Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(116)

“Best I ever had, and I did it myself. She deserved what she got. It was self-defense,” he repeated, jabbing a finger on the table. “All of it. I had to look out for myself. It’s my right.”

“How was Ms. Farnsworth self-defense?” Eve wondered.

“She ruined my life. Screwed with my grades so it looked like I flunked, and I had to lose a whole summer making it up. My own friends made fun of me. I made her give me my life back, that’s all. Made her give me a new life. That’s fair.”

“You assaulted her, bound her with rope and tape, forced her to generate your new data and identification, credit cards, to transfer her funds, her property into accounts for you.”

“She owed me. They all owed me. They all thought I was nothing. I made them nothing. It’s fair,” he repeated. “I’ve got a right to look out for myself.”

Eve glanced at Peabody.

“Let me just make sure we get this all straight, Jerry,” Peabody said. “You killed your mother, your father, Lori Nuccio, and Ms. Edie Farnsworth, you abducted, assaulted, tortured, and planned to kill Joe Klein because they owed you—having played parts in ruining your life. So taking their lives was fair. Taking their money and their property was fair.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right.” Pleased with the summation, he gave Peabody a sharp nod. “They all screwed with me, so I screwed with them bigger. Did you see my apartment? That’s who I am now. And I know damn well it’s going to turn out you’re wrong about the money. It’s mine. It’s in my name, my accounts. Possession’s more than half of something. I heard that somewhere. The money’s in my possession, so you’d better get me a damn good lawyer in here, now, or I’m going to sue your asses. It was self-defense, and I’m not going back in that cell. You can’t make me.”

He actually folded his arms over his chest, jutted out his chin. Like a kid making a dare.

“Oh, Jerry, Jerry, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to disabuse you.” Eve allowed herself a single happy sigh, and a big, wide smile. “How my heart actually sings with gratitude for this moment. You’re going down for murder, you ass**le. One count second degree, three first degree, one of assault with intent, plus all the related charges. You’re not just going back in that cell, Jerry. You’re going to live the rest of your small, stupid, miserable life in a cage.”

“I will not! I’m not going to jail.”

She let him spring up, let him run for the door—and just shot her foot out to trip him. And yeah, there was a little heart singing when he did a sliding face plant.

“No, you’re not going to jail,” she agreed, stirring herself to slap restraints on him as he cried big, self-pitying tears and sobbed for his money. “It’s called prison. And I’m betting it’s going to be a nasty, bust-your-ass prison, off-planet, where they eat weaseling little cowards like you for lunch.”

“I’ll take him down to Booking,” Peabody said as she helped Eve haul Reinhold to his feet.

“Nah. We’re passing him off to a couple unlucky uniforms. We’re going to go have ourselves a nice turkey dinner.”

“Yay!”

Together, they dragged the limp, sobbing Reinhold out of the box, and into the rest of his life.

EPILOGUE

THERE WAS SOME PAPERWORK TO DEAL WITH, SOME CONTacts to make—procedure was procedure—but Eve figured they pulled up at the house at a reasonable time.

She hadn’t screwed up Thanksgiving.

“Champagne,” Roarke decreed. “For both of you. Exceptional teamwork in Interview.”

“Champagne?” Peabody did a seat dance before climbing out. “Oh boy, oh boy!”

“It’s a good day,” Eve decided. And she could wait for the next to talk to Asshole Joe in the hospital.

She stepped into the house, into a wall of voices, music, into the scents of applewood burning, candles flickering, flowers, and food.

Into, she supposed, family.

They’d spread around the living room, and had broken out musical instruments. Some of them danced—including, she saw with considerable shock, the huge Crack, the sex club owner—with his tattoos and feathers. The Irish white skin of the little girl he had on his hip glowed against his ebony.

Mavis’s little Bella clung to McNab’s hands and stomped her feet in a mimic of the step-dancing going on.

They called it a ceili, she remembered from her visit to the family farm in Clare. And she supposed they’d brought a little Irish to an American holiday.

It fit just fine.

Before she could evade—or even think to—one of them (uncle—no cousin) whizzed by, snatching her, swinging her into the whirl of it.

She managed a “No, uh-uh,” but he just plucked her off her feet, spun her in circles.

She laughed, then staggered a bit when he dropped her back down, and the music ended with riotous applause.

The noise didn’t end. A million questions and comments burst out, and made her think of a media conference.

“Easy now,” Sinead ordered. “You’re all smothering the lot of them. Ian tells us you got your man,” she added. “And all’s well with the world.”

“For now.”

“Now is good and fine enough. We’ve been entertaining ourselves as you see, until you were home again.”