Thankless in Death

jobs he was pushed or forced into? Never meant to be—he always knew it, now he’s proven it. All the bosses who demanded he work by their rules? Shortsighted, stupid, or out to make him less because they saw he was so much more. He’s killed three people, and he’s walking free. You know who he is, but you can’t stop him—he just proved that with this last kill. He has money now, true freedom now, true self now.”
    “He’ll need to kill again.”
    “Definitely. His sexual reaction to this kill adds yet another level of that need. Killing rewards him.”
    “Someone he knows? A stranger won’t give him that same rush, at least not this soon.”
    “Agreed, and knowing his victim, knowing that victim has always underestimated him, considered him less, has even hurt or insulted him in some way is only part of it.”

    Yes, she could see into him now, into the dark corners of him. “Payback’s the other. His parents held him back, shoved him, nagged him, threatened him, and were on the point of booting him. She already had. He’s got plenty of others he’d see the same way.”
    “A long list of slights, opportunities to prove himself, opportunities for the thrill and release, and the gain. The reward.”
    “We’ve contacted everyone we know at this point.” Eve glanced at Peabody.
    “Former employers,” Peabody confirmed, “coworkers, family members, friends.”
    “There’ll be more,” Eve said. “Some neighbor who gave him lip or grief, a teacher or instructor, even a fricking waitress, a clerk.”
    Mira enjoyed her tea. “I absolutely agree. He’ll attempt to work his way through anyone who made him feel less of a man, who slighted him or rejected him.”
    “We’ve got his name and face plastered everywhere now. He has to know that. He has to change his look.”
    “He was wearing a suit,” Peabody said. “I asked the wit what Reinhold was wearing. At first he said he didn’t notice, but I worked on him a little, and he remembered, because he said he’d never seen Reinhold in one before, that he was wearing a suit.”
    “Interesting,” Mira murmured. “He wanted to look professional.”
    “Spruced himself up for this kill,” Eve added. “Slicked up for the ex. Look at me, bitch. I’m high-end now. Salons,” she told Peabody. “Anywhere he can get a hair job, a treatment, new eye color. He changes his method. Knife to bat to strangulation. Experimenting?” she asked Mira.
    “It could be, yes. Or tailoring.”
    “Method to fit the kill, and the sin against him. Yeah. More that,I’ll bet. That would make him feel … skilled and smart. He has to stay somewhere, sleep somewhere, live somewhere. He won’t settle for a flop.”
    “That would be beneath him,” Mira concurred.
    “Maybe in the very short term if he was on the run, but I don’t see it. Not now that he’s tasted the big-time.”
    “A lot of hotels in New York,” Peabody commented.
    “We cover them.”
    “He’ll spend a lot of time watching and reading the reports on him,” Mira added. “It’s another validation. People know his name now, respect and fear him now. They know he’s a man. A dangerous one.”
    “The way he’s spending the money he has, he’ll need more soon.”
    H e’d figured out how to get it, and more. He’d forgotten to get Bald Lori—he’d always think of her that way now—to transfer her savings to an account for him.
    He got caught up, Reinhold thought. She had a few thousand tucked away, he knew, and she’d distracted him with all that crying and shaking so he’d killed her stupid ass before he’d taken the money.
    Stupid, selfish bitch.
    Didn’t matter—what did he care? He didn’t need her pathetic waitress money.
    He thought he’d be tired by now, but found instead he was revving, like he’d scored really good drugs. Which, he thought, might go on his shopping list.
    But for now, he needed a nice place to stay, another infusion of money into his Fuck-You Fund, and a stellar fake ID to go with the new look he had planned.

    All of those, and again more, should be available in the tidy brownstone in Tribeca.
    No he didn’t need Bald Lori’s pitiful savings. He’d do a lot better than that.
    He just had to wait for the bitch Ms. Farnsworth to take her dog, the little shitpile, Snuffy, out for his last walk of the night.
    Or should we say his last walk ever.
    God, this was fun!
    He couldn’t keep the place in view from a café the way he had for Bald Lori so he