Chapter 3

SHE KNOCKED, EXPECTING SHE WAS WASTING her time at this hour of the day, but within moments, she heard the slide of locks.

The man who answered was middle-twenties, average height, and gym fit. She could see that easily as he wore snug bike shorts and a skin shirt. His brown hair sported a single red blaze, and was tucked back into a short tail.

He leaned against the doorjamb, one hand on his cocked hip. Posing, she thought, in a way that showed off his bis and tris.

“Well, hi there,” he said.

“Hi back.”

The flirty smolder blinked away when Eve held up her badge.

“Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know yet. Can I come in, speak to you?”

“Ah.” He glanced behind, shifted, looked back at her. “Yeah, I guess. I’m working at home today,” he said as he opened the door. “I was just taking a break, doing a few miles on my bike.”

Eve saw the desk against the short window with its piles of discs, of files, a bag of soy chips, and a tube of some sport’s drink. A couple feet away sat a gleaming stationary bike facing a massive wall screen.

“Look, I know I got a speeding ticket a couple weeks ago. I’m going to pay it.”

“Do I look like a traffic cop?”

“Um... I guess not, not so much.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Homicide.”

“Homi— Jeez, God!”

“Are you Malachi Golde?”

“Yeah. Mal. People call me Mal. Who got killed? Do I know somebody who got killed?”

And suddenly, he looked very young. “I don’t know yet. You know Jerry Reinhold.”

“Jerry? Jerry?” Now he looked young, and ill. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus. I need to sit down.”

Full-weight, he dropped onto a slick-surfaced sofa in shimmering silver. “Jerry’s dead?”

“I didn’t say that. My information is you know him. How do you know him?”

“From the neighborhood. We grew up together. We lived a half a block from each other growing up, went to school together. We hang out, have a beer or whatever. I’ve known Jerry my whole life. What happened?”

“I’ll get to that. What kind of work are you doing there, Mal?”

“What? Oh, ah, I’m a programmer. I can work at home most days if I want. I do programming and troubleshooting for Global United.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Yeah.” He passed a hand over his face, like a man trying to wake up. “It’s sweet work, what I wanted to do since I can remember.”

“Pays good.”

“Yeah, pays good if you’re good. I don’t understand what this is about.”

Just getting a picture, Eve thought. “I’m looking around here, Mal, and you’ve got some nice stuff—furniture, equipment. The building’s kind of a dump.”

“Oh.” He managed an uneasy smile. “Yeah, but that’s just the shell, right? It’s what’s inside. And I like the location. I can walk or bike to work, to the gym, to my folks’ place. I know everybody, you know? I didn’t want to move when I started making some shine.”

“Got it. Jerry’s data lists this as his address.”

“It does?” Mal’s eyebrows drew together. “We shared the place for a couple years, but that’s been awhile, months now. Maybe eight, nine months now.”

“Why did he move out?”

“Oh, well, he hooked up with Lori, and—”

“Lori Nuccio?”

“Yeah, Lori. He moved in with her.”

“That’s not why he moved out.”

With a pained look, Mal shifted. “Okay, look, I carried him on the rent for three months, heading into four. It didn’t seem right he wasn’t holding up his share, or even really trying to. So he moved in with his folks for a couple months, then he moved in with Lori.”

“Did the two of you fight about it? The rent?”

“Oh, Jesus, we argued some, sure, you know how it is. He was a little steamed, yeah, but we smoothed it over. We go back, man, a long ways. When I got a solid raise, I rented this place in the freaking Hamptons, man, for a week this summer, and I took Jerry and a couple of other pals along. It all chilled out. What happened to him? How did he die?”

“He didn’t.”

“But you said—”

“No, I didn’t. Jerry’s not dead, as far as I know. His parents are.”

At that Mal sprang up as if he’d been propelled. “What? No. Mr. and Mrs. R? No. Did they have an accident?”

“Homicide, Mal, remember?”

“Man, man.” Tears glazed across his eyes, coated his voice. “Were they mugged? They love to go to the vids, and sometimes they’d walk home late.”

“No.”

He dropped down again, covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe it. Mrs. R, she always has something for me if I drop over. Cookies or pie or a sandwich. Always saying I need a haircut and to settle down with a nice girl. She’s like a second mother, you know? Oh, Jesus, when my ma finds out, it’s going to knock her flat. They’ve known each other forever. Poor Jerry. God, poor Jerry. Does he know?”

“Yeah, he knows. He killed them.”

His hands lowered slowly. His eyes, glassy with shock and tears, stared into Eve’s. “That’s not true. That’s bogus. That’s not possible. No way. No freaking way, lady.”

“Lieutenant, and there’s absolute way. Where is he, Mal? Where would he go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rocking a little, he pressed his fist to his belly. “Where do you go when things are crazy or falling apart? You go the hell home.”

“He’s finished with that.”

“He wouldn’t hurt them. You’ve got it wrong.”

“Contact him. Try him on the ’link.”

“Look, I’m his friend. You’re trying to trap him for something he didn’t do. Couldn’t do.”

Eve leaned forward. “He stabbed his mother in the kitchen. I haven’t been to the morgue yet so I can’t verify how many times, but he tore her up. Then he waited until his father got home from work and he bashed him to pulp with a baseball bat.”

His color faded to a sickly gray. “No, no, he... a baseball bat.”

“That’s right.”

Mal swallowed hard. “We played ball. Little League, then a sandlot league my pop put together a few years ago. But he wouldn’t do this.”

“He did this, then he stole the cash they had in the house, and he found the passcodes and transferred every dime they had into accounts in his name. He spent the last two nights in a fancy hotel, living it up.”

“No.” He rose, walked to the window in front of his desk. “I don’t want what you’re telling me. We’ve known each other since we were six.”

“Where would he go?”

“I swear, I don’t know. My ma’s life, I swear it. He didn’t come here. He didn’t tag me.”

“He ditched his ’link. He’ll have a clone by now so you won’t recognize the ID if he does. And if he does, be chilly, Mal. If he says to meet him somewhere, say you will, then contact me. If he comes here, don’t let him in. Don’t let him know you’re here, and contact me.” She set a card on the table as she rose.

“Give me some names. Other friends. And this Lori Nuccio’s contact information.”

“Okay.”

He listed names, and Eve keyed them into her notebook.

“She dumped him, you know. Lori. He lost his job, stopped paying his share of the rent.”

“A habit of his.”

“Yeah, I guess. He went to Vegas with some friends a couple months back. Joe and Dave from the names I gave you. I couldn’t make it. My sister’s birthday, and man, did I carp about that. He dropped a pile, I heard, and Lori kicked him. So he was living back home.”

Mal rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve gotta go see my mother.”

“I can drive you.”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks. I think I need to walk. I think I want to walk. He’s practically my brother, you know? They just had him, and I’ve got a sister, so we were like brothers coming up. He’s a screwup, okay? I don’t like to say it, but he’s a screwup. But to do what you say he did... I need to go home.”

“Okay, Mal.” She picked up her card, handed it to him. “Put those numbers in your ’link. You contact me if you see him, hear from him, or anyone you know does. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

· · ·

After tagging Peabody, dumping the two other friends Sylvia Guntersen gave them on her partner, she tried for the ex. And wasn’t as lucky as she’d been with Mal Golde. When no one responded, Eve tried knocking on neighbors’ doors until one creaked open.

“Not buying,” the woman said.

“Not selling.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Lori Nuccio.”

“You don’t tell me that sweet girl did a crime.”

“No, ma’am. I’d like to talk to her about something, but she’s not in trouble.”

The door cracked wider, and the woman gave Eve a hard stare over a beak of a nose. “It’s her day off. Mine, too. She went out a couple hours ago, I think. Going shopping, maybe she said, having lunch with a girlfriend, maybe getting her hair done. Stuff girls that age do.”

“Ms....”

“Crabtree. Sela Crabtree.”

Eve took out her PPC, brought up Jerry’s picture. “Ms. Crabtree, have you seen him around here?”

The woman snorted, opened the door fully, shoved an absent hand through spikes of brassy blond. “That one? Not since she kicked him out, and good riddance. Now you tell me he done a crime, I’m believing you. Didn’t treat that sweet girl right, if you ask me. I told her the same myself, and how she’d find better. I had one like him at that age. Best thing I did was kick him.”

No one liked Jerry, Eve thought, but nodded. “If she should come back, would you give her my card, ask her to contact me?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And if he comes around, Ms. Crabtree? You contact me.”

The woman spread her lips in a snarling smile. “You can bet on it, sister.”

“Don’t confront him.”

“He hurt somebody, didn’t he?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Had it in his eyes. I’ve tended bar for thirty-three years. I know eyes, and those that got mean in them.”

“He hurt somebody,” Eve confirmed. “Don’t confront him, and tell Lori to contact me as soon as possible.”

“I’ll look out for her—and for him. But he hasn’t come around here in a good month now. Hey!” She shot up a finger. “I’ve got Lori’s pocket ’link number.”

“I’ve got it. I’ll try that next. Thanks.”

She keyed in the number as she headed out and down, and got dead air. Puzzled, she keyed in the data again, checked the number, tried it again with the same result.

Changed it, didn’t you?

Eve hauled herself back, checked with the neighbor, but the number was the same as Eve’s data.

“You know, she said something about getting a new ’link,” Crabtree remembered. “A new number, the works. Said how she was going for fresh wherever she could get it.”

Eve thought, Crap, but nodded. “As soon as you see her, tell her to contact me.”

She headed down again, decided to start on the list of names she got from Mal via ’link on the way to the morgue.

By the time she got there, she’d managed to contact three on the list, and leave word with the manager of the restaurant where Lori Nuccio worked, in case.

Maybe she didn’t need this stop—at least she didn’t need to confirm cause of death on her vics as the cause had been brutally obvious. But it was part of the process, and part of hers. She wanted to see the victims again, take a hard look. And she wanted Morris’s take. The chief medical examiner often gave her another angle, or at least made her think.

She walked into the echoey white tunnel, slowed as she passed Vending. She could really use a nice cold boost, but machines liked to screw with her. She wasn’t in the mood to be screwed with by a damn vending machine.

Shoving her hands in her pockets, she marched on, then pushed through Morris’s doors.

He had both victims on slabs, their bodies washed clean of blood. The mother’s chest was splayed open from Morris’s precise Y cut. He bent over her, studying what lay inside.

He wore microgoggles over his clever eyes and a clear gown over a gray suit with hints of steely blue. He’d tied his long stream of black hair into a trio of descending ponytails and bound them with silver cord.

“Their son, I’m told.”

“Yeah.”

He straightened. “This is considerably sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”

“What serpent?”

Now he smiled and warmth came into his fascinating face. “Shakespeare’s.”

“Oh.” No wonder he and Roarke hit it off. “Nothing poetic about this.”

“He dealt in tragedies, too. And this is one.”

“What I’m getting is the son’s a fucking asshole who went psycho. Have you got anything cold in your box?”

“We keep everyone cold here.” He smiled a little. “But if you mean to drink, yes.” He gestured with his sealed, blood-smeared hands. “Help yourself.”

“Vending keeps breaking down on me,” she said as she crossed to his little Friggie. “I think it’s something chemical.”

“Do you?”

Grateful, she snagged a tube of Pepsi. She cracked the tube, took a gulp. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” he repeated. “Ladies first, as you see. In her case in death as well as life. She’d consumed a slice of wheat bread, about six ounces of soy coffee with artificial sweetener, and a half cup of Greek yogurt with granola about five hours prior to TOD. Not a particularly lovely last meal. She was very slightly underweight, and in very good health. Or she was before she was stabbed fifty-three times.”

“Serious overkill.”

“The majority of the wounds were inflicted when she was prone—the angle. And several of the blows were forceful enough to nick bone, and in fact broke and lodged the tip in her tibia.” He held up a specimen jar. “My opinion is, all wounds were inflicted by one blade, which matches the one you found still in her. There are no defensive wounds.”

“She didn’t see it coming. Probably didn’t believe it when it did.”

“I agree. From my reconstruction, it’s my conclusion the first blow came here.” He held a finger over the body’s abdomen. “It did considerable damage, but she would have recovered from that with good and speedy medical treatment. The next, probably this, near the same area.”

“They’d be face-to-face.”

“Yes, probably very close. After that, they were more random, and more forceful.”

“Getting into it,” she murmured.

“On the back.” He ordered his screen to change views so Eve studied the victim’s back. “One or two of them, from the angle again, were probably delivered as she tried to get away, and as she fell. She was dead or at least unconscious before the majority of them. Small mercy. Some bruising where she fell, but she wouldn’t have felt it.”

“Very small mercy.”

“You know who. Do you know why?”

“He’s an asshole. A screwup, even according to his oldest friend. He couldn’t or wouldn’t keep a job, girlfriend gave him the boot. He’s back living with Mom and Dad and they’re going to give him the ‘grow up or get out’ routine. I think Mom gave him a heads-up on that.”

“Being a parent is full of pitfalls, I imagine. This shouldn’t be one of them.”

“No.” How many times had she stabbed her father? Eve wondered. Had anyone counted? But then, that had been a matter of life and death—her life and death.

“Can you tell me anything about the other vic?”

“Very preliminary.” Morris walked over to the second slab. “Your TOD on scene was accurate, and again, the bat you took into evidence matches the injuries. The first blow here? The face, and with considerable force—meat of the bat.”

“Swinging away.” Eve nodded. “There’s a little jog leading to the kitchen. He stood behind it, that’s what he did. Stood behind it, and the husband comes in, starts back. Sees the wife, the blood, the body, starts to run. He steps out, swings for the benches right into his father’s face.”

“Shattered his nose, left cheekbone, and eye socket. Subsequent blows broke several teeth, the jaw, fractured the skull in three places. Before he moved down to the body. My estimate, which I’ll refine, is approximately thirty blows. Some of them straight down—head of the bat into the body. In this case, I believe the first blow would have rendered the victim unconscious.”

“I guess he got off easier than his wife.”

“She’d have suffered more, yes.”

“Did you ever fight with your parents?”

He smiled easily. “I was a teenager once, after all. It was my duty to fight with and exasperate my parents.”

“Did you ever fantasize about giving them a couple good shots?”

“Not that I recall, no. I did imagine, regularly, proving them wrong, which I don’t believe I ever did. Or running off and becoming a famous blues musician.”

“You play a pretty mean sax.”

“I do, but...” He lifted his hands. “The dead are my work, as they’re yours. Now we’ll do the best job we can for the mother and father of this asshole.”

“Yeah, we will. Thanks for the drink.”

“Always stocked for you. And, Dallas, let me thank you in advance for Thanksgiving. It means a great deal to me to be included with your family and friends.”

It made her feel a little weird so she shrugged. “Hell, Morris, how many dead have you and I stood over together? If we’re not family and friends, what are we?”

· · ·

Eve drove straight back to Central. She wanted to set up her board and book, write her preliminary report—and if they didn’t bag Reinhold by the end of the day, have an appointment set with Mira for a profile and consult. And when a tour group led by an Officer Friendly piled into the elevator, she jumped off, opting for the longer but less crowded route of the snaking glides. As she rode, she pulled out her signaling ’link, noted Peabody on the display.

“Dallas. What have you got?”

“A cheese and veggie pita and soy fries. I’m at the cart, east corner of Central, and on my way in. Do you want me to grab something for you?”

Eve started to refuse, her mind on work, then had a sudden hankering. “Load up a dog. I’m already in house, heading up.”

“You got it. Give me ten.”

In her bullpen, Jenkinson—still wearing the atomic tie—sat scowling at his screen. Baxter—still wearing his sunshades—spat rapid-fire questions into his ’link. She caught the distinct smell of fried onions over the bad coffee.

She spotted Uniform Carmichael back in his cube, pulling them out of a greasy bag while he worked his keyboard one-handed.

Situation normal, she decided, and moved into her office.

She ignored her blinking message light. It could damn well wait until she’d set up. She ordered printouts of crime scene photos, of her vics, of Reinhold.

She sat at her desk to formulate her time line, printed that, and started on her report.

“Loaded dog,” Peabody announced, bringing the scent with her. “I got you fries, too, just in case.”

“Thanks.”

“Ah...” Peabody gestured toward the AutoChef. Knowing her partner, Eve held up two fingers to signal coffee for two.

“What did you get from the interviews?”

“That Joe Klein’s pretty much of a dick. He’s not buying his good bro Jerry killed anybody, hit on me in a very slimy way, claims Reinhold’s ex is a pushy bitch, and had a good laugh recounting how Reinhold lost over five thousand in Vegas while he himself won eight. A point their friend Dave Hildebran, who isn’t so much a dick, claims Klein rubbed all over Reinhold’s ass, and still is. Hildebran hit ten on the shocked scale,” she added as she brought Eve coffee, “but when he leveled off he told me he wondered if Reinhold was a shaky boomer primed to explode. Pissed at the world, was the phrase he used—considered his parents interfering, demanding, and to blame for whatever came to mind.”

Peabody took her first gulp of coffee. “Unless it was a former boss, a coworker, his ex, or some random dude on the street to blame. He said he’d hit a club with Reinhold and Klein the night before the murder, and all Reinhold did was bitch. He, Dave, hasn’t been hanging with them as much since Vegas. He’s seeing someone, and claims he’s a little tired of Reinhold’s endless complaints and Klein’s general dickishness. He’s hung a little more with Mal Golde, who you may have met since he lives at the last known.”

“Yeah, we met.”

“Neither of my two have seen or heard from Reinhold since Thursday night. Klein tried to tag him Saturday night, but hasn’t heard back.”

“Reinhold was a busy boy. Golde’s not a dick, by the way.”

She caught Peabody up with the salient points of that interview while she chowed on the dog. “Banks?” she finished, mouth full.

“I got copies of the security discs, reviewed them while I traveled. He had the ‘I’m a smug son of a bitch’ vibe going—briefcase, no suitcases. According to the managers, he wanted all cash, but some of the amounts made that tricky, so he settled for the cashier’s checks. A couple politely questioned him regarding why the quick deposit and withdrawal. He told them to give him his money or he’d cause a scene. I have a feeling he didn’t use such mild terms.”

“I’ll need to look at them. Did anybody see him leave, what he left in?”

“Outside security caught him, on foot.” Trying in vain for comfort, Peabody shifted in Eve’s visitor’s chair. “He could’ve had transpo waiting or picked it up once he was out of range.”

“Let’s send some uniforms around to neighboring businesses, see if they picked anything up. In the meantime, I couldn’t connect with the ex. According to her neighbor she’s out with a friend today—and buying a new ’link, with a new number. See if you can find anything on that. The neighbor—Sela Crabtree—has my contacts, so I expect to hear from the ex when they connect. Otherwise, we’ll round her up in the morning.”

“Got it.”

“I’m going to set up a meet with Mira, do the notifications. The vics’ parents need to be told before the media leaks their names. Get your notes together so I can—” She broke off as her desk ’link signaled. Though she intended to ignore it, she glanced over at the readout.

“Crap. It’s the commander.” After swiping a hand over her mouth, in case, she flipped it on. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

Rather than his admin’s, Whitney’s face filled her screen. “I’d like to see you in my office, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now.”

“On my way.”

He clicked off.

“God, I get gut knots just thinking about if it was me he called up like that.”

“Shit. I ate most of a loaded dog. I have loaded dog breath.” Rising, Eve yanked open drawers. “I must have something around here.”

“Try this.” Peabody offered a little box, flipping the lid to the tiny pink balls.

“Why are they pink?”

“Bubble gum flavor. It’s good. And they work.”

With little choice, Eve popped two. Pink or not, they were pretty good. “If I’m not back in ten, I need you to do the notifications.”

“Oh please, be back.”

“That’s up to Whitney.”

Swinging through, she noted Jenkinson and his tie among the missing, and imagined he and his partner, Reineke, caught one. Baxter had shifted to his comp, intensely, she noted. His shades hooked in his front pocket where she assumed he put them, intending to stick them back on the minute the tie walked back in.

It was a joke that would last the entire shift.

She stepped out, spotted Detective Carmichael at Vending.

“Hey, Loo, just getting our current bag of scum a cold one. Sanchez’s working him in Interview A.”

“What did the bag of scum do?”

“Tossed a junkie down a flight of stairs, then stomped him to death for trying to scam him with play money. I mean actual play money, like from a game. Bag of scum deals mostly to funky-junkies.”

And the Funk played hell with eyes. “Play money probably seemed fine to him.”

“Yeah, well, he won’t be passing Go.”

“Go where?”

“You know. Go.” Carmichael circled her hands in the air. “Monopoly. The game.”

“Dead makes a full stop.”

“You got that. Bag of scum’s claiming the junkie fell, and he’s claiming the reason he ran like a freaking gazelle when we tracked him is how he was late for an appointment. And how all the bags of Funk and zoner we spotted—and managed to even scoop up a few before bystanders swarmed—weren’t his. And he’s being arrogant about it, which makes you want to bitch-slap him a few times.”

“I didn’t hear that part.”

Carmichael smiled. “Sanchez keeps me in line. He’s a peaceful sort.”

“Stomped him? How are the bag of scum’s shoes?”

The smile widened. “He didn’t even bother to change his boots, or get the vic’s blood off them. We’re getting them analyzed, but he left a goddamn boot print on the vic’s chest. Clear as a footprint in wet sand. And we have two wits who were looking out their peeps when he shoved the guy because the bag of scum was yelling his ass off at the junkie.”

“Sounds like you’ve got him. Why are you getting him a cold one?”

“Mostly because Sanchez wanted me to cool off. Asshole said all I needed was a good fuck with a big dick, gave me the crotch grab, and said he had one waiting for me.”

“There’s more than one way to bitch-slap, Carmichael. Interview A’s on my way.” She started to walk. “What’s his name?”

“Street name’s Fang. Real’s Alvar Ramondo.”

With a nod, Eve gestured to the door. “Just open it, start to go in. Don’t close it.”

Carmichael obliged.

“So I’ll see you after... Hey.” Eve poked her head in the door, pointed at the bulky man—mid-twenties, mixed-race, leaning Latino, sporting complicated and elaborate tat sleeves. “Hey, you didn’t say you had Al in here.”

Before Sanchez could speak, Eve sent him the briefest glance. He settled back.

“How’s it going, Al? Not so good, I guess, from the look of it.”

“Who’s this bitch?” Fang demanded. “You bringing another bitch in? No problem. I can handle both of you.” He smiled, proving he didn’t spend a lot of his profits on dental hygiene, grabbed his crotch, rocked his hips.

Grunted suggestively.

“Yeah, that’s what you said that night after all those tequila shots. I dug the tats,” she said to Carmichael, “so I gave him a shot. What the hell. Lemme tell ya.”

Rolling her eyes, Eve held up her index finger and thumb, a scant two inches apart, then lifting the index, made a soft whooshing sound as she curled it limply down.

Fang’s face went fiery red as he tried to lurch up. “You lying bitch! Lying puta! I never seen you before.”

“Don’t remember me, Al? You said to call you Fang, right? Didn’t have much of a bite,” she said in an aside to Carmichael, girl to girl.

“Lying bitch! I never seen you.”

“Too much tequila.” Eve shrugged it off. “That’s okay. I remember you. I never forget a...” Eve did the falling index finger again. “Anyway,” she said brightly to Carmichael, “see you later.”

She began to shut the door, considered it a job well done when she heard the shouting stream of curses.

Then she hotfooted it to Whitney’s office.