Thankless in Death

snapped it out so fast, she jolted, and though her stomach clenched, she told him, slowly and clearly.
    “If that’s not it, you lose a finger.”
    He slapped the tape back in place, walked out.
    Alone, she tried to shift, to turn and twist. She couldn’t see the cords around her wrists, her ankles, but she could feel them cutting into her. He’d taped over the cords, taped around and around her and the chair so she was all but glued in it.
    But maybe with repetitive motion she could loosen it all, justenough. Or maybe she could find a way to coax him into freeing her hands.
    Where was Snuffy? What had he done to the poor little thing? Harmless as a lamb, she thought, and fought tears again.
    He’d killed his parents, she’d heard all about it on the media reports. Killed them and stolen their money.
    He’d kill her, too, unless she found a way to talk him out of it. Or get away.
    When she heard him coming back, she went very still.
    Cooperate, she ordered herself. Agree with him. Be contrite.
    She’d spent more than half her life teaching, and primarily teens, which could often be a frustrating, thankless job—until they bloomed a bit, turned the corner off that avenue of self-involvement. Watching them bloom had been one of her greatest joys.
    With Jerry Reinhold? She’d never seen the first tiny bud.
    “You got a hoard in there, don’t you, Ms. Farnsworth? Cash, jewelry. Heirloom shit, right? That’s worth a lot. Bunch of discs—you’re going to explain the ones to me marked ‘insurance.’ I bet some of the shit you’ve got sitting around here’s worth plenty. You owe me plenty, so we’ll get started on that. We may just have to pull an all-nighter.”
    He shoved her chair to the side a bit, brought himself up to the computer. “First thing? I’m going to need your passcodes. Let’s start with your bank accounts.”
    Because he wanted to, he gave her a hard, careless backhand. “I said, I need your passcodes. Oh, sorry!” He laughed. “I guess you can’t talk with your mouth taped up.”
    He yanked the tape free, watched tears form in the corners of her eyes. “It’s payback time, Ms. Farnsworth.”

    A t her desk Eve expanded her notes into a detailed report. She focused on it, setting aside the dregs of the emotional upheaval she’d caused, witnessed when she’d knocked on the door of Lori Nuccio’s parents to tell them their daughter was dead.
    She couldn’t stop their grief, and knew she couldn’t take it on.
    What she could do, would do, was pursue and catch the man who’d taken their daughter and forever changed their lives.
    Lori’s face had its spot on her board now. As she’d been, and as Reinhold had left her. The media would have that face by morning—the before—and would run it over and over. But she’d make damn sure they never got their hands on how Lori had looked when she died.
    Who else was on his list? Who would he target next?
    She got up for more coffee, drank it standing at her window, looking out at New York.
    All those lights—windows, sidewalks, the beams from traffic cutting through the dark. All those people going, coming, settling down, partying, having sex, looking for action, looking for quiet.
    How many of them had somehow offended or pissed off Reinhold in his twenty-six years? And how many might he get to in his payback spree before she stopped him?
    She turned to her board.
    Mother, father, ex-lover. Personal, intimate.
    Would he stick with that? Grandparents? Did they make the grade? Cousins? Would it be family first—payback for childhood slights, for lack of support, for criticisms?
    Friends would come next, wouldn’t they, if he followed that sort ofpattern. Would it be the one who won big in Vegas while he lost? The one who kicked him out for not paying the rent?
    He’d need opportunity, a way to get to them.
    She sat again, ran probabilities.
    Then sat back, frowning, drumming her fingers over the results.
    The computer liked the Brooklyn grandparents. Highest probability. Out-of-town set, very low. Friends got an even split.
    She wouldn’t chance it. She’d have the grandparents under protection.
    But it didn’t fit well in her gut, not yet. Weren’t grandparents typically or generally more indulgent than parents? And wouldn’t Reinhold see the pattern, too?
    Then again, the Brooklyn set had some money, from what she’d dug up. Not roll-in-it and sing-happy-songs money, but a solid foundation. He’d need and want more