Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

“That’s a philosophy,” Peabody muttered.

“I like to win.” Eve pulled up behind a black-and-white on Downing. “I appreciate winning. Let’s go do that.”

Hefting her field kit, she started for the entrance, badged the cop on the door.

“We’re on eight, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I got that. Building security?”

“You have to buzz in, but you know how that goes. Cams on the door, but none internal.”

“We’ll want the door discs.”

“Building manager’s on that.”

With a nod, she moved to the elevator. Decent building, she thought. Minimal security, but clean. The floor of the cubbyhole lobby shined, and the walls looked recently painted. And the elevator, she noted with some relief, didn’t clang or clunk when it opened.

“Easy to gain access,” she commented. “Follow somebody in, or get someone to buzz you in. No lobby security, no internal cams.”

“Easy out, too.”

“Exactly. The place is well maintained, so that says decent tenants and responsible management to me.”

She stepped out on eight, approached the cop standing in front of 825. “What have we got, Officer?”

“Sir. The woman in 824 gained access to 825 at approximately seven-twenty this morning. She has a key and the code.”

“Why did she go in?”

“She and the female victim had a regular Monday trip to the local bakery, leaving sharp, according to her statement, at seven. She became concerned when no one answered the door or the ’link, and let herself in where she discovered the bodies she identified as Carl and Barbara Reinhold, listed as residents of this unit.”

“Where’s the wit?”

“With a female officer in her apartment. She’s pretty broken up, Lieutenant. It’s rough in there,” he added, jerking his head toward 825.

“Keep the wit handy.” Eve pulled a can of Seal-It from her bag. “And stand by.” She switched on her recorder.

With their hands and boots sealed, Eve and Peabody went inside.

Rough was one word for it, Eve thought. The living area remained tidy. Sofa pillows plumped, floors whistle clean, magazine discs neatly arranged on a coffee table. It made an eerie contrast to the smell of death—far from fresh.

A few steps in the room jogged slightly to the right where a table served as a demarcation between living area and kitchen.

And where the line between tidy life and ugly death dug in deep.

The man lay beside the table, his head, shoulders, and one out-stretched arm under it. In death he was a bloody, broken mass in what had been a dark blue suit. Blood spatter and gray matter bloomed and smeared the walls, the kitchen cabinets—and the baseball bat that lay in the congealed river of blood beside him.

The woman lay facedown on the floor between the opposite side of the table and a refrigerator. Blood soaked through her shirt and pants so their true color had become indiscernible. Both were ripped and shredded, most probably by the kitchen knife driven through her back to the hilt.

“They’ve been slaughtered,” Peabody stated.

“Yeah. A lot of rage here. Take the woman,” Eve ordered, and crouching by the man, opened her kit.

She let the pity come, then let it go. And got to work.

2

“VICTIM IDENTIFIED AS REINHOLD, CARL JAMES. Caucasian male, age fifty-six.” Eve scanned her Identi-pad. “Married to Reinhold, Barbara, nee Myers, age fifty-four.” She glanced over at Peabody.