Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (12 page)

He wasn’t going to take anything, even though there was a temptation to hold on to an object, a focal point . . . something of Sissy’s. Her family had lost too much, however, and he wasn’t about to graft anything more from them.

Jim took a last moment to look around, and then he made himself leave. Out in the hal , he closed the door and listened. Sissy’s mother was in the room across the way, talking quietly, her voice cracking.

Jim took the stairs down and waited discreetly in the foyer by the front door. Leaning to the side, he looked into the living room at the pictures by the big windows. The one that grabbed him and got his feet moving was a close-up of Sissy. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but off to the side, and she wasn’t smiling. She was deep in thought, and the expression on her face was nothing girlish, everything . . . survivor.

She looked iron wil ed.

“She had no idea the camera was on her.”

Jim straightened and glanced at her mother. “No?”

Mrs. Barten came over and picked up the frame. “She always smiled if she knew there was a camera around. When her father took this, she was watching her teammates in a game—she played field hockey. She’d sprained her ankle and she was on the bench . . . and she wanted to be out with them.” The woman looked over. “She was tougher than she appeared to be.”

As their eyes met, Jim took a deep breath and thought, Thank God—that was going to keep her sane until he got to her.

Mrs. Barten tilted her head to the side. “You’re different from the others.”

Time to go. “I’m just like everyone else.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve met more officers, detectives, and agents in the last three weeks than I’ve seen on
Cops
over the course of my whole life.” Her stare narrowed. “Your eyes . . .”

He turned to the door. “Detective DelVecchio wil be in touch—”

“I want to give you something.”

Jim froze with his hand on the knob and thought, Bad idea. He was too hungry for whatever she had to offer. “You don’t have to.”

“Here.”

As he turned around to give her a “no, thank you,” he found her reaching behind her neck. What came forward in her hands was a delicate gold chain.

“She wore this every day. I found it on the counter in her bathroom—she’d taken a shower and forgotten to put it back on . . . anyway, take this.”

Dangling from the chain was a delicate winged bird made of gold. A dove.

“Her father gave it to her on her eighteenth birthday. It was part of a set.”

Jim shook his head. “I can’t. I’m—”

“You wil . It’s going to keep your eyes the way they are now, and our family needs that.”

After a moment, he brought his hands forward, replacing her fingertips with his own. The necklace and charm weighed nothing at al . And it barely fit around his throat. But the thing went on like a dream even though the clasp was tiny and his hands were big.

As he dropped his arms, he stared down at her.

“What are my eyes like,” he said hoarsely.

“Destroyed.”

T
he Hannaford supermarket was about five miles away, but it took Reil y some time to get them over there. Between the traffic and the red lights, she was beginning to think that the pair of them were going to spend eternity in the car.

Or maybe the buzzing in her head was what made it seem like forever.

“What’s on your mind,” Veck said.

Tightening her hands on the wheel, she readjusted herself in the driver’s seat. “If it turns out that Cecilia Barten is one of Kroner’s victims, we have to let her go. Are you prepared to do that?”

“Yeah. I am.”

As she looked over, her new partner’s jaw was tight, his big body tense.

“You sure about that.” Because she wasn’t.

“Yeah. I am.”

Are you a hardheaded sonofabitch who’s likely to do what he damn well pleases even if it screws a direct order? Yeah. I am.

Just as she pul ed into the parking lot and started on the spot hunt, her phone went off. “Officer Reil y. Uh-huh, yes—not a big surprise. Real y? Okay, and thanks for the update. Yes, please keep me informed.”

She hung up and plugged them into a vacancy between an older silver Mercedes and a blue truck.

Twisting sideways in her seat, she said, “Kroner’s barely hanging on. They don’t expect him to live.”

Veck’s harsh face gave nothing away. “Shame. Maybe he knew what happened.”

“And the analysis is in from the samples they took off him—there is saliva residue, but the readings are not one hundred percent clear as to the source.

There appear to be similarities with both cougars and wolves. Hard to say for sure, but the animal hypothesis continues to look directional y correct.”

He nodded and cracked his door open. “Mind if I have a smoke before we go in.”

So maybe he was having a reaction, after al . “Sure.”

They got out, and Veck came aroun to the back of the car, easing against the trunk and taking out a pack of Marlboros—as if a man like him would smoke anything else? As he lit up, she did her best not to think about al the bras and panties that were separated from the seat of his pants by nothing but some layers of sheet metal.

He was careful not to exhale anywhere near her or in a direction she was downwind of. “Bad habit,” he muttered, “but no one lives forever.”

“Very true.”

Leaning against the trunk herself, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked up toward the sun. The warmth on her face was a benediction, and she closed her eyes to enjoy it.

When she eventual y opened her lids again, she was shocked.

Veck was staring at her, and there was an expression on his face . . . a sexual speculation that she was almost sure she was reading incorrectly.

Except then he looked away quick.

Not something you did if you were thinking about work.

Abruptly, the spring day’s temperature shot up into the tropical, and now
she
was the one staring at
him
. Wel , “ogling” was another word for it.

As he brought the cigarette up to his lips, his mouth parted and then he was sucking, the tip flaring orange, his fore- and middle fingers briefly releasing the shaft. Oh, hel ’s bel s, she thought. Smoking was a deadly, nasty habit she didn’t approve of . . . so it was unsettling to realize al those old Humphrey Bogart movies had not been insane when they’d done close-ups like this. There was just something undeniably erotic about the whole thing. Especial y as the smoke eased out of his mouth and briefly shadowed his laser-like navy blue eyes and his dark cropped hair.

She looked away fast before she got caught—

“So ?” he prompted.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked what you think.”

Right. How to answer that:
I think all the cherry red I’m wearing under my clothes is warping my brain. Because I’m finding the idea of straddling you
against this car and riding you like a cowgirl with her hat over her head pretty damn appealing.

“I need more information before I can form an opinion.”
So how about lighting up another one of those bad boys and dropping your pants—
“Oh, God

—”

“Are you okay?” he said, leaning in and putting his free hand on her arm. “You didn’t eat much breakfast—did you get anything for lunch?”

You’re all but sitting on three bags of what I had on my hour off, big daddy.

“You know”—she cleared her throat—“I probably should eat something.”

And so help her, God, if her brain coughed up anything even remotely like whipped cream on some part of his body, she was putting in for a transfer away from herself.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, snuffing out his Marlboro on the heel of his shoe.

Good idea. And note to self: No downtime with her temporary partner. Ever.

They walked over and went through the automatic doors, passing the lineup of carts in the foyer and entering the supermarket proper.

When Veck paused and looked around, she ndded to the right. “The manager’s office is this way.”

“You shop here?”

“These stores are al laid out pretty much the same.”

As they walked together, he said, “I probably should know this one by heart. My house isn’t far from here.”

“So this is where you buy your groceries?”

“My coffee and cigarettes—healthy, huh.”

He sure looked to be in great shape. “You can always change your habits.”

“You know, I quit for a while. The cigs, not the caffeine.”

“What made you take it up again?”

“Coldcocking that photographer.”

Ahhh, so he did have emotions. “There’s a lot of stress in your job.”

“Have you ever been a smoker?”

“No, and I don’t real y drink. I’m not big on vices.”

Then again, she could be working on one for shopping.

And that was the last thought she had on any off-work subject. As they went over to customer service, she put aside al distractions, her game head coming back online as she imagined Mrs. Barten’s daughter coming here to this store to help out her mother . . . only to have what should have been a routine trip for groceries turn into a nightmare.

Maybe because of Kroner.

As she got ready to flash her badge to the manager, it was dangerously satisfying to imagine Veck, or even that hard-ass Agent Heron, beating the ever-loving hel out of the guy. But that was not the kind of justice that was going to be served to the serial kil er. And she wasn’t fooling herself: It would not be a surprise to find out Sissy was on Kroner’s list of victims, and that possibility was absolutely why Veck was interested in the case.

But Reil y played by the rules. Always had, always would.

First sign this poor girl was one of his victims? They were turning her case over to de la Cruz, and she was dragging Veck’s attention to something else.

Even if it kil ed him.

When Veck next checked his watch, it was four thirty. The manager was a slow talker, and the digital recordings from the security cameras took a while to review; there were also a bagger and two cart sweepers to interview. No new information, but damn, he and Reil y worked wel together.

She knew just when to come forward, and as with Mrs. Barten, she had a way of putting people at ease—which meant they talked more. Meanwhile, he tended to scope out the environment, and assess al the things folks weren’t saying, but were showing in their faces.

Outside the customer service counter, he shook the manager’s hand, and then Reil y did the same.

“Thank you for your time,” she said to the guy. “We real y appreciate it.”

“I don’t think we helped you at al .” The man pushed his square glasses up higher on his nose. “Now or before. I feel awful about the whole thing.”

“Here’s my card.” She passed it over. “Cal me anytime—I’m available twenty-four/seven. And truly, you’ve been open and honest—that’s al you can do.”

Veck handed his card over as wel and then he and Reil y headed for the exit.

“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly. After al , a second shot at sharing a meal had to go better than their first. Provided he didn’t behave like a defensive asshole again . . .

In response, al he got was a slowdown in her stride and a long hesitation. And then an “Ah . . .”

Not a good sign, so he backed the invite up with a valid rationale: “We need to go through the file together in light of the four hours of interviews we’ve done. Might as wel eat at the same time—and I know you’ve got to be starved by now.”

Man, check his shit out. Smooth, casual. Perfect.

He stopped at a huge display made up out of bags of nacho chips, jars of salsa, and a refrigerator bank ful of cheese. “I’l cook for you. Mexican—

that’s my specialty.”

Actual y, that would be comparatively so: he didn’t know jack about fiesta-anything, but considering this layout, he had more to go on than any other style of cooking: Ordering takeout was the only expertise he had in the kitchen. But come on, if he hit this setup? Nabbed a box of Tacos-for-Dummies in the Ortega aisle? How could he fuck it up?

“We should probably keep things professional,” she hedged.

“It’s not a date, I promise. You’re way too good for that and I’m not that lucky.”

As her eyebrows shot to the heavens, he let the comment stand. It was the truth and they both knew it.

“So what do you say, Officer? The only spice wil be in the salsa.”

That got him a true smile, her lips curling upward. “I do like Mexican.”

“Then I’m your man.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then she spoke slowly and careful y, “Okay, but where?”

“My place.”

Walking past her, he snagged a cart and raided the shit out of the nachos display. Talk about manna from above: Al the ingredients were lined up, so there was no choice involved. This was just the preamble, however, and he headed for the hanging sign with MEXICAN FOOD on it.

“Are you staring at me, Officer?” he said, as he felt her eyes on him.

“I’m just . . . surprised, that’s al .”

“About what?”

Docking their cart in front of shelves ful of bright yel ow boxes, he waited for her answer.

“Tacos or enchiladas?” When she didn’t reply to either inquiry, he reached for a meal-in-a-box. “Tacos it is.”

Quick scan of the back. Lettuce. Cheese—he checked in the cart and decided they needed more. Tomatoes.

Roger that. “Where’s the produce section?”

“Down and to the left. But you need hamburger.”

“Yeah, good cal .”

The meat counter and freezers ran down the rear of the store, and as they passed by the trays of ground beef, he snagged a flat of four percent lean organic—because she was probably an al -natural kind of eater. When they got to the land of greens and gourds, it was a case of tomato, tomato, and a head of iceberg in a bag.

“Talk to me, Reil y,” he said quietly.

“You just . . . you don’t strike me as a man who needs luck with the ladies.”

“You’d be surprised.” As he piloted them toward the line of checkouts, going by the deli and the salad bar, he felt like explaining himself for some reason. “Look, my father’s wel -known for an evil reason, and people are attracted to me because of the notoriety. The women are not like you. Either they’ve got tattoos in stupid places and piercings al over themselves and dumb-ass, overdyed hair or they’re Barbies who want to ‘save’ someone or are hungry for a safe walk on the wild side. Then there are the ones who seem normal, but turn out to have pictures of my father in their purses, and letters they want me to get to him—it’s a fucking mess, to be honest. I’ve learned that I can’t trust anyone, but the good news is that I’m never surprised anymore.”