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“Okay, keep doing that. Let me know when you’ve got anything we can use. A minute,” she said to Roarke and moved a few paces away. “You’re not going home, are you?”
“I want to play with my friends awhile. I may miss curfew.”
She glanced back at McNab, currently talking to Peabody and doing what she thought of as the EDD shuffle. His colorfully clad body just couldn’t stand still while he was in e-mode.
And here was Roarke, cat-quiet in his perfect black trousers and leather jacket.
Yet they were friends, she thought, with all that entailed.
“Suit yourself.”
“My preferred method. So.” He grabbed her, kissed her hard before she could evade. “On duty and in public. But you did say suit myself, Lieutenant.”
She punched him, lightly, in the stomach. “Me, too. Peabody! With me.”
She walked across the street to where her car—as promised—waited.
While Eve worked, so did the man she hunted. Here, he could take his time, and enjoy the excitement of wandering through a house without permission. He could do whatever he liked, have whatever appealed to him.
Plenty of electronics here to sell or trade and add to his Fuck-You Fund. An obvious e-geek at heart, Ms. Farnsworth liked her gadgets, including a house droid duded up in a black suit and luckily in sleep mode.
He knew enough about programming from the courses he’d taken—that his dead, tight-wad parents had whined about paying for—to wipe the droid’s memory chips. Reprogramming was more of a head-scratcher, but he could handle the basics. And he’d get Fat-Fuck-Farnsworth to walk him through the fancy stuff later if he needed it.
He helped himself to a snack after he’d tied and gagged the old bitch to a chair in her home office. They’d work there, so he’d ordered the rebooted droid to haul her fat ass up the stairs, then shut down again.
Then Reinhold took his tour.
The place smelled like old lady, and of the dog currently quivering and glassy-eyed in the corner. Probably broke something inside the little turdhead with the kick, he decided and stuffed more salt and vinegar chips into his mouth. A treat he washed down with Coke.
Now and again he wiped his salty hands on some of her fussy curtains or the back of a chair.
He poked through her bedroom. Big-ass screen there, the old bitch was loaded. Not the sort of thing he could get down and out by himself. Maybe use the droid for that, he considered. And he could send the droid out to hock some of the e-stuff. Not too close to the house though. Not where the old bitch shopped.
He’d have to think about that one. But for the meantime, he’d enjoy the big screen while he was “in residence.”
He cackled over his good luck when he discovered she not only had a jet tub, but a big, fancy shower, multijets.
Now, this was living.
He didn’t know dick about art or give a shit, but he thought, maybe, he could take a couple of the paintings to a gallery, spin a tale about his dead aunt Martha, and see if he could get some cash.
But his biggest discovery, and thrill, was the safe.
A good-sized one, built into the wall behind a painting of a dumbass farmhouse and a field of some farming shit.
An old safe, at least it looked old, with its classic combo lock. Probably been in the house for decades. Maybe more. And whatever was inside, now belonged to him.
Back in her bedroom, he dumped all her fat old lady clothes out of the closet and into bags. Maybe he could get something for them, but mostly he wanted them out. He dragged them, the stupid dog bed, the smelly basket of dog toys into another bedroom. Guest room, he imagined with its fussy lacy things and pictures of flowers.
She had an unexpected guest now.
He went back, changed out of his suit into new jeans, a designer T-shirt, and new skids. Work clothes, he thought, checking himself out in the mirror. He set out his things in the bathroom for later. The hair color, the trimmer, the face and body bronzer.
He’d wanted to go to a fancy salon, but he wasn’t an idiot. Anyway, he’d read instructions on the ’Net on how to do this makeover deal. He could pull it off, and later, he’d try that fancy salon to polish it all up. He just needed to look different, and to have that look for the new ID the old bat would help him create.
He knew just how to convince her.
He took out the pair of metal cutters, the meat cleaver he’d found in her kitchen—handy and full of potential—and a little, battery-operated hand drill.
