Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

“That would be something to be thankful for. I’ll let you know, when I know.”

Renewed, she pushed through the reports again, and started adding to her notes.

21

SOMEWHERE AROUND ELEVEN, REINHOLD’S CRAVing for Onion Doodles refused to be denied. Torture was hungry work. He swiped the sweat off his face—it was heavy work, too—checked the AutoChef, then cupboards.

Cursed.

He’d forgotten to tell the idiot droid to buy Onion Doodles.

The AC, the pantry, the refrigerator, the chiller, were all well-stocked. But not a single bag of Onion Doodles lived among the rest.

And he had to have some.

He thought about rebooting the droid, having it go down to the store. The fancy food shops would be closed, but he knew there was a 24/7 market on the mezzanine level. Then he decided he could use the longer break, maybe a short stroll around, even a drink at the all-night club, also on the mezzanine.

Joe was out for the count anyway, and it wasn’t much fun to pound on an unconscious guy. Big effort, low reward.

He’d used the hose, the sap, a miniburner, toothpicks—talk about inspiration!—and the razor knife the droid had used to cut the plastic.

No wonder he was hungry.

He left the bloodied, burned, bleeding man unconscious and went to wash up.

He sang in the shower, masturbated, sang again.

He changed into fresh clothes—the new black jeans with a touch of silver stud work, a collarless shirt in strong blue, the leather jacket and boots. And he looked completely iced.

He reminded himself to put crap stuff back on before he got to work again. He didn’t want to mess up tight new threads.

He made sure he had his swipe, his code, his spanking new ID and credit cards, and some cash in case he wanted to flash it around.

He checked himself out in the mirror a final time, saw himself as dangerous, sexy, successful—and gave the fake soul patch an extra press. He’d grow one of his own soon enough, he thought, and whistling, left the apartment.

He checked out the bar first. Smoky blue lights rolled over the walls, and a holoband crashed onstage. He’d expected more of a crowd, people sexy and dangerous and successful much like himself, but plenty of the tables and stools sat empty.

Dead zone, he thought in annoyance, but since he was there, he swaggered over to the bar. He ordered a whiskey, neat, like he’d seen men do in vids.

“House brand or you want to call?” The broad-shouldered bartender gave him a bored look that immediately put Reinhold’s back up.

He tapped an imperious finger to the bar in front of him. “Best you’ve got.”

“You got it.”

He didn’t take a stool, but posed against the bar. He expected people to notice him as he gave the club a cool-eyed stare. Two couples shared a table near the stage, and the women were prime.

He imagined strolling over, gi

ving them both a come-with-me-jerk of the head. They would, too, he thought. They’d leave those limp dicks without a thought, and scamper after him like good bitches.

Do whatever he told them to do, let him do whatever he wanted to do.

And maybe he’d kill them after, just to see how it felt to do some strange.

The bartender set the glass of whiskey in front of him.

“You want to run a tab or pay as you go?”