Page 11 of Thankless in Death

“Where are we going first?”

“We’ll try his last known address.”

While Eve drove, Peabody multitasked. “No activity on either of the vics’ cards.”

“So he’s not completely stupid.”

“And he didn’t go back to the apartment.”

“Got what he could get.”

“But how far can he get on the contents of a coffee can? Even if they stashed a couple thousand in there, and that’s a lot for home cash.”

“We need to check financials on both vics. Any transfers or withdrawals from any account. People tend to write down their passwords,” Eve added before Peabody could speak. “He had plenty of time to dig out the passwords, any codes, dig into their accounts. Cab first. We could get lucky.”

Eve started to make the turn to Jerry’s listed address when Peabody let out a whoop. “I got him!” She held up a finger, continued to rapid-fire into her ’link. “Got it. Thanks. Rapid Cab pickup,” she told Eve, “right in front of the damn building, drop off at The Manor—that’s a fancy boutique hotel, West Village.”

“Address, Peabody.”

As Peabody rattled it off, Eve hit sirens, lights, and took the corner. Peabody grabbed the chicken stick, white-knuckled it, and said a short but heartfelt prayer.

• • •

The Manor looked like just that, something found in the English countryside and once owned by a wealthy earl. The gorgeous old brownstone, obviously recently and lovingly rehabbed, boasted a wide portico entrance, fat urns of trailing flowers, and a liveried doorman Eve expected to give her grief when she pulled her dull-looking DLE into the loading zone.

She braced for it as he hotfooted over in his royal blue and gold uniform and shiny knee boots.

“Listen, pal,” she began before his expression changed from that of a man about to toss out some stinky garbage to warm yet distinguished welcome.

“Lieutenant Dallas. How can we help you today?”

He threw her off stride. She hated that. But it only took her a moment to understand. The Manor belonged to Roarke, and the doorman had gotten the business-wide memo to cooperate fully with the big boss’s wife.

She didn’t really hate that, but it kind of irked.

“I need you to leave my car where I put it, and I need the manager, asap.”

“Absolutely. Diego!” He signaled to a black-suited bellman just rolling out a loaded cart. “See that Lieutenant Dallas’s vehicle remains undisturbed. Let me get the door for you, Lieutenant.” He pulled the tall, heavily carved door open, gestured them inside.

The lobby resembled a large parlor, appointed to Old World perfection. Just Roarke’s style, Eve thought, all the gleaming wood, glossy tile, the heavy bronze lighting and abundance of artfully arranged flowers. Rather than a team manning a front desk, a woman sat at a long table in a high-backed leather chair, the same color as the doorman’s livery. She wore a simple and sleek black suit and her auburn hair in a shining high ponytail.

“Rianna, this is Lieutenant Dallas and... I apologize.”

“Detective Peabody,” Eve said.

“They need to speak with Joleen right away.”

“Of course. Give me one moment. Won’t you please have a seat?”

“We’re fine.”

Still smiling, the woman tapped her earpiece. “Joleen, Rianna at the front. Lieutenant Dallas is in the lobby. I—I will, yes.”

Another tap, another smile. “She’ll be right out. In the meantime, can we offer you any refreshment? We have a lovely menu of teas.”

“All good.” But Eve pulled out her PPC. “Take a look at this guy. He should be registered under Jerald Reinhold. I need his room number, then I—”

“Oh, but Mr. Reinhold checked out, about two hours ago.” Rianna’s smile turned to a look of nearly comic distress. “I’m so sorry.”