Thankless in Death

Farnsworth had more there than Lori.
    Was it, in his mind, by level of offense? By what or who insulted or angered him most? Ease of access?
    Circle back, she ordered herself.
    First killing, mother. Impulse. Fit of rage, convenience of weapon.
    Second killing, premeditated, lying in wait, choice of weapon.
    Third, planned, lying in wait, purchase of weapons, elements of torture.
    Fourth, planned, possible lying in wait—probable, she decided—uncertain if he found the murder weapon or brought it with him. More extensive torture, additional use of vic for financial gain and very likely for false ID.
    Different weapon for each, but the use of the bat on three out of four, use of tape and cord on the last two.
    And all four killed in their own homes.
    He’d probably stick with that, she decided, but ran a probability to back up her own conclusion. Would he sully his own nest, wherever he built it? And he liked, didn’t he, killing them where they felt safest. Pawing through their things, eating their food.
    Didn’t that add another level of humiliation to murder?
    “The place matters,” she said aloud.
    She heard the thwack of Peabody’s cowboy boots coming fast, pushed away from her desk.
    “What do you have?” she demanded.
    “We might have something on the electronics. There’s a woman out here who came in. She works at Fast Cash Pawnbroker, five blocks from the Farnsworth crime scene. I’ve got her waiting at my desk. She says she checked in three comps that match the numbers on Farnsworth’s equipment. I checked, and they do.”
    “I’ll talk to her. Get McNab or whoever Feeney can spare over there to pick them up.”
    T he girl—as she barely hit legal age to Eve’s gauge—fidgeted in her chair. She was bone-thin, black, with hair in ruler-straight corn-row braids. She wore a red jacket over coat-of-paint jeans, and bit her nails.
    “Juana Printz,” Peabody told Eve. “Juana, this is Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “Okay. Hi. I have to report it. It’s the law, right?”
    “Why don’t you tell me what you have to report?”
    “I work for Mr. Rinskit at Fast Cash? And this droid, you know how you can tell it’s a droid, even mostly the really good ones?”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “He came in hand carrying three comps—full, high-end D&Cs. It was a load, right? Maybe I thought it was a little tilted, but hey, you get all kinds. But then I’m supposed to check them in after the transaction, and I saw the alert. I told Mr. Rinskit, and said how I’d report it, and he said to mind my business. And I said, ‘But, Mr. Rinskit, there’s the alert, and they’re stolen and part of a police investigation thing,’ and he said to just shut up, check them in, and forget it if I wanted to keep my job.”
    She stopped biting her nails long enough to bite her bottom lip. “I did—I mean I shut up and checked them in, but I didn’t forget it. So I took the bus here as soon as I got off work. Because it’s the law.”
    “You did the right thing. Have you seen the droid before?”
    “No, ma’am, no. But I think, maybe, Mr. Rinskit doesn’t report like he’s supposed to. And maybe I shut up about it, but this was
three
high-end, and I just couldn’t keep shutting up. Does he have to know I told?”
    She started on her nails again, her dark eyes full of worry. “If he knows I reported it after he said not to, he’ll fire me for sure. I’m going to lose my job.”
    “You like your job?”
    “It blows.” Juana smiled a little. “It blows wide, but I gotta work.”
    “Hang on a minute.”
    “McNab and two uniforms are on their way to pick up the evidence,” Peabody reported.
    “Good. Arrange a voucher for Juana. A hundred for the report.”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    Eve held up a finger, signaling Juana to wait another minute as she pulled out her ’link.
    She’d expected Roarke’s admin to pick up, but got the man himself. “Hey.”
    “And a hey to you. I’m just leaving the office.”
    “Oh. I’m not. I’ve got another DB, three stolen comps coming in that may help me find the route to money transferred from the DB’s account to the killer’s, and a little thing.”
    “E-work, is it? I could use some recreation. Why don’t I come to you?”
    “You could do that, but it would be to Feeney at this point.”
    “I prefer you, but I’ll settle. What’s the little thing?”
    “It’s actually why I tagged you. I want to give someone a job.”
    “Doing