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“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.”
He’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 had to stay out of sight, in shadows, or pretend to talk on his ’link.
Just after eleven, he saw the door open, and fat-ass Ms. Farnsworth come waddling out with the ugly little mutt on a leash. She talked to the dog in that high, annoying voice of hers, the same voice she’d ragged on him with when she’d screwed him over in Computer Science in high school.
They’d made a big deal of her when she’d retired. He’d even gotten a damn e-vite to her retirement party. Hell of a nerve, after she’d flunked him out of spite.
When she’d made it half a block away, stopped for the dog to take a shit on the square of ground around some tree, he slipped through the gate of her narrow front yard, and back into the shadows near her front door.
Nice house, he thought. He’d be happy here for a couple days. Bitch inherited the place when her real estate daddy died. Lived alone since her stupid husband croaked. No wonder she lived alone, considering she was fat, ugly, and mean as an alley rat.
He slipped the baseball bat out of his bag, enjoyed the feel of it in his hands, knowing what he’d do with it.
He thought how he could’ve been an assassin. One of those special operatives—licensed to kill—the government ran. Maybe he still could, after he’d finished what he needed to do.
