Free In Death 38 - Thankless in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

faintest smile moved Ursa’s mouth. “It shows?”
    “I bet you have a website, and it plays on being in business for a couple generations, how it’s family run, gives personal, individual service, and how you specialize in estate jewelry.”
    “You’d win the bet. We’re three generations. It’s my mother’s and father’s day off. My son and his wife.” He gestured to the other end of the store where a man and a woman waited on customers.
    “It’s one of the reasons he picked you,” Eve told him. “You’re solid, you’re respected, you’re fair. He’d have researched you, just like he researched the general value of the watches, and the necklace. And because as a family business you’d tend to be sympathetic toward someone who told you the story he told you.”
    “His father’s name is engraved on the watch. I asked for his identification.”
    “You had no reason to doubt his story, and I’m laying odds you aren’t the only one he’s told it to today.”
    Outside, Eve headed for the second-level spot. “Secure those until we get back.”
    “Bet your ass. He walked out of there with forty-five thousand. I don’t know what he’ll pull in for the other stuff, because it looks like the antique watch was the big-ticket item, but he’s feathering his nest, and fast.”
    “So we’ll find his nest.”
    Eve pulled open her car door, stood for a moment scanning the street below. Riding high, she thought, on a big pile of money stained with his parents’ blood.

5
    FITZ RAVINSKI PLATED A SLICE OF APPLE PIE à la mode with a paper-thin square of bright yellow cheese. The mode part consisted of a rounded scoop of non-dairy product the color of an atomic kiwi.
    “Minty Fresh tofu yogurt,” he said with a shake of his head. “Who the hell puts that on a nice piece of pie?”
    “Not me,” Eve assured him.
    “Takes all.” He slid the pie and a minicup of black-as-the-soul-of-midnight coffee into a delivery slot, danced his fingers over the keypad, and sent it on its way.
    “We’re past the lunch rush, but we’ve had people come in for the pie and the tarts all afternoon.”
    “So I see.” Eve glanced out, beyond the counter to the dining area. It probably sat ninety, in New York sardine mode, during the rush. Right now, it held a solid twenty, including the man busy on hishandheld and ear unit taking his first bite of pie with Mint Fresh tofu yogurt.
    Even the thought made her stomach turn a little.
    “If you could give us five minutes.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Sal, take over here.” Fitz wiped his hands on the front of a white bib apron that had seen a number of wipes already that day. He snagged a big, black drink bottle and with a head jerk gestured Eve and Peabody after him to an empty table. “You oughta try some pie, on the house. Cops don’t pay on my shift. Got two cousins on the job.”
    “Here in New York?”
    “Up the Bronx, both of them. Pie’s good. My ma and my sisters make ’em.”
    “So you’re a family business.”
    “Eighteen years, this location.” He stubbed a wide finger on the table. “We do okay.”
    “I appreciate the offer, but we’re not going to take up much of your time.” Eve all but heard Peabody’s happy pie stomach whine. “We’d like to ask you about Jerald Reinhold.”
    “Fired him a couple months back. Got in late, left early, missed deliveries. Deliveries are a good third of our business. He wasn’t dependable, and basically couldn’t give a half shit about doing the job.”
    Ravinski leaned forward, stabbed the counter with his finger again. “He tries to file on me, I got records to back it up.”
    “How’d he take getting the boot?” Eve asked.
    “Told me to fuck myself, and shoved a banana cream pie off the counter on his way out. Moved out fast,” Ravinski added with a sharp smile. “Pansy-assed coward put the speed on when the pie hit the floor, in case I came at him.”
    “Did you?” Eve wondered.
    “Nah. Just a pie—damn good