Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(88)

“Then I’ll go back to finding the money. I’ll work here for now,” he added as he turned her to him. “And likely go in at some point to mesh up with Feeney. But I’m damned if I’ll set foot in Central today if I don’t have your word you’ll not be leaving me hanging on the damn medal business.”

“If I’m in the field—”

“Ah.” His eyes glinted a warning that had her rolling her own.

“I’ll stay in contact. And if I hit something hot enough to get out of the ceremony, I’ll let you know. You’re slick enough to slither out of it.”

“That’s a deal then.” He kissed her, surprised and touched by her quick, hard embrace.

“I’ll see you when I do,” she told him. “One way or the other.”

“If we go through with this thing today, you’ll be wearing your uniform, won’t you?”

“Yeah. That’s how it goes.”

His smile lit up. “At least that’s something. Mind my cop till I see her next.”

When he walked away she told herself being grateful for Summerset, right down to her core, was a secret she could take to the grave.

She sent Peabody an alert to meet her at Joe’s apartment. She’d just get that out of the way first, she decided as she headed downstairs.

She found her coat over the newel post. She knew Summerset hung it up at night, then laid it back out in the morning. She’d never understand why he didn’t just leave it there. Same with her vehicle, she thought as she walked out, swinging on the coat.

She left it in front of the house, he remoted it to the garage, then remoted it back in the morning.

Routine, she thought. Everybody had one.

She glanced up at the sky as she crossed to her car, and felt a little bubble of hope. If those heavily overcast skies opened up—and timed it right—they’d at least be spared the medal ceremony on the very, very public steps of Cop Central.

Something else to—maybe—be grateful for.

She drove away and through the gates. In less than two minutes she found herself caught in a thick knot of traffic, punctuated with a wild orchestra of clashing horns.

Since the car came outfitted, she used the camera to see how bad it was, and zoomed in on a broken-down maxibus effectively blocking two lanes.

Though she suspected Traffic had already been notified, she called it in before punching vertical. She skimmed over roofs, cut east. A longer route, she thought, but at least she wouldn’t be sitting, stewing.

Besides, a different, even longer route equaled a break in routine. Different buildings, different patterns, different glide-carts and street vendors—and who did they sell NYC souvenirs, scarves, hats, gray-market handbags to this early in the morning?

Holiday time, she reminded herself, the start of the insane Christmas shopping season. Tourists, slap-happy with a vacation or trip to New York, swarmed what they considered bargains like ants on sugar.

Early setup, she supposed, to take advantage of that change of usual patterns, that break in routines.

Routines, she thought, straightening in her seat. Reinhold was breaking them—reaching for more upscale with food, clothes, accommodations. But routines were routines for a reason.

Wouldn’t he have a favorite arcade? He liked games. A favorite club, pizza joint? Sports? Baseball was out given the season, but did he have a favorite Arena Ball team—football, basketball, hockey?

He could afford tickets now. He could afford courtside, fifty-yard line. Box seats.

Vids, music, hot clubs—what was trending right now?

Struck, she tagged Mal Golde on her in-dash ’link.

“Ah, hey, Lieutenant.”

She saw from the droopy eyes, the tousled hair, she’d either woken him or he’d put in a rough night. Maybe both.

“Questions. Neighborhood pizza joint, the one Reinhold favors.”

“Vinnie’s, sure. It’s always Vinnie’s.”

“What’s he get—routinely.”

“Ah … Sorry,” he said as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Didn’t get much sleep. Um … pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, green peppers.”

“Okay. Favorite sports teams.”

“Yankees, all the way. We used to go around ’cause I’m a Mets fan, and—”

“Not baseball. Arena Ball, football, basketball. Something in season.”

“Football—Giants. Dug-in Giants fan. He’s not big on Arena or roundball.”

“Okay. Hangouts. Arcades, clubs, delis, whatever.”

“We’d mostly hit Jangles, in Times Square. It’s worth the ride, then maybe grab a brew if we were flush enough at Tap It—it’s right on Broadway between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth. Jangles has tourneys. Jerry always scraped up the scratch to enter. He nearly won once, too, but Bruno nipped him out. Pissed Jerry off big.”

“Bruno who?”

“Oh.” Mal’s eyes widened, his face paled. “God, I didn’t think of him before. I don’t know his name. Bruno’s his game tag. Big guy, just a kid though. Maybe eighteen. Freaking game wizard.”

“Anything else you can think of? Routines, favorites, usuals.”

“Pistachio float from Gregman’s—a neighborhood place. He’s been hooked on them since we were kids. Oh, and um, Lucille.” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “I didn’t think of her before either. If I so much as think of an LC with Ma in the room, she’ll know it. She’s got that power.”