Thankless in Death (26 page)

More rope, more tape, a carving set. He smiled at the shining blade, at the long prongs of the fork. Perfect for a turkey—or whatever you wanted to slice up.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” He pulled out the portable saw, flicked the switch. And grinned as the twin, toothy blades whirred.

“Oh yeah. We’re going to have the best Thanksgiving ever.”

He set the saw down, laid flat on his back, and laughed like a loon.

He honestly, sincerely, had never been happier in his life.

E
ve circled, bisected, intersected, detoured, expanded, contracted. She spent more time on the ’link in an afternoon than she normally did in a month.

And couldn’t find him.

Peabody poked her head in the door, correctly gauged her lieutenant’s mood. She might have preferred just slinking off again, but ordered herself to woman-up.

“Dallas.”

“Do you know how many supervisors, managers, landlords, owners, and clerks start their stupid holiday a day early?”

“Not exactly.”

“All of them, or damn near. Everybody’s head’s up a turkey’s ass.”

“Well … lots of people have to travel to—”

“He’s not traveling,” Eve snapped out. “He’s dug in. And he’s got a target. Whoever it is isn’t going to get a nice piece of pumpkin pie tomorrow.”

“We’ve got protection on—”

“We’ve got protection on most of the people we know or have reason to believe may be a target. Most gives him room, and that doesn’t begin to cover ones we’ve missed.”

She shoved at her hair, pulled at it in frustration. “He’s a frigging amateur, Peabody. He shouldn’t have gotten through the first day, and instead, he’s had almost a week free and clear since his first kill.”

“Dallas, we didn’t even know about the first two DBs until Monday. There was no way we could know.”

“That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? He just keeps catching the breaks. We know who he is, we know how he killed every one of them, when he did it, we even know why. We have a reasonable list of possible targets. We believe we know his general area. And we can’t find the son of a bitch.”

“He has a lot of places to hide. Add the money, and it gives him more yet.”

Impatient, Eve shook her head. “I’ve narrowed it down—strongest probability—to this radius.”

Peabody eased in, turned to the screen, blinked in surprise. “You made a graph.”

“Whatever. Highest probability area in red, secondary in blue, and so on raying out from that core. Most likely locations within each area are highlighted on the second map, same color code.”

“That’s a lot of comp work.”

“So?”

“Don’t kick me, it’s not your strength. You’d never say it was.”

Eve hissed because truer words were never spoken. “I had to break down and take a damn blocker because generating this gave me a
pisser
of a headache.”

“I could’ve helped you with it.”

“I gave you assignments. Speaking of which?”

“No hit on any sports tickets yet. The sales rep I talked to said a lot of the venues offer sales on tickets, including the big ones, on Black Friday. That’s the day after Thanksgiving, and the biggest shopping day of the year.”

“Because people are so juiced up on too much food they feel like they have to go out and spend more money than they’ve got. Friday.” She blew out a breath. “Hit it again on Friday.”

“Nothing on the arcade or the bar, not yet,” Peabody continued. “But I talked to security in both places, and they’re on the lookout. I had uniforms start distributing the images—his, the morph, the droid, throughout the target area. Markets, shops, restaurants. They’re pushing them on building supers, managers. It’s going to take time to hit every location, but the word’s out, Dallas. We’ve got literally hundreds of eyes looking for him now. More like thousands. Someone’s going to spot him and call it in.”

“And the tip line?”

“Not as much as I figured, but that’s probably because people are heading out of town, or dealing with out-of-towners, or shopping for what they forgot to get for tomorrow. Like that.”

Disgusted, Eve slumped in her chair. “I hate holidays.”

“Well … It’s kind of unavoidable, and again, don’t kick me, but you really ought to think about going home and dealing with your own out-of-towners.”

“What?”

“Dallas, it’s already nearly an hour past end of shift.”

“What?” she repeated and looked at the time. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

“I’m just the messenger,” Peabody reminded her as she took a cautious step out of range. “But Feeney had to take off. He’s going to try to get some work in at home. So am I, and McNab. And Callendar. Roarke’s already home, and I know he’s connected with Feeney a few times.”

Eve dragged her hands through her hair then shoved them in her pockets. “Go home. I’m going to copy this graph thing, send it to you, to everyone. Take a look at it, more carefully. If something pops for you, let me know.”

“You haven’t managed to contact all the managers in all the hotels, apartments, condos yet.”

“No.”

“I’ll take a share of them.”

“I’ll earmark yours.”

Peabody smiled. “How about I do you a favor? I’ll earmark yours. Traffic’s going to be a coldhearted bitch. I’ll get home before you anyway.”

“Something else to look forward to. Go home. I want you and McNab to get to my home office tomorrow. We’re going to put in some time on this. Two hours before whenever you were supposed to come.”

“We’ll be there. We’re going to get him, Dallas.”

“Oh yeah, we’ll get him. It’s just a matter of how many more he can rack up before we do, but we’ll get him.”

She took the time to copy and send her work to Peabody, to Feeney and Roarke, to McNab, to the commander, to Callendar. Every one of them had better comp skills than she did, she admitted. Maybe they could refine, or maybe they’d see something she’d overlooked.

But the simple fact was, she should already be home, dealing with the other part of her life.

She put together a file bag, grabbed her coat, and headed out before she talked herself into locking her office door and pretending she didn’t have another part of her life.

Peabody’s traffic prediction hit the bull’s-eye. While the bitter hell of it didn’t improve her mood, it did give her time to think, to make more contacts—and hit more answering services, message loops, and skeleton staffs.

Out of stubbornness as much as concern, she tried Asshole Joe one
more time. Maybe, just maybe, she’d wear him down and convince him to accept protection.

Then she let it go when her tag went directly to v-mail.

She drove through the gates already calculating how long she’d have to socialize before she could sneak off and get back to the job.

The lights exploded out of the gloom. And despite the dribbling rain, there appeared to be some sort of ball game going on over the wet, lush green grass.

Men, women, kids ran around like maniacs. Most of them had stripped off jackets to play in sweaters or sweatshirts or shirtsleeves—and all were thoroughly wet and filthy.

She saw the round and rugged leather ball sail, watched someone pass it across with a leaping head strike, then someone else in a blur of bodies execute a lateral kick. She slowed to a crawl in case one of the crazed players ran across the drive. Then winced a little at the ensuing ugly collision and pileup of bodies.

Obviously, the game was vicious.

She parked, got out, and had her ears assailed by shouting, hoots, insults—delivered with oddly musical accents in two languages.

“There’s herself!”

Despite the dirt on his face, Eve recognized the boy Sean. Sinead’s grandson had, for some reason, developed an unshakable attachment to Eve. And that even before he’d discovered a body in the woods outside his quiet village the summer before.

“We’re losing terrible,” he told her, as if they’d just spoken an hour before. “Uncle Paddy cheats something fierce and Aunt Maureen’s no better come to that.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll come onto our side. You can take the place of my cousin
Fiona. She’s useless as teats on a billy goat, and does nothing but squeal when the ball comes within a bleeding kilometer of her.”

She found herself flattered on some strange level that he’d assume she could save the game for his side. But.

“Can’t do it, kid. I don’t even know how it’s played.”

He laughed, then goggled. “Is that the truth then? How can you not know how to football?”

“Over here it’s soccer—sort of.” But meaner, she decided, which was a point in its favor. “And it’s not my game.”

“Sean!” From the doorway, Sinead shouted. “Leave your cousin alone, pity sakes. She hasn’t so much as gotten in the door yet, and you won’t let her come in out of the rain.”

“She’s saying she doesn’t know how to play football!” Absolute shock vibrated in his voice. “And she’s heart-stopping serious! That’s all right then,” he said kindly to Eve. “I’ll teach you.”

Damn, the kid had a way about him. If she hadn’t had a killer to find, she’d have taken him up on it. And enjoyed it.

“Appreciate it, but …” She trailed off, her shock as vibrant as Sean’s at her lack of essential knowledge as she saw Roarke break from the pack and walk her way.

He was every bit as wet and filthy as his young cousin. Grass stains smeared the elbows of his shirt, with some bloodstains mixed on the left. Light but distinct bruising colored the side of his jaw.

He gave Eve a cheeky grin, then slapped a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “You’re needed, mate. It’s near do or die now.”

“I’m off!”

“What the fuck?” Eve said the minute the boy ran off bellowing a war cry.

“Don’t ask. We’re all but done for in any case, taking that Fiona
couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, and Paddy and Maureen both cheat like tinkers at a fair.”

“What are you talking about? Why would anybody hit a cow with a banjo?”

He only smiled. “The point is, Fiona couldn’t, so we’ll be done soon enough. I’ve a report for you, and it’s already on your unit. And I’ve got some programs running, but the sad truth of it is, it’s taking all the time I said it would. Little bits, but not enough, not yet. It’s there, that’s certain. The clever Ms. Farnsworth slipped some sort of code by him. But we don’t have it yet.”

“Okay, any progress is good progress at this point. I’ve been working on something, and I’ve copied it to you. We’ll get to it.”

They were shouting for him, she thought. The family he’d lived his life without. “Go hit some cow in the ass with a banjo or whatever. And try not to bleed too much.”

He laughed, grabbed her, spun her, kissed her hard to the cheers of the players before she could struggle free and swipe at the wet and dirt he’d just transferred.

“God,” she muttered as she strode to the house. “Irishmen are crazy.”

She’d barely stepped in, shrugged out of her coat, when Sinead was there taking it from her and handing her a glass of wine.

“Welcome home and to considerable bedlam. It’s been a long day for you from what I’m told. Can you take a minute to sit, catch your breath? Those of us who aren’t outside or off adventuring in the city or scattered someone else are in the parlor.”

She could escape, Eve thought. Sinead would make excuses for her. She heard laughter from the parlor, murmuring voices, the fretful cry of an infant—they were always popping out more infants, Eve
thought. And she could escape all of it, and close herself in with murder.

And she thought of Roarke’s quick grin and filthy shirt.

Life, she remembered, had to be lived, even—and maybe particularly —in the middle of death.

“Yeah, I could sit for a while.”

WHEN JOE PULLED OUT HIS ’LINK, SAW DAL
las, 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.

E
ve 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’ll, 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.

J
oe 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.