Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(60)

He listened with half an ear as the realtor buzzed at him about square footage, location, amenities—soundproofing, full voice command, private elevator—blah, blah, blah.

He nodded, trying for knowledgeable and sophisticated as he circled around to the master suite.

He all but felt tears rush to his eyes.

Like the dining room, like the living area with its gel platform sofa, chrome tables, gold scoop chairs, it was already furnished.

She fussed with a remote that had the black headboard glowing, the privacy screens on that wall of glass sliding up, then down, the glass opening to the terrace.

He struggled to maintain his composure, glancing at the bathroom—big, sunken jet tub, clear glass multijet shower. Drying tube, flash-tan tube, another screen, a small gas fireplace, an attached dressing area complete with wardrobe comp.

The second bedroom, described by the yammering realtor as the perfect home office for a bachelor, also had its own bath—smaller than the master’s but no less swank.

He poked around, opening closets, wandering out to the terrace, giving her short answers or no comments.

It was, in his mind, already his. Everything he wanted, everything he deserved.

He wanted her out of it so he could flop down on the couch and kick his feet, wave his fists in the air in triumph.

“It’s prime real estate,” she continued—talk, talk, talk. “The complex has only been open for six months, and is already at ninety-three percent. The previous tenant hadn’t fully moved in, was still furnishing as you can see, when business required him to move to Paris. This unit has only just become available, and I expect it to be snapped up by next week. And only that long due to the holiday.”

“It might do.” Reinhold tried for weariness. “I really don’t have much time to spend on hunting.”

She gave him an easy, professional smile—a short, solid woman in a purple suit and sensible shoes. “You said you’d just come back to New York from Europe yourself.”

“Hmmm.” He merely nodded. He wandered back, frowned at the kitchen, opened a few doors, drawers. “It’s a bit small for the entertaining I do, but it’s here.”

“The caterer on site is one of the best in the city. Of course, you’d hardly expect less from a Roarke property.”

He glanced at her. “Roarke?” He felt the thrill spear through him, couldn’t suppress the smile. “Roarke owns the property?”

“Yes, so you can be assured the security, the staffing, all the amenities are top of the scale.”

“I’m sure. His wife is a police officer, isn’t she?”

“That’s right. Have you seen The Icove Agenda? It’s based on one of her cases. Fabulous vid. Just fabulous.”

“I’ve heard of it. I don’t have much time for vids.” He dismissed it as if such things were too frivolous for his notice. Inside he reveled. The cop trying to find him was married to the man who’d built his new headquarters.

It couldn’t be more perfect.

“What about the furnishings?”

“As I said, the previous tenant had to leave for Europe, and quickly. He’ll make arrangements to have the furniture taken out, or is willing to sell any and all.”

“I see. It would save time, and time is money.” He glanced at his spiffy new wrist unit as if verifying. “I’ll take it, and the furniture.”

“You … You don’t want to see the other properties?”

“Time, money, and this suits well enough. What does he want for the furniture?”

“All of it?”

“As I said.” He gave her a hurry-it-up finger wiggle. “I don’t waste time.”

“Just give me a moment to check. Building management will need first and last month’s rent, as well as the security deposit, on signing.”

“Understood. I’ll have my girl wire it today. I’ll move in this evening.”

“This—”

“I prefer not to spend another night in a hotel,” he said, rolling right over her. “I don’t have much with me. I’ll make arrangements to have the rest of my things sent once I’m settled. Make it happen.”

So saying, he wandered off again, leaving her scrambling.

Eve followed Reinhold’s footprints. To banks, hotel, shops, pawnbrokers. She talked to clerks, reviewed security discs. Studying him, watching him revel in his newfound life, his murderous freedom.

She’d found more photos—tucked away. And, as Peabody had suggested, school reports. Average at best. They’d unearthed an old vid of him from childhood—labeled Jerry, Talent Show, Grade Five. He’d competed with a song, and had carried it fairly well.

Well enough to place third. The vid had clearly shown his anger, his sulkiness when accepting his little trophy. Another vid memorialized his Little League team’s bid for the championship. They lost, and Reinhold struck out on his last at bat.

Other vids showed family vacations—Reinhold belly-flopping into a pool, swimming choppily. Not the athletic type, Eve judged. Holidays, birthdays, high school graduation.

On foot now, Eve and Peabody walked between pawnshops. And Eve stopped outside of a fancy salon.

“He needs a new look.”

“He didn’t change it. We’ve got him on the feed from the hotel.”