Page 14 of Thankless in Death

She pulled up at his last known address, flipped up her On Duty light. Since he liked to gloat, wouldn’t he like to brag to friends? Maybe roll out and hit Vegas again, see if his luck improved there, or go sun on some tropical beach?

He’d had a girlfriend, Eve reminded herself, made a note to interview her.

She used her master to gain access to the dumpy three-story walk-up, ignored the rickety elevator, and took the stairs to the top floor.

SHE KNOCKED, EXPECTING SHE WAS WASTING her time at this hour of the day, but within moments, she heard the slide of locks.

The man who answered was middle-twenties, average height, and gym fit. She could see that easily as he wore snug bike shorts and a skin shirt. His brown hair sported a single red blaze, and was tucked back into a short tail.

He leaned against the doorjamb, one hand on his cocked hip. Posing, she thought, in a way that showed off his bis and tris.

“Well, hi there,” he said.

“Hi back.”

The flirty smolder blinked away when Eve held up her badge.

“Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know yet. Can I come in, speak to you?”

“Ah.” He glanced behind, shifted, looked back at her. “Yeah, I guess. I’m working at home today,” he said as he opened the door. “I was just taking a break, doing a few miles on my bike.”

Eve saw the desk against the short window with its piles of discs, of files, a bag of soy chips, and a tube of some sport’s drink. A couple feet away sat a gleaming stationary bike facing a massive wall screen.

“Look, I know I got a speeding ticket a couple weeks ago. I’m going to pay it.”

“Do I look like a traffic cop?”

“Um... I guess not, not so much.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Homicide.”

“Homi— Jeez, God!”

“Are you Malachi Golde?”

“Yeah. Mal. People call me Mal. Who got killed? Do I know somebody who got killed?”

And suddenly, he looked very young. “I don’t know yet. You know Jerry Reinhold.”

“Jerry? Jerry?” Now he looked young, and ill. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus. I need to sit down.”

Full-weight, he dropped onto a slick-surfaced sofa in shimmering silver. “Jerry’s dead?”

“I didn’t say that. My information is you know him. How do you know him?”

“From the neighborhood. We grew up together. We lived a half a block from each other growing up, went to school together. We hang out, have a beer or whatever. I’ve known Jerry my whole life. What happened?”

“I’ll get to that. What kind of work are you doing there, Mal?”

“What? Oh, ah, I’m a programmer. I can work at home most days if I want. I do programming and troubleshooting for Global United.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Yeah.” He passed a hand over his face, like a man trying to wake up. “It’s sweet work, what I wanted to do since I can remember.”

“Pays good.”

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