Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(104)

“Is that right?” Reinhold smiled broadly. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing! I wouldn’t rat you, man. Never.” His chest trembled in pain and fear as he struggled to speak. “I told her you were innocent, you’d never have killed anybody. You were framed, that’s what I said. Somebody—”

Reinhold swung the sap, and delight spilled through him at the snap and crunch of teeth and bone. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung again.

In a direct about-face from her usual position on it, Eve blessed the time difference that had most of the Irish contingent heading off to bed at a reasonable, if not early, hour. Babies and kids were hauled off first, many of them limp in sleep as a parent tossed them over a shoulder or scooped them into arms.

Others followed, bit by bit—though she suspected some of the older kids—age or attitude—were all but camped out in the game room.

But the minute it seemed reasonable, she snuck off and up to her office.

Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the long, noisy dinner, and the people. Roarke’s family was so damn likable, so funny, and so full of the bullshit they liked to call blarney it just wasn’t possible to resent the time.

Very much.

She went straight to her comp to check on any further incomings and reports. She found plenty of both, but not much in them to add any real weight or introduce new angles.

Still, she studied Peabody’s refinement of the map, and found some good work there.

She looked up from it when Roarke stepped in.

“I owe you a very big solid for the evening,” he began.

“No, you don’t. Not only because visiting relatives are in the Marriage Rules, but because I just like them. And maybe it gave me some rest-the-brain-cells time. We’ll see.”

“I’ll thank you anyway.” He walked over to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be putting some time in the lab yet tonight, see if something shakes loose.”

“Even if it’s a crumb, tell me.”

“I’ll do that very thing. And give it as much time as I can possibly spare tomorrow. Meanwhile”—as he turned to go, he stopped to study the map on screen—“you’ve made some changes.”

“Peabody. I need to go through it all, but my sense is they’re good changes. Hopefully the right changes.”

“Taken down like this …” With his head angled, he stepped a bit closer to the screen. “I believe I own some of those properties.”

“You—of course you do,” she said on a frustrated sigh. “Stupid brain cells. You can probably get through to the managers, the supervisors, whoever has a tenant list.”

“I could, yes, but even that would take some time. Holiday, darling. Offices are closed at this hour, and will be tomorrow. Some of those managers will be out of town, and accessing the data will take time. I can do it myself, but unless you have a name, I wouldn’t know who I’m to look for.”

“New tenant. The first kill wasn’t planned. He wouldn’t have starting looking for a place, this kind of place, sooner than last Friday, probably later than that, but we can work it from last Friday. New, single male tenant, that cuts it down.”

“It would. I’ll start something, but first I’ll need a copy of the revised map—in the lab,” he added, “so I can work the other program as well. I don’t know how many I have in a sector that large, but it’s easy enough to find out. And in a sector that large, they won’t all be mine. I could, with a bit of finesse, access other tenant lists with the same criteria.”

She bumped against her own line, slid a toe across. “Go ahead. I’ll push for a warrant. Start with your own, okay? I’ll push hard and get it. I’ll damn well get the warrant.”

“All right then. I’ll see what I can do. With or without the warrant, it’ll take time. I’ll wager there’s easily a hundred properties highlighted there.”

“A hundred and twenty-four buildings,” she confirmed. “Whatever you can do to cut that down’s a plus. And it’s time we had luck swing our way. Maybe you’ll hit.”

“That would be something to be thankful for. I’ll let you know, when I know.”

Renewed, she pushed through the reports again, and started adding to her notes.

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.