Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(51)

Just like that, she thought.

She sat with him, uncovered the plate to reveal the abundance of food. Jesus, what starving Irishman had first come up with the concept of the full deal?

“How much of it goes to Ireland?” she asked him. “The EuroCom thing.”

He shot her an amused smile. “Want the figures, do you? Should I have a report sent over?”

She picked up her fork. “Definitely not. I’m just curious if any of this plays in with your family.”

“Most of my people are farmers, as you know, but there are some who don’t work the land, and they may find their way onto the payroll. You don’t look as rested as I’d hoped.”

“Weird dream. Dream,” she repeated so he understood there’d been no nightmare. “The latest vic and I had this conversation in her apartment. She’s pretty bummed out about being dead.”

“It’s difficult to fault her for that.”

“Yeah. She … she doesn’t want her parents to see her looking the way Reinhold left her. In the dream, I mean. Projecting,” Eve said as she began to eat. “And I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not? You feel for her.”

“It’s not my job to feel for her. It’s my job to find and stop Reinhold.”

“You do both, and that’s what makes you you.”

“My subconscious is putting words in her mouth.”

Watching her, Roarke cut into meaty, Irish-style bacon. “Your subconscious, driven by your innate observation skills and your unique sensitivity. I wouldn’t discount it.”

“None of that tells me where he is now, or what he’s planning next.”

“You’ve generated considerable data in a short amount of time.”

She had—they had, she knew, but … “Time’s the problem. He’s like … like a kid with a brand-new toy and nobody to tell him to put it down. Or an addict who’s just discovered a new drug, and thinks there’s an unlimited supply. He’s not going to pace himself.”

“I’d agree with that, exactly. And I’d also say that’s his mistake, or one of them. It’ll be the rush, the gorging on it, that trips him.”

“Gorging, yeah. He’s spent his whole life accumulating and hoarding grudges, and now he’s figured out what to do with them. Stabbing, bludgeoning, strangulation.” She scooped up eggs as she spoke, fueling up. “It’s all so much fun he can’t decide what to try next. And there’s so many ways to kill. And better, so many ways to cause pain and torment first.”

Fighting frustration, she stabbed at potatoes. “He’s got a target already, and I can’t know who.”

“If you can’t narrow down his next victim, you might narrow down his potential space. As you’ve said, he has to land somewhere.”

“Yeah, he needs a place of his own—and money to get it, to furnish it in the fashion he deserves.”

A narcissist, Mira said. So he’d believe he deserved the best.

“Maybe he’ll blow a big chunk of what he’s got on his headquarters. From the time line, he didn’t have much time to scout out places yesterday. He may have done some via ’link or Web, but he’d need to see, to walk around in the space, to imagine himself there. Maybe that’s today’s agenda. But he has to change his looks first, has to alter them enough. He has to know we have his face, and he’s not stupid. That’s something else Nuccio said.”

“You had quite a conversation.”

“Well, we both felt pretty crappy.”

“Won’t most of his potential victims have holiday plans?” At her blank look, he shook his head. “Thanksgiving, Eve. Two days from now.”

“Shit. That’s right. Family groups, people leaving town or coming in. That’s something to look at.” It struck her. “Yours. Yours are coming in tomorrow.”

“They are, yes, and will perfectly understand if you’re busy on an investigation and don’t have much time for them.”

But the house would be full of people, noise, conversations, questions. She liked them, really she did. But …

“Life happens, darling,” he reminded her. “However ill the timing.”

“I guess it does. Maybe luck will turn our way and away from him, and I’ll have him in a cage before the turkey’s stuffed.”

“Let’s hope for that.”

“It’s going to take more than hope.” She pushed away from the table. “I’d better start working on turning that luck because the little bastard’s somewhere right now, thinking about his next kill.”

He felt great! A good night’s sleep, a long, hot shower, and a hearty breakfast prepared and served by Asshole, his new droid. He ordered the droid to clean up, to ignore any ’link communications or anyone who might come to the door during the process, then shut down.

The idea of anyone trying to contact Farnsworth made him consider she might have appointments. Armed with her passcodes, he checked both her calendar and her e-mail history on her bedroom ’link.

The fat, ugly blob had a salon appointment at two. As if anyone would look at her twice anyway. He found the salon contact, send a quick text canceling.

And she was booked to have Thanksgiving dinner with some losers named Shell and Myra, who were probably as ugly and worthless as she was. He considered that, decided to leave it alone for now. If he still needed her and the house on Thursday, he’d make up some excuse at the last minute.