Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(100)

“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.”

20

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

He smirked at the readout, hit Ignore.

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

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

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

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

Too late now. Opportunity missed.

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

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

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

Simple as that.

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

Yeah, he was working on that.

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

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

He’d hit for more next trip out.

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

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

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

Fine with him.

He’d done a quick check on Anton Trevor, and the picky, paranoid future client was rolling in it. The guy wanted to discuss business on his own turf? No problem. The client was always right, even the f**kheads. 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.”