Thankless in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

together.”
    “Good to hear, because I’ve got a big pile of stuff.”
    “Let’s have some soup, and you can tell me about it.”
    “I’m doing the deal here.” She gestured to a chair.
    “What man doesn’t like coming home to a hot meal prepared by his adoring wife?”
    “Lap it up,” she muttered, and pulled the silver warming covers.
    “If it’s all the same, I’ll use a spoon. The reports I heard tell me you’re looking for a man—middle twenties—who murdered his parents.”
    “It’s more than that. He stabbed his mother over fifty times with a kitchen knife, beat his father to pieces—hours later—with a baseball bat.”
    “That’s considerable rage.” He studied her face carefully. “Were they abusive?”
    “No, there’s no indication there was anything like that. He’s a fuckup. Flunked out of college, can’t or won’t hold a job longer than a few months, including the one his father arranged for him at the father’s office. Decent work. I spoke with the supervisor there, some of the coworkers. The father’s been with the company for a couple decades—hardworking, good guy, responsible. The son’s none of the above. Same deal with other bosses I talked to.”
    “So a pattern of irresponsibility and failure.”
    “Yeah, on a personal level, too. Girlfriend—and from what I’vebeen able to gather so far, the only woman he ever lived with, or had a relationship with for more than a couple weeks—booted him. He took the rent money, and her tip money savings—she’s a waitress—and blew it and more in Vegas. He had to move back in with the parents, and again according to what I’ve learned, hasn’t made any move toward finding a job. They’d decided to give him until December to get one, or get out.”
    He ate soup—warm, comforting with just a little bite—and considered. “He killed them because they wouldn’t allow him to continue to feed off the parental tit?”
    “That’s summing it up. He stabbed the mother around lunchtime,” Eve began, and took him through the time line, the financial transfers, the theft, and the selling.
    “Cold bastard, and now he has cash. More than he’s ever had at one time. It’s unlikely he’ll be careful with it. Besides being cold and vicious, he’s young and stupid. I can put out an alert to all my hotels in the city.”
    “It’s already done, and thanks. And fyi,” Eve added, “you sure didn’t make a mistake hiring Joleen Mortimer, or anyone else I dealt with at The Manor. She, especially, is a laser.”
    “I agree. In this case, the previous owners and her former manager were the arrogant ones. Their loss, my gain. I can run searches for accounts your man may open, and will, but it’s more likely he’ll keep the cash. It’s tangible. He can touch it, gloat over it. I don’t think you’ll track him through deposits and transfers on this one, not with—what is it—about a hundred seventy-five thousand. He’ll hoard, then he’ll squander.”
    “It’s not going to last him long.” Eve rose to clear and set the next course. “The sale of the watches and pearls at Ursa’s was a bonus—Idoubt he’d expected that kind of a haul. And he’ll net a few more hawking the other stuff, but he’s living high.
    “And by the way, since I know you’ll be compelled to buy me shiny things for Christmas, you might try there. Ursa’s, on the Lower East Side. They’re nice people.”
    “So noted. Did you see something you liked?”
    “The owner. I wasn’t focused on shiny things. Nobody likes him,” she went on. “My man, Jerry, I mean. He’s got three friends, and two of them are reasonably steady types—and both of those aren’t as tight with him as they once were. The third’s another asshole, so they suit each other.”
    She decided Summerset had called it well with the salad. If you had to eat green leafy things, this was the way to get them down.
    “So he’d be most likely to reach out to the other