the real deal—and in a rich man’s chocolate color.

  He didn’t want to mess it up.

  He figured the sleep chair was just another inspiration. He could work on Joe as he sat, reclined, or laid full out. The multipositions offered so many choices.

  He’d dubbed it his Kill Seat, and had already decided anybody he did here in home sweet home would get to try it out.

  He’d been anxious to get started once he had Joe secured with rope and tape, but he hadn’t thought to get any more of those wake-the-hell-up-asshole capsules.

  He considered sending the droid out for some, then opted to have it fix him dinner, then shut down. That way he could eat, then work in private.

  He chowed down on a double cow burger and fries—the real deal—and thought he’d never tasted anything as absolutely ultra. He watched a slasher vid while he ate, considering it research, and was about to top things off with a bowl of chocolate cookie ice cream when his guest moaned.

  He could wait on dessert. Time to start the main feature.

  He hadn’t taped Joe’s mouth. Reinhold had tested the soundproofing himself by strolling out into the communal hall with his own music up to blast. And hadn’t heard a thing.

  He switched the entertainment unit to thrasher rock, but not too loud. He and Joe needed to have a conversation.

  Joe continued to moan. His eyes were about halfway open, and glassy. A thin trail of blood out of his left ear had dried, and more matted in his hair, smeared on the plastic covering the chair.

  “Wake up, dickwad.” Reinhold punctuated the order with two hard slaps—each cracking the air and throwing Joe’s head right, then left.

  His eyes rolled around a little, then focused on Reinhold’s face.

>   “Jerry. What’s going on, Jerry? God, my head. My head hurts.”

  “Aw, want a blocker?”

  “I don’t—I can’t move my arms. I can’t—” Comprehension dawned slowly, and behind it came the terror. “Jerry. What’re you doing? Where am I?”

  “We’re hanging, man. In my new place. What do you think? Frosted extreme, right? Check the view.” Roughly, he spun the chair, slamming it to a halt when it faced the wall of glass.

  “Jerry, you gotta let me go. Come on, Jer, stop fucking around. I’m hurt, man.”

  “You think you’re hurt?” Thrilled, somehow more thrilled than with any of the others, Jerry leaped in front of the chair, slapped his hands on the armrests, and soaked up the wild fear on his friend’s face. “We haven’t even started yet.”

  “Jerry, come on, man, it’s Joe. We’re buds.”

  “Buds?” Bending down, Reinhold snatched up a length of hose he’d had the droid cut from a reel. He lashed it across Joe’s chest like a whip, got a shocked, high-pitched yelp. “You think we’re buds?”

  He lashed again, hardening at Joe’s scream of pain. “Were we buds when you dared me to steal that candy from Schumaker’s? You made me do it, you fuck.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! We were kids!”

  “How about when you gave me the wrong answers on that history test so I flunked it? Or when you screwed April Gardner when you knew I was going to ask her out?”

  He kept lashing as he raged, kept lashing as Joe screamed. As he cried, blubbered out pleas and apologies.

  He stopped to catch his breath while Joe’s heaved and hitched, while tears ran down Joe’s face. He’d already wet his pants, and that was its own satisfaction.

  “Please, please, please.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you, Joe. You made fun of me that whole summer I had to take Comp Science over, rubbed my face in it every day. Just like you rubbed my face in it in Vegas, and over Lori when she kicked me out.”

  “I didn’t mean it!” He sobbed it out, all but choking on his own tears. “I was just fooling around.”

  “Hey, me, too,” Reinhold claimed and slashed the hose against Joe’s crotch.

  The sound Joe made was like music.

  Reinhold tossed the hose aside, went to get a beer. And a sap.