Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (10 page)

“Not on your life. You’l be focusing on cold cases for the next thirty days, as wel as meeting with Dr. Riccard.”

Ah, yes, the departmental shrink. And in the silence that fol owed, he knew everyone was waiting for him to groan, but he wasn’t a
Lethal Weapon
wild card, damn it.

Yeah. For example, he couldn’t dislocate his shoulder, he didn’t live on the beach with a dog, and he wasn’t rocking a death wish. You’re welcome.

“Okay.”

Sarge seemed a little surprised, but then he knocked on his table with his knuckles, which Veck took as the guy’s way of expressing satisfaction.

“Good. De la Cruz, I want to talk to you. The pair of you—we’re done.”

Reil y was up and out of the office faster than a bul et, but two could shoot that quick. Veck got right on her tail, and he caught her in the outside hal way.

“So how’s this going to work,” he said.

That was al he had. The apology route hadn’t worked, and somehow he didn’t think thanking her for the report was going to fly, either.

She shrugged. “I’l wrap up what I’m working on this morning, and then we’l focus on cold cases.”

“For thirty days.”

“Thirty days.” She didn’t look enthused, but neither did she seem to dread the prospect. Which told him she was not an easy poker target if they had downtime. “I’l see you at one o’clock in your department, Detective.”

“Roger that, Officer.”

As she walked off, she made some notes in her file, her head buried in work. A couple of guys from the beat passed her and looked her way, their focus lingering, as if they were hoping to catch her eye. She didn’t look up, though. Didn’t notice.

Veck sure as hel did. And found that he wanted to perform an optical adjustment on the bastards.

“You left this in the sarge’s office.”

Veck turned. De la Cruz had come out and had Veck’s coffee.

Wel , this wasn’t awkward. Nope.

“Thanks, man.” Veck palmed the paper mug and took a draw from the rim. The shit was now lukewarm, its only redeeming factor gone. “Wel , it was nice working with you.”

“Same.” José put his palm out. “But who knows, maybe you’l be reassigned to me in a month.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, though, Veck had a feeling his days with the CPD were numbered.

They walked back to Homicide together in silence, and when they opened the door to the department, every single detective in there looked around the gray partition wal s of his or her cubicle.

Veck saw no reason to sugarcoat things. “On duty. Off Kroner. With Reil y.”

A lot of nodding came back at him, and, man, he appreciated people being cool. Then again, these were decent folks doing a hard job on a shoestring budget, and there wasn’t a lot of time for bul shit. Besides, good or bad, after he’d coldcocked that paparazzo, he’d earned a lot of respect.

As everyone returned to work, José clapped him on the shoulder and headed off to his own desk.

Veck didn’t waste time. He parked it in his chair, signed into the computer, and checked his e-mail.

Cold cases, huh. That was a pretty goddamn broad category.

Going into the departmental database, he cal ed up al missing persons reports. Which were technical y cold cases, weren’t they, assuming they were stil open. Initiating a search, he leaned back and let the computer do its thing. The fact that the data screen he used just happened to be women aged sixteen to thirty who’d been reported in the last, oh, say . . . three weeks? When Kroner happened to be busy in the area?

Wasn’t that a coincidence.

A
t twelve o’clock, Reil y left the station house on foot and headed into deep downtown. The day was glorious, the April sun so bright and warm that it chased away the bite of the fifty-five-degree air. She was not the only one taking advantage of the weather. People were out on the sidewalks and crosswalks in droves, clogging traffic while they strol ed with sodas or ice cream in their hands, or carried their take-out to the lip of a fountain or the contour of an iron bench in the park.

After six months of icy-cold darkness, upstate New York was panting for some sign that winter’s back had final y been broken—and this beautiful lunch hour was not to be squandered.

Ostensibly, she was taking a break so she could clear her head before she saw Veck again. Her strides, however, had a purpose and direction she refused to look too closely at.

The Gal eria Mal was yet another downtown revitalization project, but unlike so many attempts, it had actual y succeeded. Anchored by a Macy’s and a shiny new Barnes and Noble bookstore, the four-block stretch of 1920s office buildings had been closed to everything but foot traffic, given an attractive, unifying face-lift, and become the locus of high-noon retail therapy for thousands of cubicons like Reil y.

Except unlike a lot of her cohorts, this was the first time she’d ever walked the stretch of Bath & Body Works, and Talbots, and the Gap. . . .

When she stopped in front of the next store in line, she blinked in the pink glare that came through al the glass.

Oh, no. Nope. This was not her—

A woman came out with two big bags swinging from her hands, and a smile as wide as a freeway on her face.

“Sale!” she said to Reil y. “Yay!”

Her voice was so high it was like she was breathing out helium. Although maybe that was because it looked like she was wearing a bustier under her coat.

Reil y shook her head. Sale or no sale, this was not her kind of—

Annnnnnd somehow she was in the store.

Holy. Crap. She’d never seen so much underwear in one place in her whole damn life.

Victoria’s Secret was not for the faint of heart . . . or the big of butt, she feared, wondering exactly how long it had been since she’d hit the gym.

High school. No . . . maybe it was elementary.

Boy, al the lace was intimidating. As were the pictures of the Photoshop’d models who had been blown up to beyond life-size.

And to make matters worse, the place was packed with women who were not Reil y’s demographic. These were al chippies in their early twenties, snatching up thongs and demi-cups and peekaboo somethings or another. Even the slouchy, sweatpantsy stuff looked like it was meant to be stripped off by the teeth of some quarterback—

“Hi, can I help you?”

Reil y winced. “Ah . . .”

The saleswoman was a gorgeous African-American who probably looked good in every single thing that hung on the little hangers or was folded on the tables, and in comparison, Reil y felt like a pasty, freckled stretch of please-let’s-do-this-with-the-lights-off.

“I’m good, thanks—”

“We’re having a sale.”

“Yeah, I saw someone come out of here with a couple of bags.” Which, considering how smal everything was, meant the chick had bought five hundred, maybe six hundred sets of stuff.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Reil y was about to shake her head no, when her mouth opened of its own volition. “I want to feel like a woman, instead of a police officer. I’m just . . .

real y frickin’ tired of myself and my job right now. Do you know what I mean?”

Oh, shit, what was she saying?

And P.S., this had nothing to do with Brittany, spel ed Britnae.

The saleswoman smiled. “I do. And you’ve come to the right place.”

Reil y glanced at a tiger-print teddy and wasn’t so sure about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever bought lingerie before—nothing I own matches, and I think a couple of my bras are from the Civil War. Maybe the Revolutionary.”

“Wel , I’m Ralonda.” She put out her hand. “And I can take care of you.”

“Reil y. I mean . . . Sophia.” As they shook, she muttered, “Do you have a pysch degree, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to school for over at SUNY Caldwel .”

“God, you are perfect.”

“Hardly.” Ralonda smiled again, flashing beautiful white teeth. “Let’s get you measured and I’l bring you some things.”

One hour and six hundred seventy-two dol ars and forty-three cents later, Reil y left with three bags ful of things. As she headed out the door, her chin was up and she found herself smiling at two girls who were peering in through the windows.

“They’re having a sale,” she said to them. “Better get in there. And ask for Ralonda—she’s the best.”

As they scurried inside, Reil y marched back to the station house feeling curiously light in her shoes. Then again, maybe the slightly padded cherry red bra with matching red panties she’d put on and kept on had antigravity properties, lifting not just her cleavage, but her entire body.

Made you wonder what the astronauts had on under their suits.

As a horrific image of Buzz Aldrin in a set of hot pink itty-bitties lit up her mind, it dawned on her that walking into HQ with her VS bags and a bounce in her step didn’t exactly send the right message—especial y given that she was partnering with Veck for the next month.

Sneaking around the tside of the station house, she made it to her car and stashed the contraband in her trunk, as opposed to the backseat.

This time, as she went in through the back and passed by the guard in the lobby, she was painful y aware of herself, wondering whether anyone knew what she had on under her clothes. Nobody paid her any unusual attention, though, which suggested that among the numerous talents of the various members of the force, it appeared as if X-ray vision was not one of them.

First stop was her office. Quick check of voice mail and e-mail. Then it was grab a pad and head for Homicide. And what do you know, her growing confidence in the concealing properties of cotton and wool took it on the chin as she opened the door into the department.

Everyone looked up, including Veck.

Right. Now she knew why folks hated those dreams where they walked naked into a room ful of people. She’d never had a nightmare like that before, and as she put her pad up to the front of her breasts, she wasn’t in a big hurry to hop on that learning curve.

But then people just waved and hel oed, and she nodded and hel oed back while heading over to Veck. The cubicle next to him was empty of everything but a computer and a phone, and as she sat down, she kept her yel ow-and-lined right where it was.

Veck eased back in his chair in a way that made his chest look huge against his white button-down. “Al settled back in your office?”

“Yes. What are we working on today?”

He nodded to his computer screen. “I’ve found something to pass the time with. I was waiting for you to come over—thought we’d go do some recon in the field, and double-check some witnesses.”

“Good. What’s the case.”

“I’l tel you about it on the way across town. Mind if we take your car? I’ve only got my bike.”

“Ah . . .” Surely there could be no reason for him to look in her trunk. “Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Thanks, Officer. Or should I cal you ‘Detective’ for the next four weeks?”

As they stood up together and she found herself eye-to-pectoral with him, she knew it was time to kick her inner Britnae to the curb. “Reil y is fine.”

For a moment, his lids dropped low, and she could have sworn that he muttered under his breath something like, She sure is.

But no doubt it was her new underwear making her hear things.

“Wait a minute—that is
not
a homicide cold case.”

As they came up to a red light, Veck got nailed with a hard stare from his new partner . . . and that was an incredible turn-on.

Shifting in his seat, and praying that the arousal he’d abruptly popped would deflate before they reached their destination, he made it his business to keep his voice level and completely groan-free. Although, for fuck’s sake, if this was an indication of what the next four weeks were going to be like?

He was in trouble.

“She’s technical y a missing person—”

“There’s no ‘technical y’ about it. There’s no body.”

“If you’l let me finish?”

“Sorry.” As the light turned green, she hit the gas. “But I have a feeling where this is going, and you’re not getting anywhere near the Kroner case.”

We’l see about that, he thought. “I got a cal from one of the FBI field officers this morning. He’s been working on the case of this missing girl, and he wanted to know if there was any new information. I told him I’d be happy to go back through what we’ve got—”

“The FBI can do its own—”

“No reason not to be col egial. Or to assume that there’s a tie with Kroner.”

She frowned. “What’s the FBI’s angle?”

“I didn’t ask. Maybe it’s interstate.” Because maaaaybe it was part of the Kroner investigation—which was why he didn’t ask.

“Just so we’re clear, if there’s a nexus with Kroner, we’re out.”

“Got it.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a three-page disposition form. “Cecilia Barten, age nineteen, missing for just over three weeks.

Last seen leaving her home to go to the Hannaford supermarket on Union Avenue. Surveil ance cameras picked up nothing, thanks to a power surge that knocked out the feed from the lot and from the exit of the store.”

“And we’re starting where?”

“Her parents’ house. I just want to see if there’s anything that was missed. Her mother is expecting us—hang a right here.”

Reil y hit the directional signal and fol owed through on the turn, heading into a neighborhood that was a good click or two above where Veck lived.

Here, the houses were a little bigger and better planted. No cars parked on the street, and he imagined that there were newer sedans and station wagons in al those attached garages. Probably not as many minivans—although this was the land of the soccer mom, so maybe he was wrong.

“Okay,” he murmured, looking at the colonials. “Four ninety-one. Ninety-three. Five . . . here it is.”

Reil y pul ed over to the curb in front of 497. After canning the engine, they got out into the sunshine and—

The car that pul ed up behind them was a gold SUV with blackened windows, and what got out of it was a whole lot of federal agent: The three men were in plain clothes, and as they came up, the one in the lead, with the dark blond hair, flashed his credentials.