Thankless in Death

seeing someone, and claims he’s a little tired of Reinhold’s endless complaints and Klein’s general dickishness. He’s hung a little more with Mal Golde, who you may have met since he lives at the last known.”
    “Yeah, we met.”
    “Neither of my two have seen or heard from Reinhold since Thursday night. Klein tried to tag him Saturday night, but hasn’t heard back.”
    “Reinhold was a busy boy. Golde’s not a dick, by the way.”
    She caught Peabody up with the salient points of that interview while she chowed on the dog. “Banks?” she finished, mouth full.
    “I got copies of the security discs, reviewed them while I traveled. He had the ‘I’m a smug son of a bitch’ vibe going—briefcase, no suitcases. According to the managers, he wanted all cash, but some of the amounts made that tricky, so he settled for the cashier’s checks. A couple politely questioned him regarding why the quick deposit and withdrawal. He told them to give him his money or he’d cause a scene. I have a feeling he didn’t use such mild terms.”
    “I’ll need to look at them. Did anybody see him leave, what he left in?”
    “Outside security caught him, on foot.” Trying in vain for comfort, Peabody shifted in Eve’s visitor’s chair. “He could’ve had transpo waiting or picked it up once he was out of range.”
    “Let’s send some uniforms around to neighboring businesses, see if they picked anything up. In the meantime, I couldn’t connect with the ex. According to her neighbor she’s out with a friend today—and buying a new ’link, with a new number. See if you can find anything on that. The neighbor—Sela Crabtree—has my contacts, so I expect to hear from the ex when they connect. Otherwise, we’ll round her up in the morning.”
    “Got it.”
    “I’m going to set up a meet with Mira, do the notifications. The vics’ parents need to be told before the media leaks their names. Get your notes together so I can—” She broke off as her desk ’link signaled. Though she intended to ignore it, she glanced over at the readout.
    “Crap. It’s the commander.” After swiping a hand over her mouth, in case, she flipped it on. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
    Rather than his admin’s, Whitney’s face filled her screen. “I’d like to see you in my office, Lieutenant.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Now.”
    “On my way.”
    He clicked off.
    “God, I get gut knots just thinking about if it was me he called up like that.”
    “Shit. I ate most of a loaded dog. I have loaded dog breath.” Rising, Eve yanked open drawers. “I must have something around here.”
    “Try this.” Peabody offered a little box, flipping the lid to the tiny pink balls.
    “Why are they pink?”
    “Bubble gum flavor. It’s good. And they work.”
    With little choice, Eve popped two. Pink or not, they were pretty good. “If I’m not back in ten, I need you to do the notifications.”
    “Oh please, be back.”
    “That’s up to Whitney.”
    Swinging through, she noted Jenkinson and his tie among the missing, and imagined he and his partner, Reineke, caught one. Baxter had shifted to his comp, intensely, she noted. His shades hooked in his front pocket where she assumed he put them, intending to stick them back on the minute the tie walked back in.
    It was a joke that would last the entire shift.
    She stepped out, spotted Detective Carmichael at Vending.
    “Hey, Loo, just getting our current bag of scum a cold one. Sanchez’s working him in Interview A.”
    “What did the bag of scum do?”
    “Tossed a junkie down a flight of stairs, then stomped him to death for trying to scam him with play money. I mean actual play money, like from a game. Bag of scum deals mostly to funky-junkies.”
    And the Funk played hell with eyes. “Play money probably seemed fine to him.”
    “Yeah, well, he won’t be passing Go.”
    “Go where?”
    “You know. Go.” Carmichael circled her hands in the air. “Monopoly. The game.”
    “Dead makes a full stop.”
    “You got that. Bag of scum’s claiming the junkie fell, and he’s claiming the reason he ran like a freaking gazelle when we tracked him is how he was late for an appointment. And how all the bags of Funk and zoner we spotted—and managed to even scoop up a few before bystanders swarmed—weren’t his. And he’s being arrogant about it, which makes you want to bitch-slap him a few times.”
    “I didn’t hear that part.”
    Carmichael smiled. “Sanchez keeps me in