Some Gave All (6 page)

Tess turned to Vincent. “Beast?” Tess asked quietly.

“Definitely,” he said under his breath. “I could tell this time. There’s not a doubt in my mind on this one.”

“But not the other six,” Catherine elaborated. “Well, we all know that human beings are capable of monstrous brutality. Sad to say.”

“So it’s possible that the first six murders are unrelated to this one. The crime scene’s still crawling with CSU,” Tess recapitulated. “But I agree that you need to get inside as soon as you can. It’ll take the lab a while to process all of the evidence, even if it’s designated highest priority, which it will be. But we don’t have any insiders in the medical examiner’s department the way we used to.” She meant Evan Marks, who had gotten entangled with Muirfield, and died at their hands. “So whatever you can get for just us, that would be awesome.”

Second strategy session completed. Vincent nodded.

“Okay, then I’ll—”

“Shouldn’t one of us have gone in the ambo with the witness?” Wilson queried, interposing himself between Vincent and Tess. “What if she snaps out of it and starts talking?”

Wow, he sounds like a real police officer now
, Vincent thought dryly.

“Then we’ll rely on Mrs. Kuhl’s statement,” Tess informed him.

“But the prosecution could argue that that’s hearsay.”

“Mrs. Kuhl is a mandated reporter,” Tess riposted with a hint of irritation. “I don’t want to harass our witness. That could taint her statement, too. She’s got enough going on, don’t you think?”

“You’re absolutely right, of course,” he said, smiling at her. His teeth were so white and even that they looked artificial. And his eyes were preternaturally blue—contacts, Vincent realized. Maybe his tan was the spray-on kind. “If we all send out our energy, maybe we can reopen her channels of inner peace.”

“Yes, go do that,” Tess said quickly. “Go do it now.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” Catherine said to Wilson. She was smiling her little mush-mouth smile, the one that signified that she was feeling a little prickly. Vincent translated: She didn’t much care for Detective Swami, either.

“Sky Wilson,” he said expectantly, extending his hand. When it was clear that his name wasn’t registering, he added, “Your new partner.”

She blinked at him. Tess grimaced, then put on her boss face and said, “Wilson’s transferring in. I thought assigning him to our most seasoned detective—”

“
What?
” Cat said shrilly.

“—on a temporary basis—” Tess added. She appraised Wilson. “Very temporary—”

“I promise not to get in your hair,” Wilson said easily. “Smooth and shiny though it is—”

“Hey, watch it, no sexual harassment,” Tess blurted, then she wiped her hand over her face, dropped her arm to her side, and said, “Wilson and I’ll be in my office. I’ll brief you and show you around,” she told the new guy.

“Yeah, you’d
better
run,” Catherine muttered in a voice so low Vincent knew only he would hear it.

“Captain Vargas?” A uni approached. “May I speak to you a moment?”

Tess huffed and walked away with the foot soldier. Wilson trailed after Catherine. “So can you fill me in, partner?” he asked Catherine sotto voce as she began to stomp toward her desk. “I get the vibe that you and Captain Vargas and
you
…” He paused a moment as he looked at Vincent. “I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

Over her shoulder, Catherine said, “That’s Dr. Vincent Keller. He’s my boyfriend.” She picked up a stack of “while you were out” notes and paged through them.

“Darn the luck.” Wilson clucked his big white teeth and gave his head a shake.

Catherine slammed the stack of messages back onto her desk blotter. “Excuse me. I have to go speak to the
captain
for a moment.” She whipped out her phone and thumbed a text. To Tess, Vincent assumed.

Catherine blasted past Wilson and him and headed for the office that had housed the precinct captain, Joe Bishop; then Assistant District Attorney Gabriel Lowan, a beast and multiple murderer; then Captain Ward, who had been Lowan’s stooge until near the end of his tenure at the one-twenty-fifth; and now Tess. A revolving door, indicative of the ripples that Catherine’s discovery of Vincent’s existence had caused on so many levels in so many lives.

“I’ll catch you later,” Vincent said to her stiff, angry back. She raised a hand to show that she’d heard.

“Great to meet you, Vince,” Wilson said. “Let’s do sushi soon.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Vincent ground his teeth and saw himself out.

G
REENWICH
V
ILLAGE
, 5
P.M.

I
nside the apartment she shared with Cat and, occasionally, Vincent, Heather Chandler thrust her weight onto one hip, took a step, and pushed out her other hip. Then she sipped her Sauvignon Blanc.

On the floor, a dozen tiny pieces of green fabric fluttered like autumn leaves. There were scraps everywhere, and a half-finished moss-colored handkerchief skirt she had ultimately decided was way too Halloween Gypsy lay on the sofa. A bottle of red wine was open and breathing, but Heather had decreed that they could only drink white while working on her pieces. Also, they could only eat white Cheddar cheese and white crackers. The crackers were kind of crumbling everywhere but she’d get out the vacuum in a sec.

“See? Like that,” she said to her audience as she took another sip. She was getting a little sloshed. “You’re walking the fashion runway. Not guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

“Sweet darlin’, that is
exactly
how I am walkin’.” Walker Chastain, who worked as a photographer at the Silverado Academy of Design,
also
holding a glass of wine and munching on nummy cheese and crumbly crackers, demonstrated his walk. Tall and lanky, he took one precise step forward, and then another. He was no fashion model, but he
was
fluid sex appeal. Plus he was a strawberry-blond edging into ginger, so very tasty. He even had nubs of red hair on his toes. Hazel eyes with gold flecks, a dusting of macho facial hair. And the most adorable freckles.

He was swathed with chartreuse raw silk, the bodice featuring an off-center, plunging neckline and slashed dolman sleeves inset with sand-colored muslin, then captured in a bamboo bustier. Heather had dyed the bamboo strips in green tea. The skirt—a second one, of chartreuse—she wasn’t sure of yet. She had pinned it up to Walker’s shins—her model, Bai Mei, was about an inch shorter than he was—but she hadn’t yet discovered the
design
of her design, as Rudi, her silks teacher, would say.

Walker was the only person who had seen her creation thus far. She was entering it in the New Looks competition and it was going to be a winner. She already knew it because a bamboo corset? That was a whole new level of look. The prize was a photo spread and a “Designer to Watch!” write-up in
Couture Bleu
magazine. Cat and Tess had been working a case at the magazine when Cat had found Vincent. So it was very cool that Heather had a chance of being discovered there herself.

“My lack of walk is because I don’t have any hips. Or chi-chis.” He cupped his chest with his hands. He had great pecs. Beneath all the silk, his body was ripped. He had an actual six-pack, an attribute far less common in New York than back in Miami, where people walked around half-naked so you had to work at it. In Miami, a formal affair meant you wore something
over
your bathing suit. And flip-flops instead of going barefoot.

“Walker, fashion models don’t have hips or chi-chis. And no one says chi-chis. They are boobs. I mean, breasts.” She poured him a little more wine in the hope of loosening him up. Maybe she was expecting too much. Walker was so talented it was hard not to imagine that he was good at everything. She had met him when he’d come to shoot her class’s models in their silk pajama pieces. The pictures he’d taken of Bai Mei were fantastic.

After that, it had been a matter of trading business cards—she was still working part-time as an events coordinator and her boss had been looking for a good photographer—and about a week after the New Looks competition had been announced, he’d texted her to meet for coffee. He loved Il Cantuccio, the Chandler women’s go-to for all things caffeine, which only added to the
yes
of him. They’d been going out for two weeks now, and she was truly touched by the interest he’d been taking in her project.

“Try the walk again,” she urged him.

He pushed out his hip. He had the cutest butt. “We say chi-chis in the south,” he said. “We have a more polite aesthetic.”

Heather grinned and rolled her eyes. “‘Polite aesthetic.’ If this was a sitcom, you’d be my stereotypical gay best friend.”

“But it’s not a sitcom, darlin’. It’s real life.” He gave her a long, slow grin. “And you
know
that I’m not gay.”

He seductively slid the corset around his chest to reach the linen fasteners she’d invented just for the piece. They intersected and formed square knots that would not pull apart unless you pinched them together.
Another
fashion first. She was born for this. He undid the first one and rolled his hips in a circle.

“Way not gay,” he murmured, sipping his wine. He undid another fastener and rolled his hips the other way, as if he were circling a hula hoop. As comical as his striptease was, Heather couldn’t help a little tremor of excitement. In addition to a body to die for, Walker totally knew his way around the bedroom. After having her heart broken back in Florida, Heather was up for someone who thoroughly enjoyed being with her and told her she was beautiful at exactly the right moment.

“Walker, please, we need to work. This is my entry,” she said, and he smiled languidly.

“Maybe we need to work on mine.” He waggled his brows and unfastened another loop.

She giggled. This was fun. She loved having fun.

“And you need more wine,” he added as the corset began to slide to the ground.

“Oh, careful!” Heather cried. “I’ve spent a hundred hours on that!”

She swooped down to retrieve it, nearly spilling wine on it, and as she straightened, the chartreuse skirt splashed to the floor like a waterfall. Walker stood proudly in his underwear, all the more endearing because they were clean baggy boxers with a splash of red paint on them. He painted. He was a serious visual artist. He was amazing with oils, and she loved that he worked late at night in his boxers. She hadn’t been to his place but he’d told her it was a cold-water flat, like a garret back in Paris. He was quirky and artistic.

“Careful with the hundred-hour dress,” he intoned, and gently lifted her creation off the floor. He carefully folded it and held it out to her with a bow. She curtseyed and took it from him. Then he drained his wine glass, set it down, picked her up in his arms, and carried her toward her bedroom.

“
Entering
the hallway,” he said. He turned. “
Entering
your bedroom.
Entering…
”

She kissed him. He returned the favor. Then he carried her to her bed and set her down. Blissed-out, Heather arranged her fashion items on her nightstand and held out her arms.

“You’re the best,” she said.

“Boom-ba-ba-boom.” He thrust his hips from side to side. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

“We left kind of a mess in the front room,” she said.

“Later, busy brain. Hip thrusters, we are go for launch!” He kissed her again.

And again and again and again.

This cannot be more perfect
, Heather thought happily.
All my planets are in alignment. Nothing’s going to mess this up.

* * *

“Hey, buddy,” Vincent said on the other end of the line. He was in the Bronx, waiting his turn to investigate the Patel crime scene. “Are there any cameras at east one-sixty-first? I’ve been looking and I don’t see any.”

J.T. sat at command central in the once-abandoned gentlemen’s club that was his, and formerly Vincent’s, home and hacked into the highly illegal-to-use surveillance system as he had done so many times before. Maybe now that Tess was the precinct captain, she could bail him out if he ever got arrested by the NSA.

The keyboard clacked like a concerto as he searched. “That’s a big negative, big guy,” he said glumly. “Guess no one is interested in what goes on in such a high crime area.”

“I detect a hint of sarcasm.”

“Sara’s dating this guy who just got tenure. For research into bioluminescence. I mean
really.
Hasn’t it all been done?”

“Except that you don’t care about Sara,” Vincent said, “because you’re with Tess.”

“Am I?” J.T. grabbed a gummy worm and bit off its head. Which maybe was its tail. “I never see her anymore. We don’t talk.”

“She’s under a lot of pressure because of her promotion,” Vincent reminded him. “And you know the one-twenty-fifth is under the microscope because of all the dirty laundry. Remember when your research wasn’t going well? After Dolly the sheep got cloned and then it all went south? There was a long stretch there when we barely spoke.”

“So you think I’m overreacting,” J.T. said. A little flicker of hope warmed his sad heart. “That Tess is just preoccupied and I’m… not.”

“Something like that. She’s got so much going on, you know?”

“And I… don’t.” He grabbed another gummy worm. Bit hard down on its gummy midsection, savoring its gummy guts.

“It’s like the old days,” Vincent offered. “Before all the insanity.”

Back to square one. Me lonely and you… not back to square one.

“Yeah, insanity,” J.T. said. “Who needs it?” His phone signaled another call. “Hey, hold on, someone’s on the other line,” he said, and switched over. “Star Command.”

That got a chuckle. “What if it hadn’t been me?” Tess asked.

“Well, Vincent’s on the other line and I don’t get a whole lot of calls. So the odds were good.”

“About that,” she began, and then she cleared her throat. “I envy you. My entire day has been phone calls and meetings. If I’d had two seconds to think I would have given this to you hours ago.”