Taking his time, he dressed—crap clothes again because holiday or not he was working—then went into the spare room to activate the droid.
“Good morning, sir. Someone appears to be in distress.”
“Don’t worry about him. Don’t talk to him or listen to him. Got it, Asshole?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go down and fix me, what is it, yeah, eggs Benedict, a couple slices of toast with strawberry jelly, and whatever ought to go with it. Then come up here and clean up my bedroom, take care of my clothes. I’ll let you know when to come down again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before he went down himself, Reinhold checked himself out in the mirror. He thought he might dress up later, catch some football—which reminded him to tell the droid to get him some prime Giants tickets. Maybe he’d have some fancy drink out on the terrace, too.
He’d planned on keeping Joe around another night, having some fun there. But if the fucker was going to keep screaming …
He strolled down.
Joe looked worse for wear, that’s for sure. His face—and he’d always been a conceited fuck—all bloody and bruised. A lot busted in there. The shallow cuts had stopped bleeding, something he’d fix after breakfast. And the burns looked like circles and streaks of charcoal.
Reinhold picked up the sap, gave Joe an absent smack. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll slit your throat and be done with it.”
“Please, God, please.” The words came garbled through broken teeth. “I think I’m dying. I’m hurt bad. Don’t hurt me anymore, please, man, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Oh yeah? That’s something maybe. You’ve got some money, Joe. The Vegas money, and more. Maybe if you give me your passcodes so I can take it, I’ll let you go.”
“Anything. You can have it. I—I’ve got my uncle Stan’s passcodes, too.”
“Is that so?” With a smile, Reinhold gestured to a nearby chair. “Set me up there,” he ordered the droid.
“I found them when I was helping him out with some stuff. He’s got some real scratch, Jerry. I’ll get it for you. Just let me go. Promise to let me go, and I’ll get you all of it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please. I need water. Can I have some water, please?”
Easing into his seat, Reinhold took his knife and fork from the tray the droid gave him.
“Can’t you see I’m having breakfast? Shut up before you piss me off. You,” he said to the droid. “Turn on the sc
reen. It’s got to be about time for the parade.” He smiled, cut into his eggs. “I’d hate for us to miss the parade, Joe. Just lie back and enjoy.”
22
EVE COORDINATED WITH HER TEAM EN ROUTE. She couldn’t afford the time or the exposure for a final briefing on site. Too many people with too many ways to get the word out that cops were gathering at New York West. A leak to the media, on the Internet, might alert Reinhold.
She believed, strongly, Asshole Joe was still alive. She believed they had time. But the very fact Joe was an asshole might tip Reinhold over the edge.
She’d be damned if they’d be minutes too late this time.
When she said as much to Roarke, he touched a hand to hers. “We’ll have him locked down minutes after we arrive. And we’ll have your eyes and ears up minutes after that.”
Minutes, she thought. They had to be on her side this round.
“Luck’s turned,” she stated. “Luck’s turned our way. You’ve got to see it that way. We hit on him, both of us, almost at the same time. It all fell together.”
“It fell together because you haven’t let up on it for three days and nights.”
“That, and Ms. Farnsworth. She pulled off a hell of a thing.”