Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

And felt better.

Satisfied, he went out, retrieved his duffel, the last red suitcase, and walked out of the house. But even with the blockers and the release of breaking and destroying, the foot troubled him. After two blocks, he ran a search for the closest clinic on his latest victim’s hand-held, limped another block before he managed to catch a cab.

He should’ve snipped off her toes, he decided. He should’ve made her scream. Being dead wasn’t enough, not when she’d hurt him first.

He slumped in the corner of the cab and dreamed of his new place, a jet tub, a manly drink, and money to burn.

Eve rang the bell by the door of the Golde apartment. Within seconds she heard locks clicking, snicking, sliding. The woman who answered was still on the shy side of fifty, and wore lip dye Eve assumed Peabody would claim popped. She boasted impressive breasts and broad shoulders, and gave Eve a dead-on measuring stare.

“You’re taller than I thought.”

“Okay” was the best Eve could offer.

“Could use some meat on you. Skinny girls,” she said to Peabody with a quick, crooked smile. “Hard to understand them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come on in. Mal’s back in the den putting in a new screen. I don’t allow the screen in the living room. Living room’s are for living, and living means having conversations.”

There was plenty of seating for just that—chairs, sofa, cushioned squares. Where most might’ve put that wall screen, she’d opted for shelves loaded with photos, fussy pieces, and several books.

“I like books,” she said, noting Eve’s gaze. “Pricier than discs or downloads, but I like holding them, looking at them.”

“My husband does, too.”

“Well, he can afford it. My kids give them to me for special occasions. You go ahead and sit down. I’ll get Mal, and he’s got Davey with him back there. I’m going to fix you a snack.”

“There’s no need to bother with that, Mrs. Golde.”

Mrs. Golde merely gave Eve that dead-on stare again. “I’m fixing you a snack.” She walked off in navy skids.

“We’re getting a snack.” Peabody grinned.

Eve shook her head. Mrs. Golde struck her as a woman who ran her home and her family, and had enough punch left over to run most of the neighborhood. It was mildly intimidating.

Mal came out with a shorter, beefier guy with a lot of brown hair. Eve recognized Dave Hildebran from his ID shot, and saw in both of them barely contained nerves.

“Um, Lieutenant.” Mal started to extend his hand, obviously wondered if he should, started to pull it back. Eve solved his dilemma by taking it for a brisk shake. “Mal. Mr. Hildebran?”

“Dave. Nice to meetcha.” Immediately, he flushed. “I mean …”

“I got it.”

“I asked Dave to come over when you said you wanted to come by. We’re both just … God, this is just fucking awful.”

“You watch your language in this house!” The booming order came from the back of the apartment, and had both men wincing.

“Sorry, Ma! Like I said, I’m going to stay here until …” He trailed off again. “And Dave’s staying with his folks, too. It just feels like we should.”

“The neighborhood can’t talk about anything else,” Dave put in. “People really liked Mr. and Mrs. R. And even if they didn’t, well, Jes … jeez,” he corrected with a quick

glance toward the kitchen.

“They were good people.” Mrs. Golde came back in carrying an enormous tray.

“Lemme get that, Ma.” Mal muscled it from her, set it on the table in front of the sofa. In addition to little plates, glasses, a big clear pitcher of some sort of deep amber liquid, the tray held tiny sandwiches—basically a bite—cookies sparkling under a dusting of what must’ve been sugar, and a ring of carrot sticks circling some chunky white dip with green flecks.

“We could’ve come on back to the kitchen, Ma.”