Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(28)

“So you fired them for being ass**les.”

He laughed, and felt some of those dregs slide away. “You could say just that.”

“I know something about it,” she said as he walked to the table she’d set—hopefully well enough—to uncork the champagne. “The guy responsible for the double homicide’s an ass**le who can’t keep a job—arrogance, carelessness, and I think a warped sense of entitlement.”

“It seems our stuff coincides.” After the elegant and muffled pop of cork from bottle, he poured champagne into two tall flutes.

“Part of why you hate firing people is because it makes you feel like you made a mistake hiring them.”

“And you know me well,” he agreed. He handed her a flute, tapped his to hers.

“Did you?”

“Obviously, yes. But at the time they suited the position well, on all the levels. Over time, however, some can become complacent, lazy, and, yes, entitled.”

It never paid, he strongly believed, to take a single thing—the good, the bad, the mediocre—for granted.

“And now these three people are out of work,” he added. “They won’t have an easy time gaining equal employment as their references won’t be stellar.”

“And the other part you hate is now their lives are screwed up, and may stay that way at least for a while. It’s a tough break, but you wear what you sew—if you know how to sew anyway.”

It took him a moment, then he just laughed again—and there went the rest of the dregs. “That’s reap what you sow—as in harvest what you plant.”

“If you go around sewing something, you’re going to have to wear it. So?” She lifted her shoulders.

“So,” he repeated. “You’re right. They sewed, or sowed, wore or reaped. And now they’re out in a damn fallow field wearing something that fits ill. And apparently that settles my stuff, so thanks for that.”

“No problem. Hungry?”

“I am now. What’s for dinner, darling Eve?”

“We got this soup thing to start it off. Summerset picked the food, so you’re safe there.”

“I was fully prepared for pizza in your office.” He skimmed a hand down her hair, then lightly over her cheek. “We’re not ones who need or want to push our stuff outside, or not very often. We do well with it. We do well with it together.”

“Good to hear, because I’ve got a big pile of stuff.”

“Let’s have some soup, and you can tell me about it.”

“I’m doing the deal here.” She gestured to a chair.

“What man doesn’t like coming home to a hot meal prepared by his adoring wife?”

“Lap it up,” she muttered, and pulled the silver warming covers.

“If it’s all the same, I’ll use a spoon. The reports I heard tell me you’re looking for a man—middle twenties—who murdered his parents.”

“It’s more than that. He stabbed his mother over fifty times with a kitchen knife, beat his father to pieces—hours later—with a baseball bat.”

“That’s considerable rage.” He studied her face carefully. “Were they abusive?”

“No, there’s no indication there was anything like that. He’s a f**kup. Flunked out of college, can’t or won’t hold a job longer than a few months, including the one his father arranged for him at the father’s office. Decent work. I spoke with the supervisor there, some of the coworkers. The father’s been with the company for a couple decades—hardworking, good guy, responsible. The son’s none of the above. Same deal with other bosses I talked to.”

“So a pattern of irresponsibility and failure.”

“Yeah, on a personal level, too. Girlfriend—and from what I’ve been able to gather so far, the only woman he ever lived with, or had a relationship with for more than a couple weeks—booted him. He took the rent money, and her tip money savings—she’s a waitress—and blew it and more in Vegas. He had to move back in with the parents, and again according to what I’ve learned, hasn’t made any move toward finding a job. They’d decided to give him until December to get one, or get out.”

He ate soup—warm, comforting with just a little bite—and considered. “He killed them because they wouldn’t allow him to continue to feed off the parental tit?”

“That’s summing it up. He stabbed the mother around lunchtime,” Eve began, and took him through the time line, the financial transfers, the theft, and the selling.

“Cold bastard, and now he has cash. More than he’s ever had at one time. It’s unlikely he’ll be careful with it. Besides being cold and vicious, he’s young and stupid. I can put out an alert to all my hotels in the city.”

“It’s already done, and thanks. And fyi,” Eve added, “you sure didn’t make a mistake hiring Joleen Mortimer, or anyone else I dealt with at The Manor. She, especially, is a laser.”

“I agree. In this case, the previous owners and her former manager were the arrogant ones. Their loss, my gain. I can run searches for accounts your man may open, and will, but it’s more likely he’ll keep the cash. It’s tangible. He can touch it, gloat over it. I don’t think you’ll track him through deposits and transfers on this one, not with—what is it—about a hundred seventy-five thousand. He’ll hoard, then he’ll squander.”