Thankless in Death (6 page)

Tucked in. Safe and sound.

Lori locked her door, added the deadbolt, the security chain.

She started to just dump the bags—the contents no longer interested her, in fact, made her feel guilty and ashamed. She’d been out, shopping for things she didn’t really need, indulging in manicures and facials, laughing, drinking wine at lunch—and all the while Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold were dead.

She wanted to talk to her mother, she realized. She wanted to talk to her mom and dad—and that’s what she’d do. But first she’d do what they’d raised her to do.

What came next.

She’d put her things away, then she’d call the police.

She moved through her small, colorful space to the alcove of her bedroom. She’d separated it from the living area with its single bold blue sofa and padded crates she’d painted lipstick red by a curtain formed from stringed beads.

Maybe a convertible sofa would’ve made more sense, but she just refused to sleep in her living space.

By next year, she could upgrade to a one-bedroom, hopefully in the same building. That was her next goal, anyway, which had taken a hit when Jerry had taken the rent money and her tip savings and blown it in Vegas. She needed to make it up now, and make up the spree she’d just had.

But she’d so needed to just get out, cut loose for one day. And it
had
made her feel better, and more like herself. Kasey had been right. She’d brooded over her Big Mistake, aka Jerry, for long enough.

Time to jump back in the pool, she thought as she took the pretty turquoise sweater she’d scooped up on sale out of a shopping bag.

She should take Kasey’s advice on attitude, too, she decided. She should think about how lucky she was. If Jerry had done what they said—and she still couldn’t really believe it—she’d had a lucky escape breaking it off with him. All it had cost her, really, was time, some heartache, a couple of slaps, and money.

It could’ve been worse.

She didn’t hear him step behind her. The dull crack of the bat against her skull pitched her forward so she hit the bed, bounced, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

Standing over her, Jerry smiled, tapped the bat against her leg.

“Batter up.”

He hadn’t hit her very hard. Not as hard as the old man, that’s for sure. He didn’t want to kill her—yet. They had some
issues
to discuss first.

But he was well aware of the crap soundproofing on her dump of an apartment, so the discussion had to be a quiet one.

“Stupid bitch.” He gave her a good thwack with the bat on her hip.
“Did you think you could just say, ‘Get out’? That I wouldn’t make copies of the keys? And where the hell have you been all damn day? I’ve been waiting for you.”

He poked at the shopping bags, bared his teeth.

He’d done some shopping of his own the last couple days. Time to put his purchases to good use.

He switched the music on—not too loud, don’t want the neighbors to complain—just loud enough.

He retrieved his own shopping bag from the bathroom where he’d hidden when he heard the elevator clunk—and listened to her conversation with the nosy old hag across the hall.

A shame the nosy old hag hadn’t come inside with Lori. He could’ve made it another twofer.

For now, and just for now, he’d settle for Lori.

He hauled her unconscious body onto the bed, and for the first time noticed the new hair color. Bitch probably changed it to try to land some other sucker. That’s all he’d been to her, just some guy to fuck and fuck with.

Now she’d be the one getting fucked.

Not sexually, he thought—even the thought of doing her made him sick. But he undressed her. That was to humiliate and intimidate. He’d given this a great deal of thought.

He bound her wrists, her ankles—tight, really tight so the cord bit into flesh. She deserved some pain.

He slapped tape over her mouth, which was too bad as he’d have enjoyed hearing her scream.

Humming along with the music, he propped her up, plumping the pillows behind her before wrapping two more lengths of cord over her torso, around and under the bed. That he secured with a clip lock so it held nice and snug.

“That’ll keep you where I want you.”

Once again reaching into his bag, he pulled out a capsule of Wake-Up, broke it under her nose.

He watched her eyes flutter, her head turn side to side. A muffled moan sounded against the tape as she struggled to focus.

He straddled her, punched her hard in the belly. “Hi, Lori!”

And he saw it—what he hadn’t seen with his parents. Not just the shock, not just the pain.

Fear.

It filled him with something he’d never fully experienced. It filled him with joy.

He grinned, riding on that joy as she squirmed, as her eyes darted all over the crappy space in her crappy apartment, as choked sounds pushed against the tape.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to rape you. Not that it’s rape seeing as how you put out for me plenty. But you just don’t do it for me. Look at this, you’re naked, helpless, and I don’t even have wood. So just put that out of your mind.”

He gave her nipple a hard twist, laughing when she bucked under him. “I bet I could make you wet, though—if I were interested. The fact is, fucking you the last few weeks we were together? It was like some chore to cross off my list. Here’s a tip. If you want a guy to get you off, don’t bitch at him all damn night first, don’t turn on the fake tears—yeah, like you’re doing now. And
don’t
, for fuck’s sake, tell him what the hell to
do
! You’re not my mother, bitch, and since you heard what happened to her, you should be grateful.”

He climbed off, stood studying her, and couldn’t think of a single reason she’d ever appealed to him.

“I’ve got some things to say, and for once you’re going to shut the hell up and
listen
. Got that, bitch?”

He didn’t just feel happy, he realized. He felt strong. He felt important.

“You thought you could dump me, show me the door because I had a little bad luck? Bitching and whining about yourself when I was the one having some trouble. You think you can humiliate me that way? It’s always about you. You selfish bitch. And acting like I’d committed a crime because I gave you a couple taps. You deserved that, and more. Now look at you. This is how they’ll find you, naked, helpless,
humiliated
. How does it feel?”

Fat tears rolled down her face, added to his sense of joy.

He kicked at her shopping bags. “You’re not the only one who went shopping today. Look what I got.” He took a folding knife out of his pocket. “You just push this button, and blam!” A curved, serrated blade, just under the legal limit, whipped out. And he grinned when her eyes bulged, when her body twisted, when the screams muffled to whines against the blocking tape.

“Don’t worry, it’s not for you. I used a kitchen knife on Ma, and it slid right into her, like into a pillow. Made a hell of a mess though before I was done. I’m not getting your pussy blood all over my new clothes. Nice threads, huh?”

He did a little turn. “I messed up two sets of my old stuff, first with the old woman, and then with the old man. I used my old baseball bat on him, and, man, did blood and brains fly!”

Laughing, he pushed the mechanism on the knife again. “You sent me back to hell. Do you know what it’s like to live with those two? Always complaining, always telling me what to do, acting like they were in charge. Who’s in charge now?”

Blood stained the cords on her wrists as she struggled against them. A bonus, he thought, and slipped the knife back in his pocket.

“So what did you buy today?” Crouching, he dumped the contents of her shopping bags on the floor, and as an afterthought, took the knife out again, dragged the blade through the scattered clothes. Her sobs choked against the tape.

“Slut shoes, too? Let’s have a look.” He straightened, shoved them on her feet.

“Yeah, that works.”

He climbed back on her. “You messed up big-time by shoving me out, Lori. I’ve got money now. Lots and lots of money. I can do whatever the hell I want. I can do whatever the hell I want to you, and you can’t stop me. You think slapping you was a big deal? Bullshit.”

He slapped her now, front hand, backhand, front, back, hard enough her head snapped side to side and her cheeks bloomed red as a rose. “That’s no big deal, bitch. I’ll show you a big deal.”

He balled his hand into a fist, plowed it into her face.

Her eyes jittered, and blood dripped under the tape from her split lip.

“You know, maybe I can get it up after all. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to stick it in you. Oh, you can’t tell me.” He tapped a finger on the tape. “Nod. Nod that you want me to fuck you right now. Nod, or I’ll mess you up.”

She managed to bob her head, but his fist slammed into her again.

“Not fast enough!” he said as her eye swelled shut. “Nod, bitch. Fast!”

She bobbed her head, sobbing.

“You want it? You want what I got?” He grabbed his crotch, then slapped her again. “You can’t have it.”

Considering, he took out the knife again. Her good eye wheeled, and her body began to buck. “Hold still or I’ll cut you.” He sawed off
a hank of her hair. “I don’t like the new do. I’m going to fix it.” He hacked, sawed, sliced until her glossy chestnut hair was a choppy cap of tufts.

“Yeah, that’s better. They’re going to find you, naked, half bald and ugly. You earned it. You tried to make me your dog. You’re the dog. Bark! Bark!”

He held the knife to her throat. “I said fucking bark.”

She made sounds, and her eye pleaded with him.

“Good dog! You know who’s in charge now.”

He pinched her nose shut with his fingers, and she exploded under him.

“You never put that much energy into sex, you stupid bitch. Lousy lay.”

When he released his grip, she sucked air in through her nose, her chest shuddering with it. Sobs shook her, a harsh gulping against the tape.

“What’s that?” He turned his head, exaggerating the move. “I can’t quite hear you? Do you want to say something to me? Do you want to tell me you’re a bald, ugly dog, and beg for my forgiveness? You want to state your case now, bitch dog? Well, that seems fair.”

He reached down for the corner of the tape, pulled back. “Oh, one more thing?” And laid the knife against her throat. “Scream and I’ll slice your throat. Understand me?”

She nodded.

“Good dog.” He reached for the tape again, leaned down so their faces were close. “Forgot, there’s one more thing.”

He reached back, pulled the length of cord from his back pocket. “I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”

He wrapped it around her neck, pulled, pulled.

And felt the thrill watching her eyes bulge, watching the red crack the white, feeling her body rage and ripple under his, hearing the gurgles.

The tighter he pulled, the more it built, burning inside him. Her bound feet drummed against the bed as she convulsed, her bloodied hands shook like an old woman’s. And he yanked harder, groaning with pleasure, hips rocking as the sharp, uncontrollable sensation clawed through him, out of him.

When her eyes went fixed, the orgasm ripped through him. Huge, amazing, like nothing before experienced.

He choked out his own cry, gulped and gasped for air until his body stopped vibrating.

Then he collapsed beside her, sated, stunned, and for the first time in his life, totally fulfilled.

“Jesus! Where have you been all my life?” He gave her thigh a little pat. “Thanks.”

Now he had to shower, and dig out her hoarded tip money, scout out anything in this dump worth taking. But first, he had to see what she had in the kitchen.

Like a fat joint of zoner, killing gave him the serious munchies.

THOUGHTS WEIGHED HER DOWN AS EVE TURNED
through the gates of home. Often—usually, in fact—after a long day that first sight of the gorgeous, castle-like house Roarke built smoothed things out. The way it rose, spread, jutted against the evening sky at the end of the long curve of road tended to lift weights. Reminded her she had a home. After a lifetime that had begun in nightmares, shifted to the misery of shuffling foster care and state control, and to, at long last, her own place in New York that had been primarily a space to catch some sleep between investigations, she had a real home.

But tonight, there was just too much weight.

It strained against her that a selfish asshole could elude her, even for a day. She needed to start fresh, go back to the beginning, and move through it all step-by-step. And without the distractions of an offer of a captaincy.

She needed to clear her head, look at it all from another angle.

She needed Roarke, she admitted. His ear, his eye, his canny brain.

She’d run it through for him, run it by him, bounce it off him, she determined as she braked at the front entrance. Maybe she’d missed something he’d see, or think of.

He’d help. That wasn’t assumption, but fact. And as much home to her as the stone and glass they lived in.

She started to climb out, and Peabody’s date night arrowed into her mind. And for Christ’s sake, she didn’t have time for that.

Didn’t make time, she corrected, and slumped back.

He did. Roarke made time, and she couldn’t claim he wasn’t one of the busiest people on or off planet.

She hardly ever made time for the fussy stuff, and now that added one more weight. Even when she wasn’t neck-deep in an investigation she just didn’t think of it.

Now thinking of it stacked guilt on her head like boulders.

She couldn’t manage a
date
night, just couldn’t, but she should be able to put a nice meal together, with a few fancy touches.

And balance out his eye, ear, canny brain.

She shoved out of the car, bolted for the front door, and through.

And saw Summerset, looming in black, with the pudgy cat at his feet.

“I don’t have time for witty repartee,” she snapped.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Is he home?”

“Not as yet.”

“I need to put a meal together, on the roof terrace.”

Summerset’s eyebrows lifted. “There’s nothing on the calendar.”

“Just …” She waved that away as the cat padded over to ripple
between her feet. “I can handle the setup, but tell me what he should eat—we should eat. And don’t make it something I hate out of spite.”

Even scarecrows could be amused, she noted.

“Very well. I’d start with the tomato soup with poached shrimp.”

“Wait.” She yanked out her PPC to note it down. “Go.”

“Then move to a green salad with seasonal pears in a champagne vinaigrette. For the main, I’d suggest Lobster Thermidor.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Delicious. You’ll enjoy it. I’d serve it with a sauvignon blanc or champagne, and finish with a vanilla bean soufflé, brandy, and coffee.”

“Okay. Got it.” She raced for the stairs.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Shut up!”

She charged into the bedroom. Damn it, damn it, she wasn’t wearing some fancy dress. It wasn’t date-date. But she strode into the closet, and the cat danced at her heels as if they played a game.

She had enough clothes for a hundred normal people, she should be able to put one decent outfit together.

And she was damned if she’d ask Summerset to consult here.

She grabbed black pants. Black went with everything, didn’t it? Then dug out a sweater—really soft—in a color than made her think of fall leaves, and with a sparkly band at the neck and hem. That way she didn’t have to deal with more sparkles.

Boots were probably wrong, she imagined, but she would
not
put on skyscraper heels.

It surprised her to find a pair of black shoes with a sparkly wedge-type heel. Shouldn’t surprise her, she thought as she veered into the quick change. She never knew what the closet fairy would stick in there next.

Given the circumstances, she slapped on some lip dye, some lash gunk, some face junk.

As good as he was going to get, she decided, and streaked for the elevator.

She leaped out, paused. She supposed she owed Summerset for the fact the sky roof was open to the deep indigo sky, and the internal heaters were spreading a comfortable warmth against the brisk November evening.

Now the rest was up to her.

S
till carrying the dregs of the day’s irritation, Roarke stepped into the foyer. It surprised him to find it empty—no Summerset, no cat—particularly on a day he’d have appreciated a bit of a welcome home.

He shrugged out of his topcoat, and in a habit he’d picked up from his wife, tossed it over the newel post on his way upstairs. An hour in the gym, he decided, pummeling something, then a quick swim. That should scrape the annoyance away. And if not, a very large drink might do the job.

But when he walked into the bedroom, he saw Eve’s weapon, her badge on her dresser.

So the lieutenant was home, he thought. Maybe he could pull her away from her double murder—he followed the crime reports—talk her into a sparring match or that swim, better yet a good shag.

And
that
should take care of the dregs good and well.

In her home office, no doubt, he decided, pacing around her newest murder board or hunched over her computer. He imagined he was in for pizza and a great deal of coffee over the grisly details of her day.

He didn’t mind it, not a bit, he thought as he set aside his briefcase, loosened his tie. Her work was nearly as fascinating to him as she was, and the part he played in it made him feel … satisfied, he concluded, often involved and excited, but primarily satisfied.

No one would have believed—including himself—that the Dublin street rat, the well-accomplished thief, the man of wealth and power with such dubious and shady beginnings could or would work on the side of the law. Even if his line marking the sides tended to curve and sway a bit.

But she’d changed him—no, more, he corrected. She’d
found
him. And had made all the difference.

So he’d have pizza in her office, listen, think, and lend a hand to his cop as she stood for her newest dead.

And the frustrations of his own day? Well, they paled, didn’t they, against all the blood.

To save time, steps, and to be sure, he stepped to the in-house board. “Where is Eve?”

Odd, he thought. It wasn’t the last place he’d expect, but it ranked high. Curious, he crossed to the elevator. “Roof terrace, east,” he ordered.

He doubted she’d gone up there to take in the view or the fresh air. His wife did little without specific purpose—especially when a case was hot. Just how did all this play into her case? he wondered. Something to do with height perhaps, or the view did play in and she needed that perspective and the scope to find something. Or …

He stepped out into the flowers, candlelight, the soft warmth and
sparkle of crystal, and his mind went momentarily and uncharacteristically blank.

“Hey.” She shot him a distracted look. “I’ve just about got it.”

“Do you?” Bemused, and rapidly flipping through his mental calendar, he walked to her. “And what’s all this?”

“It’s dinner.”

She’d surprised him like this once before, he recalled, and had been wearing a red dress meant to be peeled off. A little different, this, he thought if his sense of things was on target. But just as lovely.

“Are we celebrating?”

“No. Well, maybe sort of.”

“You closed the case? The double homicide you caught this morning?”

“No. It’s … there’s stuff, but when I was thinking about the stuff, and how I wanted to bounce it all off you, I got this Peabody date night stuck in my brain.”

“We’re having a date with Peabody? I get two alluring women? Lucky me.”

She spared him one quick glance through narrowed eyes. “You got me, and that’s it, pal.”

“Thank God for it.” He cupped her face, leaned in for a soft, sweet kiss. “We’re having a date?”

“Not exactly. I can’t do the big
D
date thing where you shove all the stuff outside, but I thought I could pay you back a little for all the stuff. Nicer than pizza in my office.”

He looked at her for such a long, still moment, she feared she’d screwed something up. Then he pulled her in, wrapped around her, held tight. Tight.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not that big a thing.”

“It is to me, and especially tonight.”

“What’s tonight?” Shit, did she forget something? She pulled back, focused fully on his face. No, something else. “Did you have a thing mess up in the Universe of Roarke?”

He smiled at her, tapped the dent in her chin. “You could say.”

“What?”

“Not important, especially since I see we have champagne.”

“No.” She shifted before he could walk past her. “You take my stuff. I’ll take yours.”

He trailed a hand down her arm, over the soft sleeve of her sweater. “Marriage Rules?”

“That’s right. What’s the thing?”

“I had to fire three people this afternoon. I hate firing people.”

“Why did you?”

“Basically for not doing what they’re paid to do. I’ll give some leeway there for a space. They could be having a rough patch, some personal problems, health problems. So some room, some time, a discussion can settle that down. But when the not doing what they’re paid to do comes with carelessness, and worse, arrogance, there’s no leeway.”

“So you fired them for being assholes.”

He laughed, and felt some of those dregs slide away. “You could say just that.”

“I know something about it,” she said as he walked to the table she’d set—hopefully well enough—to uncork the champagne. “The guy responsible for the double homicide’s an asshole who can’t keep a job—arrogance, carelessness, and I think a warped sense of entitlement.”

“It seems our stuff coincides.” After the elegant and muffled pop of cork from bottle, he poured champagne into two tall flutes.

“Part of why you hate firing people is because it makes you feel like you made a mistake hiring them.”

“And you know me well,” he agreed. He handed her a flute, tapped his to hers.

“Did you?”

“Obviously, yes. But at the time they suited the position well, on all the levels. Over time, however, some can become complacent, lazy, and, yes, entitled.”

It never paid, he strongly believed, to take a single thing—the good, the bad, the mediocre—for granted.

“And now these three people are out of work,” he added. “They won’t have an easy time gaining equal employment as their references won’t be stellar.”

“And the other part you hate is now their lives are screwed up, and may stay that way at least for a while. It’s a tough break, but you wear what you sew—if you know how to sew anyway.”

It took him a moment, then he just laughed again—and there went the rest of the dregs. “That’s reap what you sow—as in harvest what you plant.”

“If you go around sewing something, you’re going to have to wear it. So?” She lifted her shoulders.

“So,” he repeated. “You’re right. They sewed, or sowed, wore or reaped. And now they’re out in a damn fallow field wearing something that fits ill. And apparently that settles my stuff, so thanks for that.”

“No problem. Hungry?”

“I am now. What’s for dinner, darling Eve?”

“We got this soup thing to start it off. Summerset picked the food, so you’re safe there.”

“I was fully prepared for pizza in your office.” He skimmed a hand down her hair, then lightly over her cheek. “We’re not ones who need or want to push our stuff outside, or not very often. We do well with it. We do well with it together.”

“Good to hear, because I’ve got a big pile of stuff.”

“Let’s have some soup, and you can tell me about it.”

“I’m doing the deal here.” She gestured to a chair.

“What man doesn’t like coming home to a hot meal prepared by his adoring wife?”

“Lap it up,” she muttered, and pulled the silver warming covers.

“If it’s all the same, I’ll use a spoon. The reports I heard tell me you’re looking for a man—middle twenties—who murdered his parents.”

“It’s more than that. He stabbed his mother over fifty times with a kitchen knife, beat his father to pieces—hours later—with a baseball bat.”

“That’s considerable rage.” He studied her face carefully. “Were they abusive?”

“No, there’s no indication there was anything like that. He’s a fuckup. Flunked out of college, can’t or won’t hold a job longer than a few months, including the one his father arranged for him at the father’s office. Decent work. I spoke with the supervisor there, some of the coworkers. The father’s been with the company for a couple decades—hardworking, good guy, responsible. The son’s none of the above. Same deal with other bosses I talked to.”

“So a pattern of irresponsibility and failure.”

“Yeah, on a personal level, too. Girlfriend—and from what I’ve
been able to gather so far, the only woman he ever lived with, or had a relationship with for more than a couple weeks—booted him. He took the rent money, and her tip money savings—she’s a waitress—and blew it and more in Vegas. He had to move back in with the parents, and again according to what I’ve learned, hasn’t made any move toward finding a job. They’d decided to give him until December to get one, or get out.”

He ate soup—warm, comforting with just a little bite—and considered. “He killed them because they wouldn’t allow him to continue to feed off the parental tit?”

“That’s summing it up. He stabbed the mother around lunchtime,” Eve began, and took him through the time line, the financial transfers, the theft, and the selling.

“Cold bastard, and now he has cash. More than he’s ever had at one time. It’s unlikely he’ll be careful with it. Besides being cold and vicious, he’s young and stupid. I can put out an alert to all my hotels in the city.”