Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(14)

“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 ass**le.”

“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.”