Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“Would that be the mother or child who was clumsy?” Peabody wondered. “Seeing as they both had injuries.”

“I don’t have to talk to you about that. I did the community service, the ridiculous probation period, completed the asshole anger management.”

“Which seems to have worked so well,” Eve commented.

He lifted his hands, spread his fingers. “I don’t even know where the bitch and the brat are, and don’t care. Both were more trouble than they were worth. Now I’ve got work to do.”

“It sounds as if you had hard feelings for Dr. Abner.”

“I figure he got what he deserved, and so what? Then again, he’s a good part of the reason I don’t have the bitch and the brat, both whiners, dragging me down.” He showed his teeth again in a big, exaggerated smile. “Maybe I should send flowers.”

Eve edged closer, watched Thane’s fists ball as he dropped his foot back to the floor, straightened in his chair. And something else. She saw the flicker of cowardice in his eyes.

“Just how many bitches and brats do you figure you’ve slapped, punched, shoved in your worthless life?”

“You’d better get the hell out before I file harassment charges.”

“You think this is harassment?” Just a little closer, close enough to see a thin line of fear sweat pop out above his upper lip as those fists balled tighter. “Not even close. But it could be, and soon. Watch yourself, Thane, and think twice before you use those fists on another woman or minor. Because the next time you do, it won’t be community service, probation, and anger management. I’ll make sure you go inside. It’ll be my mission.”

“Ours,” Peabody corrected. “And we’re really good at fulfilling missions.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

“You do that.”

Now Eve showed her teeth in a big, exaggerated smile before they walked out.

“I was waiting for you to kick his ass,” Peabody muttered as they worked their way around the cubes to the elevator. “I was actually hoping you would.”

“This way was better, and less paperwork. Now he’s shaken, pissed off, and worried.”

Peabody sucked in a breath, huffed it out as they rode down. “You have good men in your life, in your work, you mostly forget that type’s around. Damn it, I just thought of something. When he said kiss my ass, I should’ve said how he couldn’t get a woman to perform that act unless he paid for it.”

Because she could all but see the steam puffing out of her partner’s ears, Eve gave Peabody’s shoulder a pat. “There’s always next time.”

“He could’ve done it.” As they crossed the small, empty lobby, went back outside, Peabody glanced back. “He’s got the temperament to want serious payback. He may not know where his ex and kid are, but you can make book if he saw them, he’d want to hurt them. He knew where Abner was.”

“Agreed. And we can look at his attitude two ways: Why antagonize the cops, bring more attention to yourself if you’re guilty? Or make sure you do so they consider the blatant stupidity and think you couldn’t be guilty. Check out the names and location for the time of the drop.”

“Thane and three guys.” Peabody pulled out her PPC as they got into the car. “Probably their weekly meeting of Misogynists United. We’re talking to the maintenance guy next?”

“He’s up. Then I want to go by and talk to Rufty again, their children if they’re with him.”

* * *

Curtis Feingold had a craphole apartment in a craphole building on Avenue C. As the exterior had been thoroughly tagged—much of it anatomically impossible drawings or badly misspelled insults and/or sexual suggestions—and more than one window had boards instead of glass, Eve figured he didn’t maintain much.

The interior only cemented that opinion, with its grungy closet of a lobby, its out-of-order elevator (also tagged), and the broken door on the stairwell.

Fortunately, Feingold’s craphole squatted on ground level. Eve pressed the buzzer, but didn’t hear it sound. And since she could hear, clearly, voices raised in an argument inside, and somebody’s poorly played horn from across the hall, she judged it busted.

She hammered the door with the side of her fist.

“Fuck you want?” came the response through the closed door.

“NYPSD. Open the door, Mr. Feingold.”

“Screw you.”