Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(105)

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 ass**le 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 ass**le 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 ass**le, 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.