Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(83)

“I need to think about it. Well, we need to get there first, and I need to think about it. If I can’t find him my way, I may have to find him yours. Because he’s got his next target in mind, and he’s figuring it out now. He’s working it out, and feeling smug about it.”

He slipped into bed with her, pulled her against him. “One way or the other you’ll have him. He won’t be so bloody smug then, will he?”

“Not when I’m done with him.” She closed her eyes, tried to will herself to sleep.

In his new penthouse, in his swanky new bed, Reinhold swallowed another dose of pain meds, chased it with the last of the complementary bottles of champagne from building management.

His foot f**king hurt!

It hadn’t been bad when he’d left the clinic, in fact he’d felt damn good cruising on the drugs. Then he’d felt like a million—or four—when he’d walked into his new place, found the big-ass gift basket from management. Champagne, fancy cheeses, and candy and fruit and cookies, and all kinds of rich-man snack food.

He’d felt so damn good, he’d ordered the droid to unpack, then go out and buy some imported brew, and fix up that steak dinner.

He was going to like getting used to steak dinners.

He’d walked all over the apartment, all over the building checking out the shops, the fitness center, the restaurants and bars.

He’d thought about hanging out at the bar—for longer than the one drink he’d had—maybe hooking up with a woman. But he wanted to get the lay of the land first.

He’d walked around the neighborhood some, too, just getting that feel and feeling fine.

It wasn’t until the foot started throbbing some he remembered being told to stay off it, keep it elevated.

The idiot doctor should’ve made it more clear, he told himself, teeth gritted as he waited for the meds to kick in. He should’ve given him stronger drugs, more specific instructions, better care.

Maybe he’d give the ass**le doctor a taste of his own. See how he liked a broken foot.

“You’re on my Shit List,” Reinhold mumbled.

He could go back for a “follow-up,” teach the ass**le a lesson, grab some good drugs.

He liked the idea, rode on it through the pain until the miracle of chemistry clicked in, and eased that pain away.

Not smart, he thought, to go back to the ass**le doctor. Smarter to do a little research, find out where said Asshole, M.D., lived, and take care of it. He probably had money, too.

Fucking doctors rolled in dough.

Yeah, he’d start working on that, maybe catch him some night when he left the clinic, or when he was in his own fancy apartment.

Something to think about, but he had other business first.

He ordered the bedroom screen on, had to think through to remember how to call his computer up on it. Then decided he wanted pizza.

Steak dinner had been hours ago.

“Hey, Asshole!” He enjoyed programming the droid to answer to the insult. It made him laugh, every single time.

“Yes, sir.” The droid came to the bedroom doorway.

“Get me a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, onions. A large. Get it at Vinnie’s, that’s my place.”

“Yes, sir. Should I go out and get one or arrange for delivery.”

“Go get it, for Christ’s sake. You think I want to wait for some f**kwad to deliver it? And make it snappy, you shithead.”

“Yes, sir.”

He liked the “sir.” About damn time somebody called him sir. In fact, from now on, he’d make anybody he planned to kill call him sir before he did them.

He called up what he termed his Shit List, studied the names, the addresses he’d found, the workplaces he either knew or had been able to find.

Beside each were their offenses, and his current—subject to change—method of making them pay.

He’d have been surprised to see just how closely Eve’s list aligned with his. But he didn’t think about the police. He’d begun to consider himself a professional. After all, each kill had generated pay—payback and cash.

Jerry Reinhold—and he had another program with possible code names—was a Hit Man with a (S)Hit List. It cracked him up. After he’d worked his way through his own list, he’d use the code name and hire himself out.

His current favorite was Cobra. Fast and deadly. Except he really liked Reaper. As in Grim.

As he studied his list, he relived each insult, embarrassment, rejection.

He thought of how it would feel to burn Marlene Wizlet’s pretty face with acid until she looked like a monster. Then he’d force her to look at herself—before he slit her throat.

Teach her to flip him off, teach her to think she was better than he was. And she’d made some good money, he was sure, whoring her face, the one he’d ruin, her body.

And the Schumakers. God, he hated them. He’d get plenty from them. He figured on beating the old man to death, drowning the old hag in her own bathtub.

Coach Boyd, good old Coach Boyd. That would be the best time ever. Wanna see me swing away? He’d figure out how to get inside Boyd’s place—just figure it out. Then he’d rape the wife right in front of him. Then he’d get busy with the snips. He really wanted to use those snips. And when that was done, he’d beat the bastard’s brains out with his trusty bat.