Page 85 of Thankless in Death

“I connected. He’s at work, not worried. He thinks we’re way off base. And even if Reinhold went crazy, he won’t believe he might be a target. They’re buds, man. Tight buds. And being tight buds he’s positive Reinhold will tag him, and soon. Swears he’ll tell us so we can straighten this all out.”

“Rat out his tight bud.”

“Didn’t sound like he had a problem with that at all. It’s why we call him Asshole Joe.”

“We should get him a name tag,” Eve said and started hunting for parking on Golde’s block.

•••

A proud and happy new tenant of the elaborate New York West, Reinhold let himself back into Ms. Farnsworth’s brownstone. He’d imagined himself living there for a few days, maybe even a week, but he’d hit the freaking jackpot.

He’d spend the night in his frosty new apartment. Once he tied up a few loose ends.

It had all taken longer than he’d expected, so he reactivated the droid, ordered it to fix him a snack. All that paperwork, he thought. Miles of it. And he could admit he’d sweated it some when they’d gone over his data with goddamn microgoggles. But he’d passed. Points for Fat-Ass Farnsworth.

Lucky for her, he thought, while he chowed down on a Reuben and a couple kosher pickles. Now he wouldn’t snip off her fingers and toes.

Probably.

The thing to do first was go through the place again, finish piling up what looked like it was worth taking. He’d have the droid pack it up, transport it to his new place. He’d enjoy having the droid to do his grunt work.

And a man in his position needed a house droid. The New York West would expect it of him.

Ms. Farnsworth sure didn’t—or wouldn’t—need it.

He’d already emptied the safe, packed that up in one of the fat old hag’s red suitcases.

He wasn’t sure about the color or the brand, if they really suited his new persona. But he didn’t have time to worry about it.

Time is money, he thought, and cracked himself up.

He’d gone through her jewelry. He didn’t have much of an eye there, but figured anything in cases had to be worth something, even if it was ugly.

He ordered the droid to wipe the drives on the remaining electronics, then unhook the rest of the comps and equipment and haul them downstairs.

A lot of e-stuff, he mused. Good thing he’d thought ahead, had the droid start liquidating.

He chose what he wanted for his new home office, separated them.

“Take that bunch there.” Reinhold picked up one of the memo cubes he’d separated into his take pile. “Follow these instructions.”

He recited a shop name, an address.

“Get what you can for them. You should be able to handle it in one trip this time. Get cash. Just cash,” he repeated. “Whose property are you, Asshole?”

“I am the property of Anton Trevor, president and CEO of Trevor Dynamics.”

“Don’t you forget it. Get the cash, come back. No detours. We’ve got work to do.”

While the droid took care of business, Reinhold took another tour of the house. Maybe that picture frame was real silver. Maybe that fancy bowl was worth something. She had so much crap in the house, who knew if it was junk or sell-worthy?

He could probably take the bags of her clothes and get something for them, but he didn’t want to touch all those old-lady clothes again. Besides, he was rolling in it now, why bother with the small shit?

He had the equipment he wanted. The droid could box it up, transport it, set it up in the new place. Same with his clothes, and the suitcase full of stuff he’d have the droid sell over the next couple days.

Maybe he could scrape out more if he stayed a little longer, but all he could think about was getting into his new place, having the droid fix him a drink. Maybe he’d try a martini or something fancy like that. Drink it on the terrace.

He’d watch screen, have the droid fix him a big-ass dinner.