Chapter 21

SOMEWHERE AROUND ELEVEN, REINHOLD’S CRAVING for Onion Doodles refused to be denied. Torture was hungry work. He swiped the sweat off his face—it was heavy work, too—checked the AutoChef, then cupboards.

Cursed.

He’d forgotten to tell the idiot droid to buy Onion Doodles.

The AC, the pantry, the refrigerator, the chiller, were all well-stocked. But not a single bag of Onion Doodles lived among the rest.

And he had to have some.

He thought about rebooting the droid, having it go down to the store. The fancy food shops would be closed, but he knew there was a 24/7 market on the mezzanine level. Then he decided he could use the longer break, maybe a short stroll around, even a drink at the all-night club, also on the mezzanine.

Joe was out for the count anyway, and it wasn’t much fun to pound on an unconscious guy. Big effort, low reward.

He’d used the hose, the sap, a miniburner, toothpicks—talk about inspiration!—and the razor knife the droid had used to cut the plastic.

No wonder he was hungry.

He left the bloodied, burned, bleeding man unconscious and went to wash up.

He sang in the shower, masturbated, sang again.

He changed into fresh clothes—the new black jeans with a touch of silver stud work, a collarless shirt in strong blue, the leather jacket and boots. And he looked completely iced.

He reminded himself to put crap stuff back on before he got to work again. He didn’t want to mess up tight new threads.

He made sure he had his swipe, his code, his spanking new ID and credit cards, and some cash in case he wanted to flash it around.

He checked himself out in the mirror a final time, saw himself as dangerous, sexy, successful—and gave the fake soul patch an extra press. He’d grow one of his own soon enough, he thought, and whistling, left the apartment.

He checked out the bar first. Smoky blue lights rolled over the walls, and a holoband crashed onstage. He’d expected more of a crowd, people sexy and dangerous and successful much like himself, but plenty of the tables and stools sat empty.

Dead zone, he thought in annoyance, but since he was there, he swaggered over to the bar. He ordered a whiskey, neat, like he’d seen men do in vids.

“House brand or you want to call?” The broad-shouldered bartender gave him a bored look that immediately put Reinhold’s back up.

He tapped an imperious finger to the bar in front of him. “Best you’ve got.”

“You got it.”

He didn’t take a stool, but posed against the bar. He expected people to notice him as he gave the club a cool-eyed stare. Two couples shared a table near the stage, and the women were prime.

He imagined strolling over, giving them both a come-with-me-jerk of the head. They would, too, he thought. They’d leave those limp dicks without a thought, and scamper after him like good bitches.

Do whatever he told them to do, let him do whatever he wanted to do.

And maybe he’d kill them after, just to see how it felt to do some strange.

The bartender set the glass of whiskey in front of him.

“You want to run a tab or pay as you go?”

“I pay as I go.”

With a nod, the bartender slid a small black folder across the bar.

“Where’s the action around here?” Reinhold demanded.

“Not much tonight. Holiday. A lot of people are out of town or heading that way. Friday, you’ll see some action—and the band’s live.”

“Maybe I’ll be back.” He flipped the folder open, fought not to goggle at the tab. He could buy fifty goddamn brews for the one glass of whiskey.

He interpreted the bartender’s impassive look as a pitying smirk, and wished he had his sap. Instead, he tossed down the new credit card, lifted the glass.

He took a deep gulp. Nearly choked. Because he felt his eyes water, he turned quickly away as if taking a longer look around.

He’d never tasted whiskey before, but he was damn well sure the asshole of a bartender had cheated him, charged him for high-grade and served him crap.

Oh, he’d pay for that, Reinhold promised himself. He’d make a point of seeing the asshole paid for it.

He forced more of the whiskey down, just to prove he had the balls, then dashed off the signature he’d practiced off and on the last couple days.

Pocketing the card, he walked out.

Fucking prick, he thought. He’d meet Reaper some night very soon. And he’d see how he liked having acid poured down his throat.

Desperate for anything to kill the taste of the whiskey, he pushed into the market, picked up a bag of cheese and bacon–flavored Onion Doodles—a favorite—a family box of Spongy Creams, two Chunky Chews, and a Grape Fizzy.

He charged all of it, sucking on the fizzy as the droid clerk bagged the rest.

Starving, he broke open the bag of Onion Doodles on his way back to the elevator. Munching and slurping, he headed back up.

He’d take a real look around the next day, he thought. Before his own Thanksgiving feast. Maybe see if the same bartender was working, get his name.

Do a little research on a future target.

He found Joe still unconscious, so out even slaps didn’t bring him around.

No fun playing with a sleeping asshole, Reinhold decided.

He took his snacks up to the bedroom. He’d watch some vids, catch some sleep. And get a good start on Joe in the morning.

He had plenty left to try out on his old pal before Turkey Time.

· · ·

Roarke gave it until half-one, coordinating with Feeney, McNab, and Callendar until after midnight. Like them, he’d meant to leave the work on auto and walk away, but he’d been too caught up.

He’d seen progress—real progress—when they’d untangled the initial routing, found the shadow beneath it. But then, there’d been a shadow under that.

He had considerable respect for the late Ms. Farnsworth, and had she lived, would have hired her in a finger snap in any number of positions.

He’d managed to crack the initial code, and felt pure satisfaction. Until he’d understood she’d switched codes for the next section.

Smart, he had to admit, making certain her killer didn’t, likely couldn’t, catch on to the pattern. And all this while she’d certainly been in terror, likely in pain.

The trouble was, she was so bloody good, it was taking him a great deal of time. Putting back the wiped material, byte by bitter byte, and then going under it all for the message he now knew she’d left wound in it.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, and gulped down a half bottle of water. By Jesus, he’d have the rest tomorrow.

He set up the auto, scrubbed at his face, then went off to fetch his wife. He had little doubt she’d crashed by this time.

And he wasn’t wrong.

She’d laid her head on her desk, with the cat curled around the point of her elbow.

He saw by the subtle jerks of her body she dreamed. Fearing a nightmare, he walked to her, spoke gently as he eased her back, then up.

“It’s all right now. I’ve got you.”

“I said I would,” she muttered.

“Then you will,” he said, shifting her into his arms.

“What?” Her eyes opened, dark and bleary. “Oh. Hell. I fell out.”

“You’re entitled. You started before dawn, and if we’re at it much longer we’ll go round the clock with it.”

“I was talking to Ms. Farnsworth.”

He smiled a little as the cat padded quickly ahead to reach the bedroom first. “Were you now? As it happens, I was myself, in a way. What did she have to say?”

“She’s just really pissed off.”

“And who could blame her? She put his name in it, coded through the routing.”

“What?” Her eyes went instantly alert even as he dumped her on the bed. “What?”

“Jerald Reinhold. His name, and a short statement we’ve untangled so far. Jerald Reinhold did this.”

“But where’s the money? What name’s he using? Where—”

“If we knew, I believe I’d have led with it.”

He pulled her boots off for her, heard her involuntary groan of relief.

“We’ve got a start on the routine, which is miraculous, and more so this much of her encoded message. She didn’t make it easy—over and above the whole lot being wiped, and well wiped at that. I’m supposing she knew he wasn’t a complete idiot when it comes to Comp Science, and had to be careful about it.

“It’s good progress, Eve,” he assured her. “Better than any of us who know the business expected at this point.”

“Okay, all right. She coded in his name, pointed a finger at him. It adds weight. Though we won’t need any, weight never hurts.”

She switched gears. “What about tenants?”

“Moving through them. A lot of buildings, Lieutenant, and not all the data is current because of the—”

“Goddamn, stinking, stupid holiday.”

Her biting tone nearly made him smile. “True enough. But I was able to order a rush on my own places, and all the new tenants and/or applications from new tenants will be current tomorrow, holiday or no.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve thrown a spanner into some holidays, but it shouldn’t take long, and then they can get back to their stuffing.”

“A lot of uniforms are cursing my name. The ones on the twenty-four/seven tip line for sure. But it only takes one person to see him, to call it in.”

“And we’ll see to all of it tomorrow.”

They’d both undressed as they spoke, and now crawled into bed.

“I don’t want to go to the morgue tomorrow, Roarke.”

“You’re doing everything you can to prevent that.”

“Yeah.” She curled against him in the dark, and hoped it would be enough.

···

When her ’link woke her just after five A.M., she groped for it. “Block video,” she ordered even as Roarke ordered lights on to twenty percent. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant, man, I’m really sorry for the early tag.”

“Mal.” Instantly awake, she shoved up to sit. “What is it?”

“It’s just—we can’t find Joe. It’s probably nothing, but I’m a little freaked, and Ma said you should know.”

“Okay.” She flipped through the notes in her head. “He had a date last night, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. He was a no-show, and Priss tracked me down at like midnight, bitching me out because she figured Joe’d ditched her to hang with me or Dave. But I hadn’t seen him or talked to him. Dave either. And she said how he’d texted her he might be a little late; he was working on some deal. But he never showed, and didn’t answer her texts and tags. Me and Dave, we even went over there, to Joe’s place. He doesn’t answer the door.”

“Okay, Mal.” She didn’t need a gut-check to assess a bad feeling. It shoved straight through her. “Give me the name and contact of the woman he was supposed to go out with.”

“Sure, sure.” He reeled it off. “The thing is, well, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he maybe hooked up with somebody else, maybe got lucky, and he’s at her place, wherever. And maybe he’s not answering his texts and tags because he doesn’t want any shit, you know. But, it’s scary.”

“It’s good you let me know. Any idea, if he hooked up otherwise, with who?”

“Not so much. I tried some girls I know he’s hooked with, but hit zero there. But he’s not above taking a spin with strange if he had the chance. So...”

“Got it. Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you.”

She clicked off, shoved at her hair, in pure frustration. “Asshole Joe.”

“I got that.” Knowing her, and understanding, Roarke handed her coffee he’d programmed while she’d talked to Mal.

“Maybe he is with some strange, but that’s not what it feels like. Going to be late, working on a deal. Money and status and sex—those are his pulls. And Reinhold knows his pulls. Lure him with a business opportunity maybe. I need to go check out Joe’s place.”

“I know it. I’ll go with you.”

“I can use you better right here. If I find him, or if I don’t—either way, whatever you pull out of those computers is going to help the most.”

He’d have argued if he hadn’t agreed with her. “I’ll concede to that if you agree not to go alone.”

And she’d have argued if she hadn’t seen the solid sense in the deal. No time for bullshit, she reminded herself.

“I’ll take a couple uniforms along, and I’m going to wake up our APA, have Reo get me a warrant. I need to be able to go in. If he’s not there, I’ll be back inside an hour. If he’s there and humping some strange, less. If he’s there and dead, I’ll be longer.”

“And if Reinhold’s with him?”

“I’ll be grateful.”

···

It took under an hour because traffic was nonexistent and she went in hot. And, what the hell, came back the same way.

She managed to avoid the relatives when she dashed into the house and up, but she heard them—hushed adult voices, babies crying, kids chattering.

And found Roarke already at work in his comp lab.

“He’s not there,” she announced. “And there’s no sign of duress or violence. I had a quick conversation with the woman he stood up. She’s worried now instead of pissed. And I woke McNab, had him run a trace on Asshole Joe’s ’link. Can’t trace it, because it’s turned off. If and when it’s turned back on, we’ll see. And why are your relatives up and swarming around at barely six in the morning?”

“Middle of the morning in Ireland,” he reminded her. “And that doesn’t address the fact many of them are farmers who’d be up at six in any case. I’m getting somewhere here, and might have better luck if you stopped talking.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but stopped talking long enough to program more coffee.

“Reinhold’s got him.”

Roarke turned away from his work. Impatience simmered inside him—he knew he was close to something. But he could see, clearly, the stress on her face.

“Men will grab strange, darling, with the smallest provocation.”

“Yeah, pigs. But, he had reservations at a hot spot, which he never canceled or used. I woke up the manager at the restaurant for that one. She was not pleased. He left work bragging about a potential new client—a rich one—I woke up his boss for that—he was okay with it. And I’ve got McNab going in to check Asshole’s work comp and ’link, in case there’s something on there about the new client. But—”

“You think Reinhold—the new client—tagged Asshole Joe on his personal ’link, so no record there. And if Asshole Joe did any checking, he also did that on his personal PPC.”

“That’s just what I think, but McNab—who damn well better be okay with it—will make sure.

“He’s not dead yet.”

It wasn’t a question, Roarke noted, not even a supposition. She said it with absolute certainty.

“Because he’d want to prolong the power and excitement.”

“And the pain. He’s added time with each kill.” Thinking it through, sticking with logic, with pattern, she paced off the tension. “From the time line, Asshole Joe probably got to the location after eighteen hundred. About then anyway. Reinhold would want time. A day, maybe two. And he’d know, unless he’s cut himself off, and I don’t buy that, that today’s a big holiday. That Joe would be expected somewhere. Given the notifications, the media, the investigation, when he doesn’t show up today, we’d start looking.”

She paced around, gulping coffee. “He’d enjoy that. Having Joe tucked away, hurting him and watching reports on a search. We’ve got some time. Some hours, maybe, maybe a day. Then that’s it. He won’t have enough control to stretch it longer.”

She looked at Roarke then. “I’m going to screw up your big family holiday.”

“Ours,” he corrected. “And there’s not a single person who’ll be here today who doesn’t value a life more than your presence at a turkey carving. Not a single person who doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”

“Okay. Okay.” The sheer casualness of the support lowered her guilt threshold. “I’m going to go into my office. I have to keep the doors shut. I don’t want some kid wandering through and getting traumatized for life by my murder board. I’ve got Peabody coming in within an hour, and McNab will be in as soon as he clears Asshole Joe’s office equipment. I told him to come straight to you.”

“I’ll be happy to have him.”

“Roarke, as soon as you have anything I can use on new tenants, anything on that damn code—”

“You’ll be the first to know it. I’m close,” he told her again. “If I’m reading this right it won’t take more than an hour or two. If that. Give me some space now, and some precious quiet.”

“Yeah.” She took the rest of her coffee with her.

She dug in for a while, trying to retrace Joe’s steps—hitting holiday disinterest from cab companies until fear of her wrath won out.

If he’d taken a cab, he hadn’t caught one in front of his workplace, or within a block either way.

She put the Transit Authorities on it, requesting they search their recordings on the chance he’d taken a subway. Spotting him could narrow the area.

Then she tagged Mira. Rather than her usual stylish do, Mira wore her hair in a short little ponytail. The style, or lack of it, made her look younger to Eve’s eye.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s early.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been up nearly an hour. I have a lot of cooking to do.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Dennis and I are cooking, and my daughters threatened—that is, promised,” she amended with a smile, “to be here by eight to pitch in. What can I do for you?”

“He’s got another. Joe Klein. I’m trying to pare down the possible locations. I think he’s got his own place by now, in or very near his old neighborhood. He’d go for swank. We’re working on getting lists of new tenants, but there are a lot of possibilities.”

“An apartment or condo,” Mira said immediately. “Not a detached or semi-attached home.”

“Why?”

“He’s sociable, and wants to show off. He’s not a loner. Under it all, he wants a hive. He just wants to be important in that hive.”

“Okay.”

“Look first at newer buildings—shinier, if you understand me. His parents valued tradition, the old, the histories. He’ll want the opposite. And the most exclusive first.”

“I leaned that way for the same reasons, but factoring in the cost—”

“He won’t concern himself,” Mira interrupted, and firmly. “He has more money than he’d ever imagined, and he’s certain he’ll continue to bring in more. A place near clubs, arcades, bars, good shops, or that provides them. Status. He’s always wanted it, but lacked the ambition or the ethics to attain it. He believes he’s found it now.”

“Okay, yeah, I see that. It helps. Appreciate it.”

“I hope you find him, Eve. I’m going to say Happy Thanksgiving, because I believe you will.”

“Thanks. Same to you.”

She jumped on the map, shadowed out the detached and semis, any building more than a decade old unless it had been completely rehabbed in modern style.

“That’s better,” she murmured, studying the results.

She started to cross-reference with the tenant lists Roarke trickled to her.

Cursed when her desk ’link signaled. “Dallas,” she snapped just as Peabody hustled in.

“Lieutenant Dallas, this is Officer Stanski outta Fraud and Financial Crimes?”

“What do you want, Stanski?” she demanded, and seeing Peabody’s puppy dog plea, jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen and the AutoChef.

“We got an auto-alert came in about midnight, and it just got passed through. Not a lot of people working due to the holidays and all.”

“Move it along, Stanski, for God’s sake.”

“Well, sure. What I’m saying is we just got the notification, and it don’t make much sense altogether. It’s on an Anton Trevor, with this code we don’t get—not one of the standards—and it says to notify you asap. So I’m notifying you asap.”

“I’m Homicide, Stanski, not Fraud.”

“I got that, LT, sure.” Stanski’s round face transmitted utter earnestness just as her voice transmitted Queens.

“But it says you, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, clear on it. You want us to go ahead and shut down this Anton Trevor’s card, go through the process, or what?”

“I don’t... Hold on.” Something tingled at the base of her neck as she did a quick run.

“Computer, search and display ID for Anton Trevor, New York, New York. Age between twenty-three and twenty-eight.” That should cover it.

Acknowledged. Working... Results displayed on screen one.

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

“LT?” Stanski said, doubtfully.

“Don’t shut it down. Where was the card used?”

“Got that right here for you. Place called Bar on M, and another, few minutes later—Handy Mart. Both in the New York West, condo center. That’s at—”

“I’ve got the address.” It was one of her buildings. It was one of Roarke’s buildings. “You hold, Stanski. Don’t notify, don’t shut down. Don’t do a damn thing until you hear back from me.”

“No problem here.”

“Send me everything you’ve got, and hold,” she said, and clicking off jumped up just as Roarke pushed open her office doors.

“I’ve got him,” they said together. Both frowned. “What?”

Then Roarke held up a hand. “Go.”

“She—Farnsworth—must’ve tagged a fraud alert onto his new ID. It flagged for me when he used it. She saw the media reports, knew I was primary. He’s going by Anton—”

“Trevor,” Roarke finished. “I pieced that name from the codes she embedded in the transfers. He’s the newest tenant in—”

“New York West,” she finished in turn.

“And there we are.”

“We’ve got him!” Eve announced as Peabody came out with coffee and a bagel.

Peabody said, “What?”

“Reinhold’s using the aka Anton Trevor. Notify McNab. I want to move fast, but we’re going to do this smooth. Get him, Baxter, Trueheart—”

“Baxter left for his sister’s in Toledo last night,” Peabody interrupted.

“Shit. Make it Carmichael and Sanchez.” She paused a beat in case one of them was having breakfast in goddamn Toledo. “We’ll do a ’link briefing,” she continued. “I want six uniforms, seasoned, Peabody. Roarke, I need you to—”

“Notify building security,” he said. “I know this drill very well. I’ll take care of what you need. And to start.” He ordered the computer to display new data.

“That’s his level, and the blueprint of his apartment. I have all the building specs, so you’ll have the points of egress.”

“Makes it easy.” And rolling her shoulders moved to operation strategy. “Okay, private elevator—we’ll shut that down. Two other exits. We’ll close them off. He’ll be armed, and God knows with what, so we go in protective gear. I want eyes and ears in there asap. And I don’t want him looking over that terrace and seeing a bunch of cops moving in on the street. Let me see the big picture,” she asked Roarke, “so I can put this op together.”

As he did, she pulled out her ’link to update her commander.

···

McNab made it there just as she began the ’link briefing.

Straightforward was how Eve saw it. By the book. Tight and right.

She paced as she ran it through, wanting to move, to move, knowing she had to cover every contingency. She had her weapon strapped over the soft sweater—the same vivid blue as Roarke’s eyes—Sinead had knitted for her. She wore rough trousers and old boots, all the first to come to hand before dawn. And the flat, dangerous glint of cop-on-the-hunt in her eyes.

“That’s how it’s going to work,” she finished. “McNab, eyes and ears, Roarke security, and between you you’ll shut down all electronics and power to that unit on my go. Team A—me, Peabody, Officers Carmichael and Prince, main-level door. Team B—Detectives Carmichael and Sanchez, Officers Rhodes and Murray, second-level door—enter on my go. Officers Kenson and Ferris will hold position here, block and disperse any and all civilians from entering the hot zone. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No lights, no sirens, and no black-and-whites within a block of the target building. Protective gear is worn. This is not optional. Again, if the subject is seen exiting the building before this op is in place, take him down. If he’s seen inside the building, track but do not engage. We’re moving,” she added. “Go in soft, wait for my orders. All weapons, medium stun.”

She turned, snagged the coat Roarke had brought in, then her stride forward hitched when she noticed Sinead standing in the doorway someone had neglected to secure. She had a baby on her hip, a hand on a gleefully fascinated Sean’s shoulder.

“Ah, we have to go out. Sorry. We’re in a hurry.”

She left it at that, double-timed it out and down the stairs. Roarke paused, just for a moment. “We’ll be back before too long, and I’ll let you know.”

Then he was gone, too, rushing out with the rest.

“Nan!” Sean sent Sinead a look of awe and joy. “They’re after the bad guy.”

“They are, yes. Well then, let’s go down, have a little tea.”

···

Reinhold slept the sleep of the satisfied, and woke to Joe’s harsh, sobbing screams.

“Jesus.” Reinhold rolled, stretched, yawned. “What a pussy.”

He hit the bedroom AC for hot chocolate—extra whipped cream—and stood at his window wall, looking out at New York, at the city he knew feared him, while he drank.

When Joe didn’t show up at his mother’s by about noon, Reinhold calculated, to hang out with his stepfather, his brother, and his brother’s ugly wife and uglier kids, his fat cousin, Stu, who’d have his piss-faced grandmother in tow, they and the city would fear him more.

All around the Thanksgiving tables he’d be the talk. Jerry Reinhold, a killer who did what he wanted, who he wanted, when he wanted.

Taking his time, he dressed—crap clothes again because holiday or not he was working—then went into the spare room to activate the droid.

“Good morning, sir. Someone appears to be in distress.”

“Don’t worry about him. Don’t talk to him or listen to him. Got it, Asshole?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go down and fix me, what is it, yeah, eggs Benedict, a couple slices of toast with strawberry jelly, and whatever ought to go with it. Then come up here and clean up my bedroom, take care of my clothes. I’ll let you know when to come down again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before he went down himself, Reinhold checked himself out in the mirror. He thought he might dress up later, catch some football—which reminded him to tell the droid to get him some prime Giants tickets. Maybe he’d have some fancy drink out on the terrace, too.

He’d planned on keeping Joe around another night, having some fun there. But if the fucker was going to keep screaming...

He strolled down.

Joe looked worse for wear, that’s for sure. His face—and he’d always been a conceited fuck—all bloody and bruised. A lot busted in there. The shallow cuts had stopped bleeding, something he’d fix after breakfast. And the burns looked like circles and streaks of charcoal.

Reinhold picked up the sap, gave Joe an absent smack. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll slit your throat and be done with it.”

“Please, God, please.” The words came garbled through broken teeth. “I think I’m dying. I’m hurt bad. Don’t hurt me anymore, please, man, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Oh yeah? That’s something maybe. You’ve got some money, Joe. The Vegas money, and more. Maybe if you give me your passcodes so I can take it, I’ll let you go.”

“Anything. You can have it. I—I’ve got my uncle Stan’s passcodes, too.”

“Is that so?” With a smile, Reinhold gestured to a nearby chair. “Set me up there,” he ordered the droid.

“I found them when I was helping him out with some stuff. He’s got some real scratch, Jerry. I’ll get it for you. Just let me go. Promise to let me go, and I’ll get you all of it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Please. I need water. Can I have some water, please?”

Easing into his seat, Reinhold took his knife and fork from the tray the droid gave him.

“Can’t you see I’m having breakfast? Shut up before you piss me off. You,” he said to the droid. “Turn on the screen. It’s got to be about time for the parade.” He smiled, cut into his eggs. “I’d hate for us to miss the parade, Joe. Just lie back and enjoy.”